Life, undefined

30's || Criminal Minds || Marvel || NCIS || The Pitt

[paigepie213]

Communication Is Key - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - Hello! ✨ if you’re taking requests could you do one where reader and Robby are in a relationship where they feel confident it’ll last. She’s more of a people pleaser/quieter because she’s had many people tear her down and make her feel insecure about her personality/herself- in college, at old jobs, in old relationships. And she’s only been in a few relationships. And Robby who’s been in many more relationships/ hook up situations is learning to take things slow and open up and not want to take it all back when he does. They are learning to communicate about what they want in affection, love, romance, sex, their workplace relationship, and what their relationship is like ‘after the honeymoon phase’ (when things are uncomfortable or awkward or they’re fighting)

let’s do this…🫶

Masterlist

*****************************************************

Affection

The first time Robby reached for your hand, it wasn’t planned. There wasn’t a declaration or a lingering look across the emergency department that suddenly transformed four years of carefully maintained professionalism into something different. In truth, the hardest part had already happened weeks earlier when the two of you admitted what had been quietly growing between stolen conversations after shift changes and coffee breaks that somehow always seemed to happen at the same time. Dating him hadn’t felt strange once it began. It had felt inevitable. What felt strange was learning that the man who had spent four years keeping exactly one arm’s length between you now seemed perfectly content to erase that distance whenever he could.

The afternoon had been long, one of those Saturdays where the emergency department never quite settled. Parents carrying feverish children, college students nursing broken wrists after intramural disasters, an elderly rancher who somehow insisted he’d driven himself despite obvious rib fractures. By the time evening arrived, both of you looked as exhausted as you felt. You changed out of your scrubs in silence, rubbing the back of your neck as you met him near the employee exit. Robby leaned lazily against the brick wall outside, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other balancing two paper coffee cups he’d apparently picked up while you were finishing charts.

“I guessed vanilla,” he said, offering one toward you.

You smiled immediately. “You guessed right.”

“I’ve been paying attention.”

“You’ve also had four years to figure it out.”

He shrugged with the faintest grin. “Long game.”

You laughed, shaking your head before taking a careful sip. “That’s almost creepy.”

“Almost.”

The parking garage sat across the street, glowing under fluorescent lights that somehow managed to make every vehicle look exactly the same color. Hospital employees drifted in small groups toward elevators while ambulances continued rolling toward the bay entrance behind you. It was normal. Familiar. Safe. Which was probably why your body reacted before your brain had time to catch up.

As the two of you stepped off the curb, Robby reached over without hesitation. His fingers found yours. Warm. Steady. Certain. You froze.

Not dramatically. You didn’t yank away or gasp or even stop walking. But your hand stiffened instinctively before your shoulders followed, every lesson you’d unknowingly taught yourself over the years screaming that someone would see, someone would judge, someone would decide you weren’t worth staying with after all. You hated that your body still did that. He noticed immediately. Of course he did.

Robby had spent two decades reading patients whose lives depended on the smallest changes in expression. Reading you had become second nature. He slowed his pace just enough to glance toward you.

“…Too much?”

The question was quiet. No frustration. No embarrassment. Just checking.

You looked down at your joined hands before quietly answering. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” You swallowed. “Just…give me a second.”

He nodded once. No teasing. No letting go. He simply adjusted his grip, weaving his fingers between yours instead of merely holding your hand, and continued walking toward the garage as though nothing unusual had happened.

“You don’t have to let go,” you said after several steps.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“I just…” Your voice trailed away.

He waited. That was another thing you’d noticed about Robby. Most people rushed to fill silence because it made them uncomfortable. Robby let silence breathe. He understood that sometimes people found their words if you gave them enough room.

You stared ahead at the concrete floor of the garage. “I’ve never…really done this.”

“Held hands?”

“Not…” You laughed softly at yourself. “Not where people could see.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“What?”

“My last boyfriend thought public affection was…” You searched for the least embarrassing word. “…clingy.”

He looked genuinely confused.

“He told me once that confident women didn’t need reassurance.”

Robby stopped walking. Completely. You turned back toward him. The smile he’d been wearing moments earlier had disappeared, replaced by something much quieter.

“What an unbelievable ass”

You laughed despite yourself. He stepped a little closer, still holding your hand between both of his now.

“You know what I see?”

You shrugged.

“I see a woman who’s spent years convincing herself that wanting ordinary things somehow makes her difficult.”

You looked away. College roommates who thought you were too emotional. Supervisors who praised everyone else’s ideas before eventually arriving at yours. Friends who told you that speaking up made things awkward. Relationships where apologizing had become easier than asking for what you needed. None of those stories lived on your tongue anymore. But they lived in your nervous system.

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” you admitted quietly.

Robby actually looked offended.

“Embarrass me?”

“At work…around the hospital…people talk.”

“They do.”

“And you’re…you.”

He smiled faintly.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve been an attending forever. You’re respected. You’ve got this reputation.”

“And?”

“I’m just…” You sighed. “I’m just me.”

The words came out smaller than you intended. Robby stared at you for several long seconds before lifting your joined hands between you.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

You opened your mouth to argue. He beat you to it.

“You make the residents feel like they’re capable before they believe it themselves. You remember every patient’s family member’s name. Every nurse on nights lights up when you walk in because apparently you’re incapable of passing the break room without asking if anyone wants coffee. Frank told me last week that you somehow got a terrified six-year-old laughing before stitches.”

Heat crept into your cheeks.

“I notice you.” His voice stayed wonderfully matter-of-fact. “I’ve been noticing you for years.”

Your eyes immediately burned.

“Oh, don’t do that,” you laughed nervously.

“What?”

“Make me cry in the parking garage.”

“I wasn’t trying.” He smiled then, softer than before. “I reached for your hand because I wanted to hold it.”

You blinked.

“Not because I think everyone needs to know we’re together.” Another pause. “I reached for it because you’re my girlfriend.”

The title settled over you differently than hearing him say your name ever had.

“So if we’re walking somewhere together…” he continued gently, “…I’m probably going to hold your hand.”

You laughed through the tears threatening your eyes.

“You’re very stubborn.”

“I’ve been called worse. And if one day you don’t want me to because you’re uncomfortable, you tell me.” He squeezed your fingers. “If one day you do want me to…” another squeeze, “…you don’t have to earn it.”

The words landed somewhere deep inside you, touching places carved out by years of believing affection had to be deserved. You stepped closer until your forehead rested lightly against his shoulder, hidden enough that no one passing by would think twice.

“I don’t know why this feels so big,” you whispered.

He wrapped his free arm around your back with effortless certainty.

“I do.” You looked up. “Because nobody ever taught you that being loved could feel safe.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The sounds of ambulance sirens, elevator doors, and distant conversations echoed through the garage around you, but they seemed impossibly far away. Eventually, you slipped your fingers more firmly between his. You were the one who tightened your grip.

Robby felt it immediately. He didn’t say a word. He simply smiled to himself and kept walking, your hands swinging naturally between you as if they had belonged there all along.

******

Love

The first time you told Robby you loved him, it wasn’t planned. Looking back later, you couldn’t even remember deciding to say the words. They simply slipped out, as natural as breathing, because somewhere over the past month they had stopped being something you were trying to figure out and had quietly become something you knew.

It happened on a Thursday. Of course it was a Thursday. The emergency department had finally begun to slow after what felt like twelve straight hours of controlled chaos. You’d spent most of your shift helping with a multi-car collision before running to radiology twice for trauma imaging and somehow still finding time to calm a frightened teenager waiting on biopsy results. By the time you climbed the stairs to Robby’s apartment, your shoulders ached and your eyes felt heavy enough to close standing up. He opened the door before you even knocked.

“You look terrible,” he said.

You blinked.

“…Thank you?”

“I mean exhausted.”

“I knew what you meant.”

“You sure?”

“You have the bedside manner of someone who was raised by wolves.”

He smiled, stepping aside to let you in. “And yet you keep coming back.”

Your overnight bag landed by the couch as you kicked off your shoes. The apartment had already begun to feel familiar. Your shampoo sat in his shower. A cardigan had accidentally remained draped across the back of one of his dining chairs for nearly two weeks. There was an extra toothbrush in the bathroom that neither of you acknowledged anymore.

None of it had been discussed. It had simply…happened. Robby disappeared into the kitchen while you wandered toward the living room.

“When did you eat?”

You frowned.

“…Lunch?”

He leaned around the corner.

“What time?”

You thought for a second.

“…Maybe one?”

“It’s after nine.”

“I got busy.”

A cabinet opened. Then another. You heard bread being pulled from a bag.

“You making something?”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Another pause. “But I’m going to.”

You smiled to yourself. There was something strangely comforting about the way he took care of people. It wasn’t grand or theatrical. He simply noticed things. Whether you’d eaten. Whether you were rubbing your neck because your migraine was coming back. Whether you’d been quieter than usual all day.

He noticed. Always. When you wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was standing over the stove making grilled cheese with the concentration of someone performing surgery.

“You know that’s not how normal people flip sandwiches.”

“This is exactly how normal people flip sandwiches.”

“You used a spatula.”

“…Yes.”

“And then another spatula.”

“They’re fragile.”

“They’re grilled cheese.”

“They deserve respect.”

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter. Robby glanced at you.

“I’ve been waiting for that laugh all day.”

You looked up. His back was still mostly toward you as he watched the bread brown in the pan, but there was the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“You were waiting?”

“I figured you needed to laugh.”

“You figured right.”

A few minutes later he slid a plate in front of you before grabbing his own. The apartment settled into comfortable silence broken only by the occasional crunch of toasted bread and the soft hum of a baseball game playing quietly on the television in the next room.

It wasn’t exciting. There were no candles. No expensive dinner reservations. No dramatic declarations. Just grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And the man you were falling hopelessly in love with sitting across from you in an old T-shirt with his reading glasses perched low on his nose while he skimmed through patient notes for tomorrow.

Your heart felt impossibly full. He reached across the table without looking away from his chart and gently nudged your bowl a little closer.

“So you stop leaning.”

You smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

You dipped your sandwich into the soup. Took one bite. Then looked back at him.

“I love you.”

Silence. The spoon in his hand stopped halfway to the bowl. His eyes lifted slowly until they found yours. The room suddenly felt very, very quiet. Your own heartbeat seemed loud enough to echo.

Oh. Oh no. You hadn’t meant—

Heat rushed into your cheeks. Your stomach dropped. You could laugh it off. Pretend you meant the sandwich. Make a joke. Say it slipped. You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

No. Not this time. For too much of your life you’d taken things back because other people looked uncomfortable. You weren’t doing that anymore. Your voice came out softer this time.

“I know it’s only been a month.”

He didn’t speak.

“I wasn’t planning to say it tonight.”

Still nothing.

“But…” You looked down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “…it’s true.”

His face was unreadable. Not cold. Not distant. Simply…thinking.

“I don’t expect you to say it back.” Another long silence.

Finally he set his spoon down.

“I can’t.”

Your chest tightened despite yourself. Not because he’d rejected you. Because you could hear how carefully he’d chosen those words.

“I know.”

“I won’t say something because I think it’s what you need to hear.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He nodded once.

“I’ve done that before.”

You blinked.

“In other relationships.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the window. “I said it because it was expected. Because it was easier than explaining why I wasn’t there yet.” He looked back at you. “I’m not doing that with you.”

The disappointment was there. Of course it was. You were human. But strangely…It didn’t hurt the way you’d expected. Because he wasn’t pushing you away. He was protecting the words.

“I appreciate that,” you admitted quietly.

“You deserve honesty.”

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“I still love you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Thank you.”

You laughed.

“That’s all I get?”

“For now.”

The conversation moved on. You watched a movie. He absentmindedly rubbed slow circles over your ankle while you rested your legs across his lap. Later, curled together beneath the blankets, he kissed your forehead before turning out the light exactly like he always did. Nothing changed. And somehow…Everything had.

Two months passed.

Neither of you mentioned it again. Not because it was awkward. Because it wasn’t. You still said it when you left his apartment. When he called after late shifts. When one of you fell asleep first.

“I love you.”

His response never changed.

“Thank you.”

Sometimes he’d kiss your forehead. Sometimes he’d squeeze your hand. Sometimes he’d simply smile in that quiet way of his that made you think he was filing every moment away somewhere safe.

You stopped wondering when he would say it. You decided it would happen if it happened. And if it didn’t? You still wouldn’t regret saying it first.

It was nearly three in the morning when Robby finally came home after one of the worst trauma nights you’d seen in months. You’d fallen asleep waiting. Your book lay open beside you, glasses crooked on the nightstand, one lamp still glowing softly in the bedroom.

The apartment door clicked shut. You barely stirred. A few minutes later the bedroom door eased open. You heard the familiar sounds. Shoes set neatly by the wall. His watch placed on the dresser. The quiet rustle of scrubs being exchanged for an old pair of sweatpants.

The mattress dipped behind you. Then warmth. His arm slid carefully around your waist as he tucked himself against your back, trying not to wake you. But you were already awake.

“…Hey,” you whispered sleepily.

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Waking you.”

“You didn’t.”

He exhaled. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was heavier than that. You covered his hand with yours.

“Bad night?”

His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder.

“…Yeah.”

You didn’t ask for details. You knew better. If he wanted to tell you, he would. If he didn’t…You could simply be there. Several quiet minutes passed.

His breathing slowly began to steady. Then, so softly you almost wondered if you’d imagined it, he spoke.

“I’ve been trying not to say it.”

You frowned slightly.

“What?”

“I’ve wanted to.” His voice was rough from fatigue. “Every time you leave.”

A pause.

“Every time you fall asleep on my couch.” Another pause. “Every time you laugh at one of Frank’s terrible jokes.”

Your heart began pounding.

“I kept thinking…” He swallowed. “…if I wait a little longer, maybe I’ll be more sure.”

He laughed once under his breath.

“I finally realized I wasn’t waiting because I wasn’t sure.” His arm tightened around you. “I was waiting because I was afraid.”

You slowly turned to face him. The bedroom was almost dark. Only the hallway light spilled faintly across his face. His eyes looked impossibly tired. Older somehow. More vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.

“I’ve loved people before,” he admitted quietly. “But every time I said it…there was this part of me that wondered if I’d eventually have to survive losing them.”

Your chest ached.

“So I started believing that if I just…held something back…”

“You’d hurt less.”

He nodded.

“It doesn’t work that way, Robby.”

“No.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t want to do that with you.”

Your eyes shimmered.

“I don’t want to love you halfway because I’m trying to protect myself.” His thumb rested gently against your cheek. “I love you.”

The words weren’t whispered dramatically. They weren’t followed by a speech. They simply existed between you, solid and unwavering.

“I love how kind you are.” Another gentle stroke of his thumb. “I love that you think everyone deserves another chance.”

A tired smile.

“I love that you make my apartment feel like somewhere people actually live.” You laughed through tears. “And…”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you.”

The tears escaped before you could stop them.

“Oh,” you whispered with a watery laugh.

He smiled.

“What?”

“I’ve been waiting two months.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“I wanted it to be true because I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

You wrapped both arms around him then, pulling him close despite how tired he must have been. He melted into the embrace without hesitation, burying his face against your neck as though he’d finally laid down something he’d been carrying for years. After a long while, he kissed your temple and closed his eyes.

“I should’ve said it sooner.”

You shook your head against his shoulder.

“No.” He looked at you. “I’m glad you waited until you were ready.”

For the first time in a very long time, neither of you felt like you had to rush the future. Love, you were both learning, wasn’t measured by who said the words first. It was measured by whether, once they were spoken, they became something you chose every day afterward.

******

Romance

By the third month, the novelty of dating Robby had quietly disappeared. Not because the excitement was gone. Because life had settled around your relationship instead of pausing for it. You still kissed him goodbye before shifts when your schedules lined up. He still stole fries off your plate despite insisting he “didn’t want any.” Your overnight bag had somehow become a permanent resident of his apartment, and every so often you’d open one of his kitchen cabinets only to realize he’d bought your favorite cereal without mentioning it.

There were no butterflies every second anymore. There was something better. Comfort.

It was the kind of comfort that let you sit together for an hour reading separate books without feeling like anyone needed to entertain the other. The kind that made silence feel warm instead of awkward. You were beginning to realize that this was what people meant when they talked about building a life with someone.

The problem was…Robby still seemed convinced romance required an occasion. Which was how you found yourself sitting across from him in one of the nicest restaurants in Pittsburgh on your first official “date night.”

The hostess had addressed him as “Doctor Robinavich” before he’d even spoken.

The waiter explained six different specials that sounded suspiciously identical. There were three forks. Three. You quietly leaned toward Robby.

“…Why are there so many forks?”

He looked down.

“…Honestly?”

“Please.”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

You snorted so loudly the couple beside you looked over. He smiled behind his water glass.

The meal itself was wonderful. The steak practically melted. The wine was excellent. The dessert looked like something that belonged in an art museum. And yet Walking back toward his truck afterward, your heels clicking softly against the sidewalk, you slipped your hand into his.

“Thank you.”

“You had fun?”

“I did.”

He studied your face for a moment.

“But?”

You sighed dramatically.

“…Can I say something without sounding ungrateful?”

“You’ve never had trouble telling me the truth.”

“I know.”

He smiled.

“So tell me.”

You looked up at the city lights before laughing softly.

“I think…I would’ve been just as happy getting tacos.”

He stopped walking.

“…Tacos.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I just spent enough money to feed a family of four.”

“I know.”

“…And you wanted tacos?”

“I wanted…” You searched for the right words. “…you.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“The restaurant was nice.”

“It was.”

“The food was incredible.”

“It was.”

“But halfway through dinner…” You smiled sheepishly. “…I realized I would’ve rather been sitting on the tailgate of your truck eating burgers.”

He stared at you for several seconds. Then burst into laughter. Real laughter. Head tipped back. Shoulders shaking.

“Oh, don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m laughing because Frank owes me twenty dollars.”

“What?”

“He said women wanted fancy restaurants.”

You blinked.

“…You made a bet?”

“He was very confident.”

“You two are impossible.”

“I told him I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“I’ve dated women who measured effort by reservation prices.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“I know that now.”

That conversation might have ended there. Except Robby had always been an exceptional student when something mattered to him.

Three days later you stumbled into the emergency department just before seven, still trying to wake up.

“Cassie called in sick,” Dana announced.

“Already?”

“Food poisoning.”

“Oof.”

“You’ve got trauma one.”

“Morning to me.”

You had barely dropped your bag into the staff room when someone gently set a coffee cup beside it. You turned. Robby. Already halfway back toward the physician workroom. You frowned.

“…Hey.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You forgot your coffee.”

He smiled.

“That’s yours.”

You blinked.

“…Mine?”

“Tall vanilla latte.”

You stared at the cup.

“…With oat milk?”

“Mhm.”

“And one pump of hazelnut?”

“Mhm.”

“…Extra hot?”

“Mhm.”

“…How?”

He looked almost offended.

“You order the same thing every Tuesday.”

You just stared.

“I’ve been watching.”

“You memorized my coffee order?”

“I memorized it three weeks ago.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to make sure I got it right first.”

Your chest did something ridiculous. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t flashy. It was a six-dollar coffee. Yet somehow it felt like the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for you.

A week later it happened again. You arrived at his apartment after work to find fresh flowers sitting in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. You smiled immediately.

“They’re beautiful.”

“They’re for you.”

“I figured.”

You stepped closer. Then frowned.

“…These aren’t roses.”

“No.”

“They’re daisies.”

“Yes.”

You looked at him curiously.

“You…got me daisies.”

He folded his arms.

“I did.”

“I’ve never said…how’d you know?”

He shrugged.

“You stop to look at daisies every time we walk through the farmer’s market.”

You blinked.

“You’ve never once stopped for roses.”

Your mouth actually fell open.

“I…”

“You always point at daisies.”

You laughed.

“I didn’t even know I did that.”

“I did.”

Your eyes softened.

“They’re my favorite because…” You picked one gently between your fingers. “…they’re uncomplicated.”

He smiled.

“I know.”

“You knew?”

“I figured.”

It became almost impossible to keep track after that. You mentioned once that your grandmother always warmed blankets in the dryer before bedtime. Two weeks later, Robby quietly disappeared for five minutes one evening. When he came back, he draped a warm blanket around your shoulders without saying a word. You looked up at him.

“…Seriously?”

“What?”

“You remembered that?”

“You smiled when you told the story.”

Another evening, after an exhausting shift, you walked into his apartment to find homemade tomato soup simmering on the stove.

“I thought we were ordering pizza.”

“We were.”

“So…”

“You sounded congested over the phone.”

“You made soup?”

“You always want soup when you’re sick.”

“I’ve been coughing for six hours.”

“I work in emergency medicine.”

“…Right.”

“I notice things.”

You laughed.

“You really do.”

Frank was the first one to say it out loud. It happened during lunch after a surprisingly calm morning in the department. Frank stabbed dramatically at his salad before looking between the two of you.

“You know what’s funny?”

Robby barely glanced up.

“No.”

“You’ve become domesticated.”

Several residents looked up immediately. Robby sighed.

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

“I own the same truck.”

“Mhm.”

“The same apartment.”

“Mhm.”

“I still work eighty hours a week.”

Frank leaned back.

“And yet.”

“And yet what?”

“You left a trauma meeting yesterday because she texted asking whether basil expires.”

You covered your face.

“Oh my God.”

Robby looked entirely unapologetic.

“It does expire.”

Frank pointed triumphantly.

“You answered.”

“She was making dinner.”

“So?”

“So I knew.”

Frank looked around the room dramatically.

“See?”

Dana started laughing.

“I’ve never seen him answer a personal text during work.”

“It wasn’t personal.”

“You literally texted back—” Frank pulled out his phone. “‘Smell it first. Love you.’”

The entire table erupted. Your face immediately burned crimson.

“Oh my God.”

Dana laughed so hard she nearly dropped her drink. Robby simply looked at Frank.

“You saved that?”

“I absolutely saved that.”

“Delete it.”

“No.”

“You are fifty-two years old. And you’re making basil recommendations.”

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I hate all of you.”

Frank grinned.

“No.”

He looked toward you.

“He loves all of us.”

Then back to Robby.

“But mostly…” He smiled knowingly. “…he loves remembering the little things.”

That evening, you and Robby walked slowly through the Saturday farmer’s market, woven between families carrying fresh bread and children chasing one another between produce stands. You nudged his shoulder.

“So.”

“So?”

“I heard you’re domesticated.”

“I’ve been informed.”

“What do you think?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I think…” He looked down at your joined hands. “…I spent a long time believing romance had to impress someone.”

“And now?”

He smiled softly.

“Now I think romance is remembering how you take your coffee.” You looked at him. “And buying daisies. And warming your blanket. And soup.”

You laughed.

“What changed?”

He thought for a long moment before answering.

“I stopped asking myself…” He squeezed your hand gently. “…‘What should I do for her?’”

“And?”

“I started asking…” His eyes found yours with that same quiet certainty they always carried when he was telling the truth. “…‘What makes her feel known?’”

You stopped walking. The sounds of the market faded around you.

“You know…” you said softly, “…nobody’s ever loved me like that.”

His expression immediately softened.

“I know.”

“You do?”

“You’ve spent months looking surprised every time I remember something small.”

You laughed quietly.

“I guess I have.”

He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m not trying to surprise you anymore.”

“What are you trying to do?”

He smiled.

“I’m trying to make sure you never have to wonder whether I was paying attention.”

Your eyes filled before you could stop them. He chuckled. Because somewhere along the way, Robby had discovered that romance wasn’t measured in grand gestures or expensive dinners. It was measured in the quiet moments where one person looked at another and silently said,

I see you.

I remembered.

And I always will.

******

Intimacy

By the fifth month, there were very few things about being with Robby that still made you nervous. You’d seen him at his absolute worst after seventy-two-hour stretches when he survived entirely on coffee and spite. He’d seen you cry over patients you couldn’t save and laugh until you snorted at Frank’s terrible impressions. You’d learned that he slept diagonally across the bed despite insisting he didn’t move at all, and he’d learned you stole every blanket sometime around three in the morning without remembering it.

Life had become wonderfully ordinary. Except for one thing. Talking about sex.

Not having it. Talking about it. Which, to your mild annoyance, seemed infinitely more terrifying.

It wasn’t because anything between you was lacking. Quite the opposite. Being with Robby felt safe in a way you hadn’t expected intimacy to feel. There was never pressure. Never assumptions. Never a moment where you felt like you were performing instead of simply…being with him.

Still…You carried old habits. Old insecurities. Questions you swallowed because they sounded embarrassing the second they reached your tongue.

Meanwhile, Robby seemed almost unfairly comfortable talking about nearly everything. Probably because he was fifty. Probably because he’d spent decades having uncomfortable conversations with complete strangers in emergency rooms. Probably because embarrassment had stopped existing somewhere around his first year of residency. You envied that.

It started on a rainy Sunday. The two of you had spent the afternoon tangled together. Once in the bedroom and once on the couch. Afterward you’d both stayed wrapped up together. . Laundry hummed in the background. A baseball game played quietly on television. You were curled sideways against him on the couch beneath the blanket he’d warmed—because of course he had—while he lazily scratched circles along your back as the rain tapped softly against the apartment windows.

“You know,” he murmured.

“Hm?”

“You’ve been weird all day.”

Your head immediately lifted.

“…Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I have not.”

“You got quiet that last round.”

“Maybe I was already tired from round one.”

“Mhm. And then you immediately looked away.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I don’t.”

He smiled without opening his eyes.

“You’ve got something to tell me.”

Silence. You pretended to watch the television. A commercial for lawn fertilizer suddenly became the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

“You know…” he continued lazily, “…ignoring me has never actually worked.”

“I’m not ignoring you.”

“You’ve been staring at Scott’s Miracle-Gro for almost thirty seconds.”

“…Maybe I really like healthy grass.”

He laughed.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The avoidance.”

“I don’t avoid things.”

“You absolutely avoid things.”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“You alphabetized your spice rack last month because you didn’t want to tell me your mother was coming to visit.”

“…That was unrelated.”

“It was cinnamon.”

You groaned into the pillow.

“I hate when you’re observant.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“You love it.”

“I do.”

“So.”

“So?”

“What are we avoiding today?”

You stayed quiet for another full minute. Long enough that he didn’t push. He simply kept rubbing slow circles against your back, waiting the way he always did. Giving you room. Eventually you sighed.

“…Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“I know.” Another pause. “It feels…” Your voice dropped. “…stupid.”

His hand stopped moving. You immediately missed it. He shifted just enough that he could see your face.

“It won’t be.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

“I know you.” His expression softened. “If it feels big enough that you’ve been carrying it around all day…”

He brushed his thumb lightly across your cheek.

“…then it’s not stupid.”

You looked down at your hands.

“I just…”

Your heart pounded. God. Why was this so embarrassing?

“You can laugh.”

“I’m probably going to smile.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But I won’t laugh at you.”

You inhaled slowly.

“…Okay.” Another deep breath. “So…” You covered your face with both hands.

“Oh no,” he said gently.

“What?”

“The hands.”

“What about them?”

“You hide behind them when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve become a blanket burrito and now you’re hiding behind your fingers.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

A muffled laugh escaped you.

“…No.”

His smile grew. You pulled one hand away from your face just enough to peek at him.

“…Promise you won’t make this weird?”

“I promise.”

“…Promise.”

“I swear.”

You swallowed.

“…I…”

You couldn’t do it. You buried your face again.

“Oh sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“No.” He chuckled softly. “I mean…” His fingers gently wrapped around your wrists. “You don’t have to hide.”

“I’m trying.”

After another long moment, you finally forced the words out.

“…I actually…” You stared determinedly at the couch cushion. “…like it…”

“Hm?”

“…when you and I are…together…when you…” Your face somehow grew even warmer. “…pull my hair.”

Silence. Absolute silence.nYou immediately wanted the earth to split open beneath the apartment.

“Oh my God,” you mumbled into your hands. “Forget I said anything.”

You heard him exhale. Not laughing. Not shocked. Just…Processing.

“…That’s what you’ve been worried about?”

You looked up cautiously. He was smiling. Not teasingly. Almost…fondly.

“I’ve been carrying this around for like three weeks.”

“You’ve been anxious for three weeks…” His eyebrows lifted. “…about telling your boyfriend something you enjoy?”

You nodded once. Very slowly. His expression changed almost instantly. The amusement faded into something much gentler. He reached over and carefully pulled your hands away from your face.

“Come here.”

“I’m already here.”

“A little closer.” He said.

You scooted until you were laying on top of him. He took one of your hands.

“You thought I’d think less of you.”

You blinked.

“…Maybe.”

He frowned.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“No.” He squeezed your fingers. “You do.”

You looked away.

“I’ve had people before…” The words came quietly. “…make me feel ridiculous for asking for things.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Or…” You laughed awkwardly. “…they’d make jokes.”

He stayed silent.

“So eventually…” You shrugged. “…I just stopped saying anything.”

He watched you for a long time. Then he leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss against your forehead.

“Thank you.”

You frowned.

“…For what?”

“For trusting me enough to tell me.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

“I mean that.”

He smiled softly.

“I would always rather know.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Not because I think I have to do something. But because…” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “…I want to know what makes you feel close to me.”

The knot in your chest loosened.

“You really aren’t embarrassed?”

He actually looked confused.

“Why would I be embarrassed?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiled.

“I’ve had conversations about bowel movements in crowded trauma bays.”

You laughed.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“I’ve delivered babies in elevators.”

Another laugh.

“I’ve had patients ask me if they could keep foreign objects they absolutely could not keep.”

You buried your face in his shoulder laughing now.

“So…” He wrapped an arm around you. “…my girlfriend quietly admitting she likes her hair pulled…” He kissed your temple. “…doesn’t even make the top hundred.”

You swatted his chest.

“I cannot believe you just compared me to emergency medicine.”

“I’m saying nothing surprises me.”

He grinned.

“But…” His expression softened once more. “I’m also saying this.” He tipped your chin gently until you looked at him.

“If something makes you feel good…” He paused. “…tell me.”

Your eyes searched his.

“If something doesn’t…” Another pause. “…tell me.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“No.”

“I’m your partner.”

Something in your chest settled. Not because you’d finally admitted one preference. Because for the first time, you realized intimacy wasn’t about guessing. It wasn’t about hoping someone noticed. It wasn’t about pretending everything was perfect. It was about trusting someone enough to tell them the truth. Even when your face was bright red. You smiled shyly.

“So…”

“So?”

“You’ll…”

He laughed quietly.

“I’ll remember.”

“You don’t even have to—”

“I’m going to.”

He smiled in that infuriatingly confident way he sometimes had.

“I have an excellent memory.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I remembered your coffee.”

“You did.”

“I remembered daisies.”

“You did.”

“I remembered the blanket.”

“You did.”

He leaned close enough that his forehead rested lightly against yours.

“You really think I’m going to forget something you trusted me enough to tell me?”

Your heart melted.

“You know…” you whispered.

“What?”

“I think this conversation was actually harder than saying I loved you.”

He laughed—a warm, genuine laugh that made you smile immediately.

“I know.”

“You knew that too?”

“I figured.”

“How?”

“You’ve told me you love me every day for four months.”

He kissed the tip of your nose.

“…Today was the first day you believed I wanted to know what you wanted, too.”

Tears unexpectedly pricked your eyes.

“Oh.”

“I know.”

“No…” You smiled through them. “…I think…” You reached up and cupped his cheek. “…I think you just healed something you didn’t even know was broken.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Robby rested his forehead against yours again and closed his eyes.

“I don’t ever want you to have to be brave just to be honest with me.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I want honesty to feel safe.”

You smiled. It already did.

******

Work

If someone had asked you six months earlier what dating your attending would look like, you probably would have imagined stolen glances across trauma bays, flirtatious comments over the nurses’ station, secret smiles during rounds, and excuses to linger in one another’s company. Reality looked…

Nothing like that. In fact, there were mornings you wondered if Robby even liked you. Professionally, he had become even more careful than before. He called you by your last name when everyone else was around. He challenged your clinical reasoning during teaching rounds exactly as often as everyone else’s. If you made a mistake, he corrected it immediately. If someone else made the same mistake…He corrected them too.

There were no favorites. No exceptions. No special treatment. At first, you’d admired it. By month six, you occasionally wanted to throw a stethoscope at his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dana looked up from her charting.

“What?”

You dropped into the chair beside her in the physician workroom with dramatically more force than necessary.

“He just assigned me another chart.”

Dana blinked.

“…Okay?”

“It’s the fourth one.”

“You’ve only been here an hour.”

“I know.”

“And?”

You stared at her.

“Dana.”

“What?”

“He’s giving me all the difficult ones.”

She looked toward the trauma board.

“…Those are literally the patients you handle best.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

You lowered your voice.

“The point is…” You glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “…we’re…together.”

Dana slowly set down her coffee.

“…And?”

“I thought maybe…”

You frowned.

“…he’d go just a little easier on me.” Dana laughed so hard she nearly snorted. “Oh honey.”

“What?”

“You really thought the Chief of Emergency Medicine was suddenly going to become soft because you’re sleeping together?”

Your eyes widened.

“Dana!”

“What?”

“Indoor voice.”

She waved dismissively.

“The walls already know.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“This is horrible.”

“No.” She leaned closer. “This is actually the healthiest workplace relationship I’ve ever seen.”

You peeked through your fingers.

“…Really?”

“He treats you exactly like everyone else.”

“I know.”

“Would you actually respect him if he didn’t?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

It wasn’t just Dana. Frank found the whole situation endlessly entertaining. Mostly because Robby was incapable of being subtle. Not in affection. In restraint.

“You know,” Frank said one afternoon as the two of you walked toward radiology.

“Hm?”

“I’ve worked with Robinavich for years.”

“Okay…”

“I’ve never seen him try this hard.”

“Try what hard?”

“Not looking at somebody.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

Frank laughed.

“You don’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“You walk into a room…” He gestured dramatically. “…and suddenly he’s incredibly interested in literally anything else.”

You frowned.

“No he isn’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Frank grinned. “He checks where you are every five minutes.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does.”

“I’ve never seen him.”

“Exactly.”

You stopped walking.

“…Wait.”

Frank nodded.

“He’s good.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You mean…”

“He knows exactly where you are.”

“…Without looking?”

Frank smiled knowingly.

“I told you.”

The opportunity to ask Robby about it came several nights later. The two of you were making dinner together. Or rather you were making dinner. Robby was pretending to help while stealing vegetables off the cutting board.

“Stop.”

“I needed quality control.”

“You’ve eaten six tomatoes.”

“They’re good tomatoes.”

“They’re for the salad.”

“They still are good.”

You rolled your eyes.

“So.”

“So?”

“Frank told me something.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“I’m almost afraid.”

“He says…” You pointed the knife at him. “…you know where I am all the time at work.”

He looked completely unfazed.

“I do.”

You blinked.

“…That’s it?”

“You asked.”

“I expected denial.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

He shrugged.

“I know where everyone is.”

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“You don’t know where housekeeping is.”

“No.”

“You don’t know where dietary is.”

“No.”

“So.”

He leaned casually against the counter.

“I know where my residents are.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I’m not a resident anymore.”

“My staff.”

“Hm.”

“My nurses.”

“Hm.”

“My respiratory therapists.”

“Hm.”

“And…” He smiled very slightly. “…the woman I’m in love with.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“So Frank’s right.”

“He usually is unfortunately.”

“You don’t even realize you’re doing it?”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“I check.”

“Why?”

He looked genuinely surprised by the question.

“…Because emergency departments change in seconds.” He reached over and took the knife from your hand before you accidentally gestured with it again. “You disappear for forty-five minutes.”

He resumed slicing tomatoes with practiced ease.

“I want to know you’re tied up in CT.” Another slice. “Not because somebody forgot to call me.” Your heart softened.

“So…” He glanced at you. “…yes. I know where you are.”

The real test came on a Wednesday. One of those awful, gut-wrenching pediatric cases that settled over the department like a storm cloud long after the room had emptied. A little boy. Five years old. A drowning. Everyone had done everything they could. Sometimes…Everything simply wasn’t enough.

The department moved on because it had to. Another ambulance rolled in. Another trauma was called overhead. Another waiting room filled with people needing help.

But you Couldn’t quite shake it. You completed your charting. Answered questions. Restocked supplies. Smiled when someone spoke to you. Then quietly slipped into the stairwell. The one behind the imaging department.

Cool concrete. Dim lights. Silence.

You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to breathe. The tears came anyway. Not dramatic. Not sobbing. Just exhausted tears.

The kind healthcare workers learned to cry quickly before wiping them away and returning to work. You didn’t hear the stairwell door open. You only noticed another presence when someone quietly stood beside you.

Robby. He hadn’t said your name. Hadn’t asked if you were alright. He simply leaned against the opposite wall. Hands in his pockets. Looking straight ahead. The silence stretched comfortably between you. After a minute, you laughed weakly through your tears.

“…How’d you find me?”

“I looked.”

“You just…”

He nodded once.

“I checked.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

Neither of you moved. The stairwell remained quiet except for the distant hum of hospital ventilation. Finally, you spoke again.

“I hate when we lose kids.”

His jaw tightened.

“Yeah.”

“I know you do too.”

“I do.”

You looked at him.

“I don’t know why this one…”

“…Because there isn’t a reason.”

His voice was calm. Not dismissive. Just honest.

“You don’t have to justify being heartbroken.”

You swallowed hard.

“I keep thinking about his mom. I keep hearing her.”

“I know.”

You wiped at your eyes.

“I’m supposed to be better at this by now.”

That finally made him turn toward you.

“No.”

“What?”

“You are never supposed to get better at losing children.”

The words landed heavily.

“If this ever stops hurting…” His expression was impossibly gentle. “…it’s time to leave emergency medicine.”

A tear escaped before you could catch it. He looked toward the stairwell door. Listened. Made sure no one was coming. Then very deliberately…he crossed the small space between you.

He didn’t kiss your lips. Didn’t pull you dramatically into his arms. Instead, he reached up and brushed his thumb beneath your eye, catching one escaping tear. Then he leaned down. One slow, lingering kiss. Against your temple. Nothing more. It lasted perhaps two seconds. Yet It held every “I love you” he couldn’t say inside the hospital walls. When he stepped back, his forehead rested lightly against yours for only the briefest moment.

“So this is where you hide.”

You smiled sadly.

“…Sometimes.”

He nodded.

“I’ll remember.”

Your heart squeezed.

“I know you will.”

He looked toward the door again. Professional once more.

“The new trauma should be in room four.”

“I know.”

“Dana already ordered imaging.”

“I figured.”

He reached for the handle. Then paused. Without looking back, he said quietly,

“I’m very proud of you.”

The door closed behind him.

Just like that…He was Dr. Robinavich again. The Chief. The attending. The man who challenged you, expected excellence from you, and refused to let anyone—including himself—compromise your career.

You stood alone in the stairwell for another minute. One hand unconsciously rose to your temple. The place he’d kissed. It wasn’t grand.

No one would ever know it had happened. There would never be pictures. Or stories. Or proof. But somehow…That tiny, hidden moment told you more about how deeply he loved you than a hundred public displays of affection ever could.

Because he had chosen the one thing you needed most. Not romance. Not passion. Not even comfort. Respect. He protected your heart. He protected your career. And somehow, without saying it aloud, he made you understand that in his mind…Those two things had never been separate.

******

Home

Eight months.

It wasn’t very long in the grand scheme of a life. It wasn’t years. It wasn’t decades. Yet somehow, eight months had quietly rewritten both of you.

You apologized less. Not because you had become louder or harder or someone who no longer cared about other people. You simply no longer apologized for existing.

You no longer said, “Sorry,” before asking if he wanted to spend time together. You no longer apologized for crying after difficult cases. You no longer apologized for wanting another kiss before one of you left for work. You no longer apologized for taking up space in his apartment. Because somewhere over those eight months, Robby had answered every unnecessary apology the same way.

“You don’t have to be sorry for that.”

Eventually…You believed him.

Robby had changed, too. The man who once hesitated for months before saying “I love you” now said it as casually as “Drive safe.” Not because the words had become smaller. Because they had become home. He kissed your forehead while making coffee. He reached for your hand without thinking. He texted when he was running late. He called during grocery shopping to ask whether you preferred red grapes or green grapes. He’d somehow become the kind of man who argued passionately over throw pillows. Frank still hadn’t recovered.

“You bought decorative pumpkins.”

Robby looked up from arranging groceries.

“They’re seasonal.”

“It is September.”

“They’re tasteful.”

“They’re pumpkins.”

“They’re understated pumpkins.”

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the kitchen island.

“I cannot believe this.”

“What?”

“You used to own…” You gestured dramatically around the apartment. “…one chair.”

“I had several chairs.”

“You had one chair.”

“There was a couch.”

“It was leather.”

“It was a couch.”

“It looked like it belonged in a waiting room.”

“It was comfortable.”

You walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind while he put vegetables away.

“It looks different now.”

He glanced around the apartment. The blanket draped over the couch. Books stacked beside the bed. Fresh flowers in the kitchen. Your favorite mug sitting beside his coffee maker. The framed photograph Frank had secretly taken at the hospital charity softball game, where the two of you were laughing at something neither of you could remember.

“It does.”

“You don’t mind?”

He turned inside your embrace.

“Minding would imply it wasn’t supposed to happen.” His hand rested against your cheek. “It was.”

Three weeks later, your schedules stopped matching. For nearly ten days. He worked nights. You worked days. You passed each other like ships in the dark. You woke up to sleepy text messages. He came home after you’d already left. You crawled into bed just before his alarm went off.

It wasn’t dramatic. No fighting. No jealousy. Just…Life.

By the end of the week, you missed him in the quietest ways. You missed hearing him hum while making coffee. You missed the weight of his hand finding yours in his sleep. You even missed arguing over whose turn it was to buy groceries. When your schedules finally aligned again, you almost laughed at how relieved you felt. He looked equally exhausted.

“You look awful,” you said.

“So do you.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you too.”

That evening neither of you planned anything elaborate. You ordered takeout. Folded laundry together. Watched a documentary neither of you paid much attention to because you kept pausing it to talk.

At one point, you looked over. He was simply…looking at you.

“What?”

He smiled.

“Nothing.”

“No. What? You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The staring.”

“I’m allowed.”

“You are.”

He reached over and absentmindedly tucked your feet beneath his leg so they stayed warm.

“I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“It usually is.”

“What were you thinking?”

He looked around the apartment. Then back at you.

“I like this.”

“The documentary?” You laughed softly.

“No…” He shook his head. “…this.”

He gestured around the room.

“The dishes. The grocery lists. The fact that you’ve somehow convinced me throw pillows are important.”

“They are important.”

“I know that now.”

“You do?”

“Okay…I’ve accepted it.”

You smiled.

“It feels…” He searched for the right word. “…peaceful.”

Your chest warmed.

“It does.”

“I didn’t know relationships could feel like this.”

“What did you think they’d feel like?”

He leaned back against the couch.

“I thought they were supposed to be exciting all the time.”

“And now?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

“I think peace is underrated.”

The following Tuesday morning, you woke alone. The bedroom was still dark. Rain tapped softly against the windows. You reached automatically toward the other side of the bed. Cold. He’d already left. His shift started at six.

You smiled sleepily and stretched before wandering toward the kitchen wearing one of his old T-shirts. The apartment was quiet. Except…there was coffee already brewed. Of course there was. He’d programmed the machine after learning you hated waiting for it first thing in the morning.

You shuffled toward the counter. Then stopped. Your favorite mug sat waiting. Beside it…a folded note. You frowned. You picked it up. His handwriting was surprisingly neat.

Sweetheart,

You keep leaving things here. Your shampoo. Your books. Your sweaters. Half the food in my refrigerator.

A smile immediately spread across your face. You kept reading.

You leave hair ties in every room. You have somehow claimed the left side of my bed. Frank says I now buy decorative pumpkins.

You laughed out loud. Then your eyes dropped to the next lines.

I think we’re pretending something that stopped being true a long time ago.

Your heartbeat quickened.

You don’t stay here anymore. You live here.

The words blurred slightly as your eyes filled. There was one final line.

So stop packing an overnight bag.

Your hand rose instinctively to cover your mouth. Beneath the note…something metallic rested against the ceramic mug.

A key. Not the spare you’d occasionally borrowed. A brand-new key. Attached to a small leather keychain. Your initials had been pressed into the leather. You stared at it for several seconds before unfolding the bottom of the note that had been tucked underneath. There was one last sentence.

Move in with me. Permanently.

Robby

There was no question mark. No pressure. No grand speech. Just certainty. You stood there in the middle of his—your—kitchen with tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. Your phone buzzed. One message.

Robby: Did you find it?

You laughed through your tears. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.nThere were a hundred things you could say.

Yes. I love you. I’m crying.

Instead…you set the phone down. Grabbed your keys. And drove to the hospital.

The emergency department was exactly as chaotic as always. Monitors chimed. Phones rang. Someone was calling for respiratory therapy down the hall. Frank spotted you first.

“…Well.”

He looked at the clock.

“Either you’re very early…” His eyes narrowed. “…or something happened.”

You smiled so brightly it almost hurt.

“I need to see Robby.”

“Ooooh.” Frank immediately grinned. “This sounds promising.”

“Frank.”

“He just finished rounds.”

“Where?”

He pointed toward the physician workroom. You found Robby standing over the central workstation, reviewing imaging with two residents. He glanced up when he heard footsteps. For a brief moment…he was simply Dr. Robinavich. Professional. Composed.

Then he saw your face. Something softened. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you. The residents continued discussing a scan. He listened. Asked two questions. Gave an instruction. Then looked at you again.

“You alright?”

You nodded once.

“Can I borrow you?”

The residents exchanged knowing looks.

“Two minutes,” he said.

He led you into the empty stairwell behind the workroom. The same one. The one where he’d kissed your temple after the pediatric drowning. The door clicked shut. He looked at you carefully.

MYou didn’t speak. Instead you stepped forward. Wrapped both arms around him. And buried your face against his chest. He held you immediately. One hand settling against the back of your head.

“You knew I’d cry.”

“I suspected.”

“You manipulated me.”

“I left coffee.”

“You weaponized coffee.”

You looked up at him.

“I don’t even have words.”

“You don’t need any.”

You pulled the key from your pocket and held it between your fingers. “You mean this?”

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

“You didn’t even ask.”

His smile was small.

He reached up and brushed a tear from beneath your eye.

“Because I already knew my answer.”

His forehead rested gently against yours.

“I was just hoping…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “…it had become yours too.”

You slipped the key onto your own keyring. The soft metallic click echoed through the empty stairwell. It sounded strangely significant. Like a door opening. Like a life beginning. Then, because no one was watching, Robby leaned down and pressed one familiar, lingering kiss against your lips.

“Welcome home.”

And for the first time in your life, the words didn’t describe a place. They described a person.

[thatfanficstuff]

Like You Mean It - Rabbot x Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Reader x Jack Abbot

synopsis: Robby gets it right. Finally.

notes/warnings: Made myself cry. that's all.

wc: 3k

Series Masterlist

Chapter Nineteen - Touch

but why do I always have to tell you how I feel? can't you see that you're the one the only thing that ever meant something to me? and I need your touch to come alive

The next morning arrived along with a throbbing headache. The stitches itched. Your eyes were raw and sore from crying. And you were so, so tired. You’d slept fitfully, images of Robby running through your brain. You’d fully intended to talk to him yesterday, to discuss what you needed from him to go back to what you were. And then he acted like everything was magically fixed. He had a bad habit of thinking if he pretended it was all okay, it would be. That wouldn’t work this time. Not with this. You couldn’t let him back in only to have him destroy you again. God, why did love have to hurt so much?

You dragged yourself from the bed and into the shower. Once you’d managed to put yourself at least semi together, you beelined to the kitchen to make coffee. Caffeine was a necessity if you planned to accomplish anything. The apartment was too quiet, too empty. The absence of both of the men you loved was a weight that seemed to settle on your shoulders and never leave. You ran a hand over your face, wincing when your fingers brushed the edges of your wound.

The knock came just after noon. You froze, your third cup of coffee halfway to your lips and waited. Another knock. You sucked in a breath and headed to the door. A glance through the peephole showed a person holding a box and you opened the door.

“Delivery for you,” they said shoving the box in your direction.

“From who?” you couldn’t stop from asking.

The man shrugged. “Don’t know. He gave me a hundred and told me where to bring it.” He gave a half wave and disappeared down the hall.

You sat the box on the counter in the kitchen and began pulling things from it.

A bunch of wildflowers nearly identical to the ones Robby bought you on your first date.

A carefully wrapped sandwich from Cal’s, that upon closer inspection showed itself to be the same one you’d ordered on that same date.

An insulated bag with a pint of ice cream in the same flavor he’d bought you in the park that day.

Tucked in the bottom was a small velvet box and an envelope with your name scrawled across the front.

You set them on the counter and took in the items in front of you. Of all the gifts he’d sent you over the weeks trying to regain your affections, these were the most meaningful. The fact that he’d remembered, that he wanted you to remember that very first date with him said more than a hundred other presents. Your fingers traced the box, wondering what it held but resisting the temptation for the moment.

First, you found a vase for the wildflowers, a mix of purple, yellow and white. Messy and imperfect and absolutely beautiful. You left the sandwich where it was and placed the ice cream in the freezer. You settled yourself on a stool at the counter, box and envelope in front of you.

You opened the box first. Inside, nestled against the velvet were two tiny charms. An M and a J, both delicate and small. Just the right size for an anklet. You lifted one and turned it in the light. Gold with a small line of what you were sure were diamonds set into it. They were understated and absolutely perfect. You set the charm carefully back in the box and reached for the envelope.

You ran your hand across your name scrawled in Robby’s familiar handwriting. Not the mess it was when he was in a hurry, but the careful lettering he did when he wished to make an impression. You slid a finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper covered in that same writing.

Your vision blurred after the first line.

If you’re reading this, thank you. It’s more than I deserve.

You set the letter on the counter and wiped at your eyes as you sucked in a shaky breath. You could do this, you needed to do this. You were hoping whatever he had to say was exactly what you needed to hear, but part of you was terrified that this would be it. A severing of everything he was to you. That you were asking too much and he was done trying.

Fuck, you needed to stop. You grabbed the letter and your now lukewarm coffee and headed to the couch. You closed your eyes, took a centering breath then tried again.

If you’re reading this, thank you. It’s more than I deserve.

I’ve written this letter six times. The first five went in the trash because they were full of excuses and justifications and all the bullshit I tell myself to sleep at night. Not that it works. This one isn’t going to be perfect either, but it’s the truth and that’s the only thing I can give you.

I have spent my entire life waiting for people to leave. My parents, mentors, people I’ve loved. They’ve all left me. They’ve all proven I’m not worth staying around for. It’s what I expect. It’s what I prepare for. When we met you, I knew instantly that you were too good for me, that I didn’t deserve you and I never let myself forget it. Even when you were right there, even when you were in my bed, in my arms telling me you loved me, some part of me was bracing for you to leave.

That’s not your failing, it’s mine. It’s the broken part of me that I’ve been too stubborn to really look at. I was so busy waiting for you to prove my worst fears that I didn’t see what was right in front of me. A woman who loved me exactly as I was, who never asked me to be anything different, who thought I was enough.

A tear landed on the paper, smudging the ink slightly. You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand.

I accused you of the worst thing I could think of, because on some level I wanted it to be true. If you were using us for our money, then you were exactly what I expected. Predictable. Safe, in the worst possible way. The alternative, that you loved me, that you really loved me, meant I had something real to lose.

And then I did lose you and it broke me in a way I didn’t think was possible.

Losing you once was enough to last me a lifetime. I won’t do it again. I can’t. So, I’m making you a promise, whatever you need from me, I will do it. If you want to start from the beginning, I’ll take you on a first date, nerves and all. If you want us to go to therapy together, I’ll make the appointment today. If you need space, I’ll give it to you. If you need me to prove myself every day for the rest of our lives, I will.

I will do anything. Because the alternative is living without you and I can’t do that. Please don’t make me live without you.

The words blurred. You wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of Jack’s hoodie, you’d been wearing since he left it behind weeks ago. Your chest felt tight, an ache spreading beneath your ribs.

If you’re done with me, if this was too much to forgive, I understand. Fuck, I understand. But please don’t push Jack away because of me. He loves you. He’s been caught in the middle of this and I know it’s tearing him apart. He doesn’t deserve to lose you just like I don’t deserve to have you.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will love you whatever happens next.

-Michael

You let the letter fall to your lap and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your shoulders shook. The tears came quietly at first, then in earnest until you were curled forward over your lap. When the worst of it passed, you sat up and wiped your face. Unsurprisingly, your head was throbbing again.

You picked up the letter again and read the last lines one more time.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will love you whatever happens next.

You knew what happened next. You’d known from the moment you kissed Robby in your bathroom and felt his hands shaking against your skin. You’d known when you sent him away then sat on the floor and wished you hadn’t.

You had the uber drop you off at the hospital just after seven and stood a short distance away from where you knew Robby would be exiting after his shift. The evening air had a bite to it and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket. You leaned against the wall and watched people flow from the building, exhaustion heavy on their shoulders after a long shift. A couple of people recognized you, gave you a smile or a wave but didn’t stop to talk.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and hoped this wasn’t one of those nights where Robby stayed for hours past his shift. If he took too long, you’d text Jack to give him a friendly nudge toward the door. You’d read the letter several more times throughout the afternoon. You’d almost called Jack to discuss it with him, then decided against it. This was between you and Robby first. Jack would understand.

It was 7:20 when a weary Robby stepped outside. He had his bag slung over one shoulder, a gray hoodie zipped up over his scrub top. He was looking at his phone, thumb scrolling so he didn’t see you at first. You pushed yourself off the wall.

The movement caught his attention and his head came up. His phone slowly lowered to his side. His expression collapsed then rebuilt itself all at once. His mouth opened. Closed. His eyes went wide and wet and so unbearably full of hope you had to look away for a second.

“Hi,” he said, the word broken.

“Hi.” You took a step forward. “I thought I’d walk you home if that’s okay.”

His throat worked. He nodded once, quick. “Yeah, that’s more than okay.”

You fell into step beside him. Not touching, but close. His stride adjusted to match yours automatically. His hands were in his pockets now, too. The silence between you was thick with things unsaid, but that terrible brokenness that it would have brought with it even a week before was absent.

You walked in silence through streets you knew by heart, having made this same trek with him or Jack so many times. Your hands stayed in your pockets. So did his. The house came into view, porch light shining in the gathering dark.

Robby’s steps slowed as you approached. He punched the code into the lock and pushed open the door, stepping aside to let you enter first. The house smelled the same as it always did, clean with the lingering aroma of coffee in the air. It was messier than it had been last you were here. Not dirty, just untidy. Blankets that hadn’t been folded. A coffee mug left on the table. You stood in the center of the room and Robby stayed by the door. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“Why are you here?” he asked finally, his voice quiet. “I need to know. Because if you’re here to tell me it’s really over, I’d rather you did now before…” He swallowed. “Before I let myself hope.”

You ran your gaze over him, taking in his hunched shoulders, the hands still buried in his pockets. His gaze held yours with a desperation that made your chest ache.

“Your letter is why I’m here,” you said. “The flowers, the charms, the food was all fine but not why I’m here.”

He didn’t move, just watching you with that steady gaze.

“It’s the first time that an apology felt real. Not something you thought you should say, or a performance to get me back. It was you. I saw you in every word. It was messy and scared and honest. I saw the man I fell in love with, not the one who accused me of the worst thing he could think of because he was too afraid to trust me.” You took a step toward him.

His eyes closed and his chin dipped toward his chest.

You took a steadying breath. “You hurt me, Michael. You took something I thought was solid and made me question whether any of it was real.”

He nodded, eyes still closed, and a tear tracked down to his beard.

“Don’t do it again.”

His head shot up. Eyes wide, desperate as he looked at you. “I won’t, I swear I won’t.” The silence stretched, then he licked his lips. “Does that mean that you’ll give me another chance?”

Your smile was small but sincere. “Yes. That’s what it means.”

His breath left him in a rush. His bag hit the floor with a thud and he crossed the room in two strides, wrapping you in his arms. He buried his face in your neck as he trembled at your touch. Your arms went around his waist and you held on, taking in the familiar scent of him, the way his breath hitched against your skin. He was saying something against your neck, muffled and broken and you realized after a moment he was thank you over and over again, like a prayer.

You held him until the shaking stopped. Until his breathing steadied. He pulled back slowly and lifted his hands to frame your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn’t realized were falling. His own eyes were wet, lashes clumped together.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You nodded.

He leaned in carefully, his mouth meeting yours with a gentle reverence. His lips were warm and slightly chapped and he tasted like coffee and mint gum. You sank into it, one hand finding the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He made a needy sound against your mouth and kissed you deeper.

He backed toward the couch, taking you with him until his legs hit the edge. Then he sat, pulling you down with him so you settled in his lap. Your knees bracketed his hips, your weight comfortable against him. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he might never get the chance again. His hands moved up your back, under your jacket, warm through the fabric of your shirt. You cupped his face between your hands, feeling the scratch of his beard and kissed him until you were both breathless.

When you broke apart, you were both breathing hard. Robby’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. “I missed you,” he said, voice low and soft. “God, I missed you. Every fucking day.”

“I missed you too. Even when I was angry, I still missed you.”

He released a broken laugh and pulled you tight against his chest. You sat like that for a long time, his chin resting on your shoulder and his arms around you. Eventually, he stirred. “I should shower. I’ve got hospital all over me.”

You pulled back to look at him. “Can I help?”

The smile he gave you was radiant and he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “Of course you can, baby.”

The two of you undressed one another in the bedroom, clothes discarded in the hamper, mixing together in a way they hadn’t in weeks. It was a small thing, a domestic thing, but it only solidified that you were home. Finally.

Robby turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. “Come here,” he said, steering you toward the counter. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out the first aid kit. He secured a bit of gauze over your stitches with a waterproof bandage. He kissed it after, then grinned at you again. “There.” He paused, then added, “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

He laughed then grasped your elbow to steer you to the shower. He guided you in first and your shoulders immediately dropped as the hot water instantly started working its magic. Robby climbed in after you and you turned the two of you so he was under the water. “You’re the one that stinks of hospital,” you told him and reached for the shampoo. “Tip your head back so I can reach.”

You worked your fingers through his hair with methodical precision and he sighed at the feel of your nails scraping along his scalp. Once he’d rinsed, you took the soap and worked it over his chest, his shoulders, everywhere tension had settled into his muscles. He watched you the whole time. His eyes never leaving your face like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away for too long. When you washed his back, your thumbs pressed into the knots along his spine. His head dropped forward with a groan that had had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with relief.

You dried each other off and Robby removed the bandage and tossed it away. In the bedroom, he pulled back the covers and you climbed in together. He gathered you against his chest. One arm around your shoulders, the other across your waist. Your leg hooked over his, and your head rested on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart and sunk into the feeling of being right where you belonged.

“I love you,” he said against your head. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that again.”

You believed him. You pressed a kiss to his collarbone and felt him shudder. “I love you, too. So much.”

His arms tightened around you and for now, that was enough.

[serafinacross]

FINALLY! So glad Robby did the right thing even though he took the long road to get there. He better not mess this up again.

[afterdarkbydel]

Stray Hearts

Chapter Fourteen: Home

Pairing: Brendon Park x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,074

Summary: A little over a year after Brendon said "I love you", the last of your boxes finally crosses the hall into Brendon’s apartment. Between too many mugs, Biscuit’s full-grown reign of terror, and Brendon being unfairly distracting while unpacking your kitchen, moving day becomes something softer than an ending. It becomes the first day at home.

Warnings: established relationship, moving in together, domestic fluff, mild suggestive content, implied smut/fade to black, kissing, sexual tension, food/kitchen mentions, cat chaos, Biscuit being a menace, happy ending, series finale

Author’s Note:  And here we are — the final chapter of Stray Hearts. This series started with a tiny orange kitten, a neighbor across the hall, and two people slowly learning how to let themselves be cared for. Ending it with boxes, too many mugs, and Biscuit causing emotional and property damage felt exactly right. Thank you so much for loving these two, for loving Biscuit, and for letting this story become what it became. I’m so grateful for every comment, reblog, message, and little bit of screaming along the way. This one is soft, domestic, a little chaotic, and full of the kind of love that finally knows where it belongs.

Xoxo, Del

Previous: | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 | Chpt. 5 | Chpt. 6 | Chpt. 7 | Chpt. 8 | Chpt. 9-Pt. 1 | Chpt. 9-Pt. 2 | Chpt. 10 | Chpt. 11 | Chpt. 12 | Chpt. 13 |

A little over a year after your emergency appendectomy, the last of your boxes crossed the hall on a Saturday morning.

Not all at once.

Not gracefully.

Not without Biscuit screaming from the bedroom like a full-grown orange menace who had been unlawfully imprisoned by the state.

“He’s fine,” Brendon had said fifteen minutes ago, carrying in one of the boxes from your kitchen.

“He sounds betrayed,” you had said.

“He kept trying to get into the hallway every time I opened the door,” Brendon had said.

“He’s supervising the move,” you had said.

“He’s a flight risk,” Brendon had said.

So Biscuit had been placed in the bedroom with his water, his favorite blanket, three toys, his litterbox, and a level of personal outrage usually reserved for courtroom dramas and late dinners.

Now you stood in Brendon’s kitchen, your kitchen, surrounded by half-open boxes and mismatched mugs, trying to decide where your favorite ceramic bowl should go.

You were supposed to be unpacking.

You knew that.

You had been very clear with yourself about that.

But the light from the windows stretched all the way across the apartment, catching on the ring on your left hand every time you moved.

So, naturally, you had stopped working.

Again.

Brendon had gone back across the hall for the last box five minutes ago.

The last box.

Officially.

Which should have made you feel productive, or sentimental, or overwhelmed by the fact that your entire apartment was being reduced to a few open boxes, a stack of mismatched mugs, and one full-grown orange menace currently imprisoned in the bedroom.

Instead, you were standing in the middle of Brendon’s kitchen, holding a ceramic bowl in one hand and turning your left hand slowly in the light.

The ring caught again.

Softly this time.

A small flash from the stone.

A quiet little burst of impossible.

Your engagement ring was simple in the way Brendon was simple, which meant not simple at all once you knew where to look. Clean lines. Nothing fussy. Nothing loud. Just the kind of stunning that waited until the light hit it and then ruined your ability to think about anything else.

You tilted your hand again.

The stone caught the brightness coming from the tall living room windows, the ones that looked out over the city and made the whole apartment feel open and quiet and somehow above the rest of the world.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

It still happened like that.

Two weeks after he had asked.

Fourteen days of waking up with his ring on your finger, and still, sometimes, you forgot. Then you would reach for your coffee, or push your hair out of your face, or pick up a box labeled KITCHEN that absolutely contained sweaters, and there it would be.

Brendon Park had asked you to marry him.

You had said yes.

Your throat tightened.

You turned your hand again, just to see it.

Behind you, the apartment door opened.

You did not hear it.

Not really.

Not until Brendon’s footsteps stopped at the edge of the kitchen.

He did not speak at first.

He just stood there.

You did not know that, of course. Not yet.

You were too busy looking at your hand like it belonged to someone else, like it belonged to a version of you who had not once believed love could become this steady. This ordinary. This close.

Brendon stood in the doorway with the last box balanced against his hip.

And watched you.

Watched the small, helpless smile on your face.

Watched you turn your hand in the light.

Watched the ring he had chosen catch against your finger and make you forget the bowl in your other hand, the boxes on the counter, the entire purpose of the morning.

For one quiet second, he did nothing.

His mouth softened.

Not the almost-smile he gave when he was trying not to be amused.

Something worse.

Something gone.

Then Brendon said, “You’re supposed to be unpacking.”

You startled hard enough that the bowl in your other hand nearly slipped.

Brendon stepped forward immediately, but you caught it against your chest before he could cross the room.

Your eyes flew to him. “You can’t sneak up on a woman wearing a diamond.”

Brendon’s brow lifted faintly. “I walked in normally.”

“You appeared,” you said.

“I opened the door,” Brendon said.

“Menacingly,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your left hand.

To the ring.

To the way you were still holding your fingers slightly apart, like you had been caught mid-staring and had no intention of stopping.

When his eyes came back to yours, the softness was still there.

You hated how much it did to you.

Brendon looked at your hand again. “You’re staring at it again.”

You looked down at your hand. Then back at him.

“I’m engaged,” you said.

His mouth almost moved. “I know.”

“To you,” you added.

“I know that too,” Brendon said.

“It’s distracting,” you said.

“I’ve noticed,” Brendon said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you judging me?”

“No,” Brendon said.

“You are,” you said.

“No,” Brendon said again, and then his gaze dropped to your hand one more time. “I like watching you look at it.”

Your breath caught. Just a little.

Enough that he heard it.

Brendon stepped farther into the kitchen and set the box on the counter beside the others.

“This is the last of it,” Brendon said.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Already?”

“Yes,” Brendon said.

You looked around the kitchen, then toward the living room, where only a few boxes sat near the couch. “That can’t be right.”

“It is,” Brendon said.

You frowned. “Where’s the rest of my stuff?”

Brendon looked around the kitchen.

You followed his gaze.

Box after box sat open on the counters and floor. Mugs. Bowls. Spices. Baking sheets. Coffee syrups. The good olive oil. The cheap olive oil. Four different kinds of tea. Two different whisks. A jar of wooden spoons. Three pans you had strong opinions about. A stack of cookbooks you refused to call decorative, even though one of them had never been opened.

Brendon looked back at you. “Apparently eighty percent of your belongings are kitchen-related.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then looked around again.

“That feels judgmental,” you said.

“It was statistical,” Brendon said.

“I’m a woman with interests,” you said.

“Mostly mugs,” Brendon said.

You gasped. “Take that back.”

“No,” Brendon said.

“You own one mug,” you said.

“I own three mugs,” Brendon said.

“One of them is mine,” you said.

“You moved in,” Brendon said. “It’s household property now.”

Your mouth parted.

Brendon looked calm. Too calm. You pointed at him with the hand wearing the ring, which immediately caught the light again and ruined your focus.

Brendon’s eyes dropped. Your eyes dropped. For a second, both of you looked at the ring.

Then you whispered, “See? Distracting.”

His mouth softened.

From the bedroom, Biscuit yowled like he had been waiting for his legal representation.

You looked toward the hallway. “We can let him out now, right?”

Brendon glanced at the last box, then at the half-unpacked kitchen, then back at you.

“He’s going to be a problem,” Brendon said.

“He’s family,” you said.

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Brendon said.

Brendon gave you one last look, the kind that said he knew he was about to regret this, then crossed the apartment toward the bedroom.

You followed him, stepping over a box labeled KITCHEN that absolutely did not belong in the hallway.

At the bedroom door, Biscuit’s paws were already reaching beneath the crack, orange toes stretching dramatically into freedom.

You looked down at them. “Baby, we’re coming.”

Brendon looked at the paws. “He’s not a baby.”

“He’s our baby,” you said.

Brendon’s hand paused on the doorknob. Not long. Barely a second. But you saw it. You saw the way his shoulders softened. The way his mouth almost moved. The way the word our still found places in him, even now.

Then Biscuit screamed again.

Brendon opened the door. “Go.”

Biscuit shot out of the bedroom like an orange cannonball.

He was not tiny anymore.

Not really.

He had grown into his paws, his tail, and the full weight of his own dramatic importance. He was sleek and bright and absurdly confident now, with a body big enough to cause real damage and absolutely no interest in using that power responsibly.

He sprinted down the hallway, skidded around the corner, launched himself onto the couch, knocked one throw pillow to the floor, leapt down again, and tore into the kitchen like he had received urgent news from another room.

You stared after him.

Brendon stood beside you, silent.

A crash came from the kitchen.

You closed your eyes.

“Kitchen box,” Brendon said.

You opened one eye. “Which one?”

Another rustle. A smaller crash.

Brendon’s expression did not change. “Probably mugs.”

You pointed at him. “Do not say that like you’re pleased.”

“I’m not pleased,” Brendon said.

“You sound pleased,” you said.

“I’m vindicated,” Brendon said.

You started laughing before you could stop yourself.

Brendon looked at you then, and there it was again. That softness. That gone look. The one he got when he thought you were not paying attention.

Only now, you always were.

Biscuit tore out of the kitchen again, carrying a dish towel in his mouth like he had slain it in battle.

You looked down at him. “Drop it.”

Biscuit froze.

Brendon looked at the cat. “That means no.”

Biscuit sprinted toward the living room.

You sighed. “He’s adjusting beautifully.”

“He’s a menace,” Brendon said.

“He’s emotionally processing,” you said.

“He’s stealing towels,” Brendon said.

“He contains multitudes,” you said.

Brendon’s mouth almost moved.

Almost.

Then he turned back toward the kitchen with the grim focus of a man determined not to let a full-grown orange cat derail an entire move.

Which, unfortunately for you, meant Brendon went back into unpacking mode.

Serious unpacking mode.

The kind that involved him rolling up his sleeves before opening the next box.

The kind that involved him lifting a stack of plates from the counter like they weighed nothing, forearms shifting, tendons moving beneath his skin, hands careful around the ceramic edges.

The kind that made you forget you had ever claimed to be useful.

You stood there with one hand still half-raised from pointing at Biscuit, your ring catching the light again, watching Brendon arrange your dishes in his cabinet with devastating competence.

Your dishes. His cabinet. Your ring. His hands.

Your brain quietly gave up.

Brendon reached for another box, pulling it closer with one hand. The muscles in his forearm shifted again, and something low in your stomach went warm.

Deeply unhelpful.

Extremely moving-day inappropriate.

You watched him open the box, glance inside, and make a small sound.

“What?” you asked.

Brendon lifted out one of your mugs. “Another one.”

You leaned back against the counter. “That is a beloved mug.”

“You have said that about six mugs,” Brendon said.

“I’m emotionally consistent,” you said.

“You’re emotionally attached to dishware,” Brendon said.

“You’re marrying me,” you said.

His eyes flicked to you. For one second, the kitchen went still.

Then his mouth softened. “I am.”

Your chest tightened. There it was again. That unbelievable, impossible thing.

You were marrying him.

Brendon looked back at the cabinet and set the mug carefully on the shelf beside his three boring ones. He shifted another stack of plates, shoulders moving beneath his T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, forearms bare, his whole body sure and steady and so casually competent it felt unfair.

You watched him for another second.

Then you put both hands on the counter behind you and pushed yourself up to sit on it.

Brendon turned immediately. “Careful.”

You gave him a look. “I am no longer recovering from abdominal surgery.”

“No,” Brendon said. “You’re sitting on a counter next to an open box of knives.”

You glanced down. There were, in fact, knives.

You nudged the box away and smiled at him. “Come here.”

Brendon went still.

His eyes moved over your face, then dropped briefly to where you sat on the counter, knees parted, ring flashing against the edge of the counter.

When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed.

“Come here,” you said again, softer this time.

Brendon set the mug down. Carefully. Deliberately.

Then he crossed the kitchen.

Every step made your pulse feel less reasonable.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his hips.

You reached for him immediately.

Your palms settled along his jaw, thumbs brushing over the familiar shape of him, the faint scrape of stubble beneath your fingers, the mouth that had said your name so many ways over the last year that you still heard all of them sometimes.

Brendon’s hands came to the counter on either side of your thighs.

Not touching you yet.

Caging you in without trapping you. Waiting. Always waiting.

Your chest ached.

“I love you,” you said.

His whole face softened. No defense. No almost-smile. No dry comment to hide behind. Just Brendon, looking at you like you had reached into him and put your hand around something vital.

“I love you too,” Brendon said.

You smiled. Bright. Helpless. So happy it almost hurt.

“We’re gonna get married,” you said.

A laugh left him. Soft. Disbelieving. Barely there, but real enough to warm his eyes.

“We are,” Brendon said.

Your thumbs moved over his cheeks. “Like legally.”

“That is typically how marriage works,” Brendon said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t ruin my moment with accuracy.”

His mouth curved. Actually curved.

“I’m marrying you,” Brendon said.

The words hit differently when he said them like that. Low. Certain. Yours.

You pulled him closer.

Brendon came willingly, stepping between your legs until there was no space left that mattered. His hands slid from the counter to your waist, slow and warm, his thumbs settling over your shirt like he still remembered every place you liked to be touched and every place he had ever been afraid to reach.

You kissed him.

At first, it was soft.

A sweet press of mouth to mouth, smiling and breathless, your hands still cupping his face, your ring cool against his cheek.

Then Brendon tilted his head, and the kiss changed.

Not abruptly.

Not carelessly.

It deepened like a decision.

His mouth moved over yours with slow, devastating certainty, and the sound you made disappeared against him. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you a little closer to the edge of the counter, and your knees shifted around his hips like they knew exactly where they belonged.

Brendon exhaled through his nose, rough and controlled, and one of his hands slid to the small of your back.

You felt it everywhere.

The apartment blurred around you.

The boxes. The mugs. The city light.

Biscuit dragging a dish towel somewhere behind you like a war prize.

None of it mattered.

Not when Brendon kissed you like this.

Not when you had his ring on your finger and his hands on your body and the kitchen around you and your whole life halfway unpacked around you.

Your fingers slid into his hair.

Brendon made a low sound against your mouth.

That did matter.

Very much.

You pulled back just enough to breathe.

Brendon followed you half an inch before he stopped himself.

His eyes opened slowly. Dark. Focused. Gone.

You smiled.

Then you looked around the kitchen, at the boxes, at the mugs, at the cabinets still hanging open.

“So,” you said.

Brendon’s thumb moved once at your waist. “So?”

You tilted your head. “Which room should we christen first?”

Brendon went completely still.

For half a second, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and Biscuit thundering somewhere in the living room.

Then Brendon’s eyes lifted back to yours.

Slowly.

“You’re supposed to be unpacking,” Brendon said.

You smiled wider. “I got distracted.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

Then to your ring. Then back to your eyes.

His voice went low. “I noticed.”

Your smile softened into something warmer. “So?”

Brendon’s hands tightened at your waist.

Then he leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like the answer was not something he needed to say out loud.

You hummed against his mouth.

“Bedroom,” Brendon said, his mouth brushing yours.

You laughed softly, but the sound thinned when his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin.

From the living room, Biscuit crashed into something that sounded expensive. Brendon paused. You paused. Neither of you looked away from each other.

“Was that breakable?” you whispered.

“Probably,” Brendon said.

You raised a brow. “Do you care?”

His eyes darkened. “No,” Brendon said.

Your breath caught.

Then he kissed you again and helped you down from the counter, one hand in yours, the other steady at your waist, guiding you through the half-unpacked apartment while Biscuit thundered somewhere behind you like a very small, very opinionated omen.

The bedroom door closed softly.

Biscuit stayed on the other side.

At least for a minute.

Later, much later, you lay tangled in Brendon’s bed with the city glowing beyond the tall windows and your ring catching faintly in the dark.

Your boxes were still half-unpacked.

Your mugs were still mostly in the wrong place.

Somewhere in the living room, Biscuit was probably committing a crime.

Brendon’s hand rested over yours, his thumb moving once over the ring he had put there.

You smiled into the quiet. “I live here now.”

Brendon turned his head on the pillow to look at you.

His hair was a mess. His mouth was soft. His eyes were tired and warm and so completely yours that your chest ached with it.

“You do,” Brendon said.

Your throat tightened.

Then his mouth almost curved.

“Your mugs do too,” he added.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and helpless and happy.

Brendon lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed the ring first, then your knuckles, then your palm.

Across the hall, your old apartment sat empty.

This one was still half-boxes, half-chaos, and entirely too many mugs.

But Brendon was there.

Biscuit was there.

You were there.

And for the first time, it was not his place or your place or the space between.

It was home.

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[paigepie213]

Clingy Husband - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - Hilli! If possible, do you think you could do a cute one where maybe they're married and working together, and you keep getting pulled away and kept busy and he's busy too so he barely sees you? I just have this visual in my head of Robby stood there all grumpy like 'where is my wife?' and then becomes a clingy husband till the end of shift? 🫶🫶

love little ones where they get to be married 🫶

Masterlist

*******************************************************

The emergency department was already loud by seven in the morning. Monitors chirped from every direction, phones rang relentlessly at the nurses’ station, and the automatic doors at the ambulance bay seemed determined to open every thirty seconds. The Pitt thrived in chaos, and on most days, Dr. Michael Robinavich wore it like a second skin.

Today, however, he was annoyed. Robby stood at the central desk, coffee in one hand and a patient chart in the other, his dark eyes lifting every few seconds toward the doors.

“You know if you keep glaring at the entrance like that, it’s not going to make her appear any faster.”

Dana didn’t even look up from her tablet.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You are absolutely glaring.”

Robby frowned at her.

“I’m waiting.”

Dana finally looked up, entirely unimpressed.

“For your wife.”

“I’m waiting for one of my attendings.”

“Who also happens to be your wife.”

Robby took a sip of his coffee.

“You’re insufferable this early in the morning.”

“And you’re grumpy because she isn’t here.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

Dana snorted.

“Sure.”

Before he could answer, Princess approached.

“Dr. Robby? EMS is bringing in a seventy-two-year-old male. Possible stroke. Five minutes out.”

Robby nodded immediately.

“CT’s ready?”

“Already called.”

“Good.”

Princess hurried off. Dana watched him for another moment before smiling.

“What time did she leave this morning?”

He looked at her.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Robby sighed.

“Six-thirty.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And you’ve been here since six-fifty and she isn’t.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“She said she’d be down here early.”

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The pouting.”

“I do not pout.”

Dana’s smile widened. “You’ve looked at those doors every thirty seconds since I got here.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

Before he could argue further, the doors to the Pitt slid open. Both of them looked up. A respiratory therapist walked in. Dana burst out laughing. Robby glared at her.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He didn’t. Mostly because she was right. You had texted him nearly an hour ago.

Leaving now. Save me coffee.

That was it. No follow-up text. No appearance in the Pitt. Nothing. Which was odd. You usually found him first thing in the morning, even if only for five minutes. You’d steal his coffee, lean against his shoulder while you looked over the board, kiss his cheek if nobody was paying attention, and then disappear to start your own shift.

It was stupid. Five minutes. That was all it usually was. But it was your five minutes. And apparently, he missed it.

“You should call her.”

He looked at Dana.

“I am not calling my wife because she’s late to work.”

“You’re worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You’re wondering where she is.”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Dana’s smile became unbearably smug.

“You are so in love with that woman.”

He rolled his eyes. Before he could say another word, a voice echoed from behind him.

“Dr. Robinavich?”

He turned. Mel King looked apologetic staring up at him.

“Radiology needs an attending for a contrast reaction.”

“Where’s Dr. R?”

Mel blinked.

“She got pulled up there twenty minutes ago.”

Robby’s entire expression changed. Dana looked delighted.

“Oh, mystery solved.”

He ignored her.

“She’s still in radiology?”

“Apparently.” Mel nodded. “They’ve had a rough morning.”

Robby looked toward the elevators. Then back at the Mel. Then toward the elevators again. Dana folded her arms.

“Go on.”

“I’m not going to radiology.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I absolutely was.”

“I have a stroke patient coming in.”

“And your wife is upstairs.”

He looked at her. She grinned.

“You miss her.”

“I saw her last night.”

“You’ve been awake for an hour without seeing her and you’re acting like someone stole your favorite toy.”

Robby looked offended.

“My wife is not a toy.”

“You know what I mean.”

The ambulance doors burst open then, and the incoming stroke patient rolled through. The entire department moved. Robby was instantly all business.

“What’s his last known well?”

“Forty minutes.”

“Deficits?”

“Left-sided weakness and slurred speech.”

“Get him to CT.”

He moved with the stretcher, barking orders and scanning the patient. The morning swallowed him whole. For nearly an hour, he didn’t stop. By the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, he finally exhaled.

He turned toward the desk. And immediately looked toward the elevators. Dana, who noticed everything, nearly laughed.

“You are unbelievable.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“You just did it again.”

“Did what?”

“Looked for your wife.”

“I wasn’t—“

“You were.”

He sighed.

“I was just wondering if she was back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You make everything sound ridiculous.”

“Because it is ridiculous. She’s been gone for an hour.”

“I know.”

“She’s in the same building.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll probably see her in ten minutes.”

“I know.”

Dana smiled softly this time.

“But you miss her anyway.”

Robby didn’t answer. Because unfortunately…Yes. He did. As if the universe had decided to reward him, the elevator doors opened. His head lifted immediately.

You stepped out, hair already slipping from your bun, a stack of charts in your arms and your ID badge twisted backward. He smiled before he could stop himself. Then you looked up and spotted him. Your entire face softened.

You started walking toward him. He actually took a step forward.

“Dr. R!”

Both of you looked. Jesse was jogging toward you.

“The ICU attending needs you upstairs right now.”

You stopped. Looked at Jesse. Looked at Robby. And then sighed.

“Make Langdon go.”

Jesse looked confused.

“They specifically asked for you.”

You closed your eyes. Robby laughed softly. You pointed at him.

“I haven’t even said hello to my husband.”

Jesse looked genuinely apologetic.

“I’m sorry.”

You groaned. Robby’s smile widened. You walked the remaining few feet toward him anyway, stopping directly in front of him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You looked exhausted. He looked unfairly handsome, as always. You smiled.

“I missed our coffee.”

“I noticed.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“You noticed?”

Dana snorted from behind the desk. Robby ignored her. You looked between them.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Robby barked.

Dana looked horrified.

“Nothing? You spent the last hour asking where your wife was.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You blinked. Then looked at your husband. And smiled.

“Oh.”

Robby immediately knew that smile.

“No.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t.”

“You missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I really didn’t.”

You grinned.

“I’ve been in the hospital for an hour.”

“I know.”

“And you’ve seen me for approximately thirty seconds.”

“I know.”

“And you’re grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

You laughed. The sound hit him right in the chest. Jesse cleared his throat. You sighed dramatically.

“I have to go.”

“You do.”

You looked at him for another moment. Then reached up and smoothed his scrub collar. A habit. One you’d done for years.

“There.”

He smiled a little.

“Thanks.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek quickly.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

Behind him, Dana choked on a laugh. Robby glared at her. You smiled brightly. Then you were gone again. Disappearing toward the elevators. The doors closed. Silence.

Dana looked at him. He looked at the elevators. Then back at Dana. She folded her arms.

“Don’t.”

“You are absolutely grumpy.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve seen your wife for one minute and she’s gone again.”

He sighed.

“I hate this shift.”

Dana laughed. And despite himself, so did he.

******

By eleven o’clock, the emergency department had officially descended into madness. There was a three-car pileup on the interstate, the waiting room was overflowing, two nurses had called in sick, and one of the residents had accidentally ordered the wrong imaging study and was now avoiding Robby’s line of sight entirely.

He hadn’t sat down once. He also hadn’t seen his wife. Again. Not that he was counting.

He was absolutely counting.

“Pressure’s dropping.”

Robby looked up from the ultrasound screen.

“Start another liter and page surgery.”

Whitaker nodded quickly. Perlah approached from the opposite side.

“Room twelve is asking for pain medication again.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

“Psych consult is here.”

“Tell them I’ll sign the paperwork in ten.”

Emma appeared.

“Can you take a look at this ECG?”

He took the paper from her. And the. He heard it. A laugh. Your laugh. Somewhere down the hall.

His head snapped up. The nurses all noticed. The residents noticed. The patient on the stretcher probably noticed.

Robby was already looking toward the corridor. He caught the briefest glimpse of you through the crowd. Your hair was a complete mess now, your red jacket was hanging off one shoulder, and you were smiling at something one of the nurses had said. Then you disappeared around the corner. Again. Robby frowned.

“You should probably read the ECG.”

He blinked and looked back at the Emma.

“What?”

She held the paper up.

“The ECG.”

“Right.”

He took it. Emma grinned.

“You know, she’s not going anywhere.”

He looked up.

“What?”

“Dr. R.”

He stared at her.

“You’re looking at her like she’s about to move to another country.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

He sighed.

“Can everyone please stop commenting on my marriage today?”

Emma laughed and walked away. Twenty minutes later, he was finally making his way toward the staff lounge for his first cup of fresh coffee when he saw you. At the end of the hallway. Walking toward him.

For once. No pagers. No nurses chasing you. No phone in your hand. Just you. You looked tired, but you smiled the second you saw him.

“There you are.” His entire mood improved.

“Here I am.”

You walked closer.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

“You haven’t.” You smiled. “You look grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You definitely are.”

“I’ve had six consults.”

“I’ve had eight.”

“I hate everyone.”

You laughed softly.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“My husband.”

“I was never gone.”

“You get all growly when you’re tired.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

You stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could smell your shampoo beneath the antiseptic and coffee and hospital smell that clung to both of you. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were standing there.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

You made a face.

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“So have I.”

You smiled.

“I know.”

There was something soft in your expression. Something fond. As though you knew exactly what he was doing.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“That look means something.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does.”

You smiled wider.

“You missed me.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I’ve been working.”

“Uh-huh.”

You reached up and straightened his badge. Apparently, today was a day for fixing his clothes. He let you.

“You’ve looked for me at least six times today, haven’t you?”

He looked offended.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“I really haven’t.”

You just smiled.

“Dr. R!”

Both of you closed your eyes. Jesse hurried toward you.

“Trauma two needs you.”

You looked at him. Then at Robby. Then back at Jesse.

“Right now?”

“They’re asking specifically for you.”

You sighed. Robby actually laughed. You pointed at him.

“Stop enjoying my suffering.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You smiled.”

“I absolutely smiled.”

You looked horrified.

“My husband is turning against me.”

“I’ve been abandoned all day. This feels like justice.”

You gasped softly.

“Justice?”

He grinned. Jesse looked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. You narrowed your eyes.

“You know what? Fine.”

You started backing away.

“I’ll remember this.”

“Will you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“You’ll forget in ten minutes.”

“I’ll never forget.”

“You absolutely will.”

You kept walking backward.

“I can’t believe I married you.”

“You love me.”

Unfortunately, you looked entirely too pleased by that.

“I really do.”

You disappeared into Trauma Two. And he was smiling. Again.

“You are ridiculous.”

He looked over. Langdon was standing a few feet away, carrying a chart.

“What?”

“You’ve seen her for approximately two minutes and you’re smiling like a teenager.”

Robby rolled his eyes.

“I’m not smiling.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I hate this place.”

“No, you don’t.”

Langdon moved beside him.

“How long have you been married now?”

“Twelve years.”

“And you still act like this?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means if I don’t see my wife for a few hours, I assume she’s busy.”

Robby looked at him.

“I assumed she was busy.”

“You’ve been asking where she is all day.”

“I have not.”

Langdon blinked.

“Mel has a tally going.”

Robby stared at him.

“A what?”

“A tally.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because every time someone mentions your wife, you ask where she is.”

Robby looked appalled.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

A voice suddenly called from behind them.

“Twenty-three times.”

Both men turned. Mel King was standing at the nurses’ station. Robby frowned.

“What?”

Mel smiled.

“You’ve asked where your wife is twenty-three times.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I really haven’t.”

“You really have.”

Langdon burst out laughing. Robby looked horrified.

“You’re counting?”

“Oh, all of us are counting.”

“What do you mean all of us?”

Dana looked up from her tablet.

“We started around nine.”

He stared at her.

“You started a pool?”

She looked entirely unashamed.

“I had thirty by lunch.”

“You people are insane.”

“No,” Langdon said, grinning. “You’re clingy.”

“I am not clingy.”

The entire nurses’ station erupted into laughter.

“What’s the joke?.”

Your voice. He turned immediately. Of course he did. You were standing a few feet away, looking entirely too amused. You had clearly heard enough.

“Oh, this is wonderful.” You grinned.

“It isn’t.” Robby frowned.

“You’ve asked where I am twenty-three times?”

“I haven’t.”

“Apparently you have.”

“I really haven’t.”

You smiled.

“Oh, honey.”

He hated that smile. You walked closer.

“Do you miss me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“You seem very worried about where I am.”

“I’m not.”

“You seem very interested in my location.”

“I’m really not.”

You looked delighted. Then you reached up and cupped his cheek. The entire nurses’ station immediately went quiet.

“You are so cute.”

“I am not cute.”

“You are.”

“I am fifty years old.”

“And adorable.”

“Stop.”

You laughed. Then kissed his cheek. A chorus of noises erupted behind you. Someone actually whistled. Robby closed his eyes.

“I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Dana said.

You smiled again.

“Unfortunately for you, I have another consult.”

He looked at you.

“No.”

You laughed.

“Oh my God.,” you smiled. “You just said no.”

“Because you’ve been here for thirty seconds.”

You looked positively radiant.

“He’s back.”

“What?”

“My clingy husband.”

“I am not clingy.”

You looked behind you.

“Guys, is he clingy?”

A dozen voices answered at once.

“YES.”

You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. Robby looked personally betrayed. Then your pager went off. You sighed. He sighed. You looked at each other. And then both of you started laughing.

“This day hates us,” you said.

“It really does.”

You stepped closer and squeezed his hand.

“I’ll find you later.”

“You promise?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. You blinked. Then your entire expression softened.

“I promise.”

You squeezed his hand again. Then you were gone. Again. Robby watched you disappear down the hallway. A beat of silence passed.

“Twenty-four.”

He looked at Mel.

“What?”

“You just looked after her.”

“I hate every single one of you.”

The laughter that followed him all the way back to the trauma bay suggested nobody believed him for a second.

******

By four in the afternoon, the entire emergency department was running on caffeine, stubbornness, and sheer spite. Robby had removed his green jacket hours ago, rolled his sleeves to his forearms, and was currently dictating notes while simultaneously listening to a resident present a case.

He was tired. The kind of tired that settled deep in his bones and made the bright lights of the Pitt feel a little too harsh. But more than that, he was annoyed. Because somehow, impossibly, he had still barely seen his wife.

He’d caught glimpses. You walking into an elevator. You disappearing down a hallway. You laughing with a nurse. You stealing a granola bar from the physician lounge.

Every single time he’d managed to get within ten feet of you, someone had dragged one of you away. It was becoming personal.

“You know, if you keep sighing like that, people are going to think something’s wrong.”

Robby looked up from his chart. Dana was standing beside him with her arms crossed.

“I wasn’t sighing.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I exhaled.”

“You sighed.”

He ignored her. She smiled.

“You still haven’t seen your wife.”

“I saw her.”

“You spoke to her for approximately four minutes.”

“It was at least five.”

Dana’s smile widened.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You counted.”

“I did not count.”

“You absolutely counted.”

He set his chart down.

“I have actual work to do.”

“And I have actual work to avoid.”

He glared at her.

“You’re irritating.”

“And you’re pathetic.”

Before he could answer, Mel approached.

“You know she’s in Trauma Three, right?”

Robby looked up so quickly that both of them burst into laughter.

“You two are children.”

“We’re helping,” Mel said.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wasn’t looking for her.”

“You looked up before I even finished the sentence.”

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I regret hiring all of you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t. A trauma alert sounded overhead. Everyone moved. A construction worker with a crush injury. Another hour vanished. Then another. And by the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, the sun had begun to dip lower outside the ambulance bay windows.

Robby scrubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted. The Pitt had finally begun to settle into the strange lull that existed between the day shift chaos and the night shift storm.

A few nurses sat at the station charting. Someone had ordered food. Santos looked half asleep while typing notes. And for the first time all day…

There was nothing actively on fire. He leaned against the desk and took a sip of now-cold coffee. Then the elevator doors opened. You stepped out.

He looked up immediately. Of course he did. You looked absolutely exhausted. Your hair was completely out of its bun now, hanging around your shoulders. Your red jacket was draped over one arm, and there was a small smear of something on your cheek.

You looked around. Found him. And smiled. His entire chest loosened.

“There you are.”

You walked toward him slowly.

“Here I am.” He smiled. “You look awful.”

You laughed softly.

“Thank you so much.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

You stopped in front of him.

“You don’t look much better.”

“I’ve had a long day.”

“So have I.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were just there. Finally. In front of him. Not walking away. Not being called to another floor. Not disappearing around a corner. Just…there. You looked up at him.

“Hi.”

His expression softened.

“Hi, baby.”

You smiled.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

You laughed. “I’ve seen you.”

“No, you’ve been sightings.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I caught glimpses of you.”

You laughed again. He loved that sound.

“You’ve had a hard day without me.”

“No.”

“Robby.”

“No.”

You stepped closer.

“You missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I was busy.”

“You were grumpy.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

He sighed. You smiled triumphantly.

“I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

“You don’t have to. Your face does it for you.”

You reached up and brushed the smear from his cheek. He frowned.

“What?”

“You had blood on your face.”

“Oh.”

You smiled softly.

“You need a shower.”

“So do you.”

You looked down at yourself.

“Fair.”

Then your pager suddenly beeped. Both of you froze. Silence. You slowly pulled it from your pocket. Looked at the screen. And then looked back up at him.

“No.”

He laughed.

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s very professional of you.”

“I don’t care.”

You shoved the pager back into your pocket.

“If they need me, they’ll call again.”

He looked genuinely surprised. You took another step toward him.

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“I miss my husband.”

Something warm spread through his chest.

“I miss my wife.”

You smiled. And then, because apparently twelve years of marriage had changed neither of you, you simply leaned forward and rested your forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you immediately. A soft sigh escaped you.

The entire nurses’ station went quiet. Dana looked up from her tablet. Mel looked up from her notes. Langdon froze with a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. Nobody moved.

Because there was something so quietly intimate about it. You, exhausted beyond words, simply standing in your husband’s arms. And him holding you like he’d been waiting all day to do exactly this. Your voice came out muffled.

“I think my feet hurt.”

He smiled.

“I know they do.”

“I haven’t sat down since breakfast.”

“I haven’t either.”

“I hate everyone.”

He laughed softly.

“There she is.”

You smiled against his chest. Then another voice broke the moment.

“There they are.”

You both looked up. Cassie McKay was grinning.

“Oh, this is disgusting.”

You laughed. Robby rolled his eyes.

“We’re standing.”

“You’re cuddling.”

“We’re not cuddling.”

“You absolutely are.”

The entire nurses’ station suddenly found something very interesting to listen to. You looked up at your husband.

“We’re cuddling.”

“We’re not.”

You smiled.

“We definitely are.”

He sighed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. Then Cassie folded her arms.

“You know, this explains your mood all day.

Robby frowned.

“What mood?”

“The one where you’ve been asking where your wife is every ten minutes.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I really haven’t.”

“You really have.”

You looked at him.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He groaned.

“No.”

“You’ve been looking for me all day?”

“I wasn’t looking for you.”

“You asked where I was twenty-four times.”

“It was not twenty-four.”

Mel looked up.

“Twenty-seven.”

Robby looked horrified.

“What?”

“We kept counting.”

“You people need hobbies.”

“We have hobbies.”

“Apparently, one of them is harassing me.”

You started laughing. The sound was warm and bright and completely unrestrained. He couldn’t help smiling.

“There it is!” Dana pointed at him. “The smile!”

“I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” several voices answered.

You laughed harder. Then you looked back at him.

“You really missed me.”

He looked down at you. You were smiling at him like he’d hung the moon. Twelve years later, and somehow you still looked at him like that. He sighed. A long, defeated sigh.

And finally said, “Maybe a little.”

Your eyes widened. The entire nurses’ station erupted.

“I KNEW IT!”

“Oh my God!”

“Pay up!”

“You owe me twenty bucks!”

Robby blinked.

“What?”

Dana grinned.

“We had a pool.”

“You bet on me missing my wife?”

“You made it very easy.”

He looked genuinely offended. You were laughing so hard you had tears in your eyes. Then you reached up and cupped his face.

“You are so cute.”

“I am not cute.”

“You are.”

“I am fifty.”

“And clingy.”

“I am not clingy.”

You grinned.

“Sure, honey.”

Then your pager went off again. Both of you looked at it. Silence. You looked at him. He looked at you. Then you turned the pager over and shoved it back into your pocket. He blinked.

“You ignored it.”

“I did.”

“What if it’s important?”

You shrugged.

“I’m off in fifteen minutes.”

You smiled softly.

“And I’d rather spend those fifteen minutes with my husband.”

His expression changed entirely. All the teasing and irritation from the day simply melted away.

You saw it happen. Your own smile softened.

Then, very quietly, you asked, “Can we go home soon?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side. You went willingly. As though there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be. He kissed your temple.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You sighed happily.

“Good.”

Then you looked up at him.

“I think I need a shower.”

He smiled.

“I think I do too.”

You yawned.

“And food.”

“We can do food.”

“And bed.”

“We can definitely do bed.”

You nodded.

“Perfect.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You simply stood there together while the department buzzed softly around you. Finally. After an entire day of missing each other. Together. And when Dana looked over and saw the two of you still standing there, she smiled to herself.

Because for all of Dr. Michael Robinavich’s reputation—the sharp tongue, the intimidating stare, the chief attending everyone feared—there was one undeniable truth. The man was completely and utterly gone for his wife. And judging by the way you were practically asleep against his shoulder…

You were just as gone for him.

******

By the time you pulled into the driveway, you could barely remember the drive home. The kind of exhaustion that settled over you after a long shift wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Heavy. It sat in your muscles and behind your eyes and made even simple things feel monumental.

Taking off your shoes felt monumental. Unlocking the front door felt monumental. You dropped your bag by the entryway and stood there for a moment in the dim, quiet house. Silence.

No monitors. No pagers. No overhead announcements. Just…home.

You sighed softly. You knew Robby would be another twenty or thirty minutes. He had stayed behind to finish notes and make sure one of the residents wasn’t drowning in admissions. You loved him for that. You also knew he would come home exhausted. Probably with another headache. Probably with blood somewhere on his scrubs that he hadn’t noticed.

You smiled to yourself. Then you made your way upstairs. By the time you stepped into the bathroom, every inch of you ached. You turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm, slowly pulling your hair free from its tangled ponytail.

Your wedding and engagement rings came off and settled beside the sink in the tiny plate. Then your scrubs. Your socks. The day. You stepped under the spray and immediately let out a soft sigh.

Hot water. Heaven. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, letting the water run over your face. For a few moments, you didn’t move. You simply stood there and breathed. The day slowly began to wash away.

You thought about the little old woman you’d admitted who reminded you of your grandmother. The little boy with the broken arm who had proudly shown you his dinosaur socks. The endless consults. The running. The exhaustion. And, somehow, in between all of it…

Your husband looking for you all day. You laughed softly to yourself. You could still hear Dana’s voice.

You asked where your wife was twenty-seven times.

A few moments later, you heard the front door downstairs. Then footsteps. Then the familiar sound of a bag being dropped. A small smile spread across your face. A minute later, the bathroom door opened. You didn’t turn around.

You didn’t have to. You knew every sound he made. The rustle of fabric. The heavy exhale. The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor. The shower door opened. Warm air shifted.

A second later, strong arms slid around your waist from behind. You melted immediately.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You smiled.

“Here I am.”

He pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.

“I missed you.”

You laughed softly.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago.”

“I know.”

“And an hour before that.”

“I know.”

You turned in his arms. He looked exhausted. Hair damp from the humidity in the bathroom, dark eyes tired, stubble a little more pronounced than it had been that morning. And still the most handsome man you’d ever seen.

“You look tired.”

He huffed out a laugh.

“I am tired.”

You reached up and touched his cheek.

“So am I.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The water ran over both of you. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. You sighed softly.

“Long day?”

He smiled a little.

“You know the answer to that.”

You did. You lifted your hand and smoothed your fingers through the gray at his temple. His eyes fluttered briefly. He always liked when you touched his hair.

“You have a line right here.”

You touched between his brows.

“You’ve been frowning all day.”

“You disappeared all day.”

You laughed softly.

“There you are.”

“What?”

“My grumpy husband.”

He slid his hands around your back.

“I wasn’t grumpy.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was concerned.”

You grinned.

“Concerned.”

“Yes.”

“I was in the same building.”

“I know.”

“You could have texted.”

He looked offended.

“I shouldn’t have to text my wife to know where she is.”

You laughed.

“There he is.”

He smiled despite himself. Then his hand came up and gently brushed damp hair away from your face.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.”

“You’ve got circles under your eyes.”

“So do you.”

“I know.”

You smiled softly.

“You know what I wanted all day?”

“What?”

You stepped a little closer.

“This.”

He looked at you.

“This?”

You nodded.

“Just…this.”

His expression softened completely. You reached for the soap and squeezed some into your hand.

“Come here.”

He smiled.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking care of my husband.”

He laughed softly but stepped closer anyway. You began rubbing the soap over his chest and shoulders, your hands slow and gentle. You weren’t rushing. There was nowhere to be. Nowhere else to go. You smoothed your hands over his arms, washing away the day. The smell of hospital. The dried blood he hadn’t noticed. The exhaustion. He watched you the entire time.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” You rinsed his shoulder. “I want to.”

Something warm crossed his face. Then he took the soap from your hand.

“Turn around.”

You smiled.

“Bossy.”

“Turn around.”

Laughing softly, you obeyed. His hands were large and warm as they settled on your shoulders. Then he began washing your hair. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers worked through the strands with practiced ease. You nearly melted.

“Oh.”

He smiled.

“What?”

“That feels really nice.”

“I know.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice.”

You closed your eyes. His fingers moved against your scalp, gentle and thorough. Every bit of tension in your body seemed to slowly unwind. You sighed.

“I like that.”

“What?”

“That happy little sigh.”

You smiled.

“I think I might live here now.”

He laughed softly. The sound vibrated through his chest. He tipped your head back gently to rinse your hair, his hand supporting your neck. The care in the gesture made something in your chest ache. You turned back around. He looked just as tired as you felt. You reached up and touched his face again.

“You took care of everybody today.”

“So did you.”

“But who took care of you?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled softly.

“You are.”

Your eyes immediately softened.

“Oh.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then one to your cheek. Not rushed. Not passionate. Just…loving. You smiled.

“You really did miss me.”

“I really did.”

The admission came easily now. You wrapped your arms around his waist.

“I missed you too.”

He exhaled softly. Then his arms came around you and pulled you close. You simply stood there. Water cascading around you. His chin resting on the top of your head. Your cheek against his chest. His hand slowly rubbing up and down your back.

After a while, you murmured, “I don’t think I’ve sat down all day.”

He laughed quietly.

“I know I haven’t.”

“My feet hurt.”

“I know they do.”

“My back hurts.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

“You always know.”

“I’ve been married to you for twelve years.”

“That’s fair.”

He kissed the top of your head. Then your forehead. Then your damp hair. As though he simply couldn’t stop touching you now that he finally had you to himself. You looked up at him.

“I love you.”

His expression softened immediately.

“I love you too.”

You smiled. Then reached up and touched his cheek again.

“And for the record…”

“Hm?”

“I think it’s cute that you missed me.”

He groaned.

“Oh, don’t start.”

You laughed.

“I do.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

He shook his head. Then he smiled. Because of course he did. You leaned up and kissed him softly. Just once. A slow, tired kiss. Then you rested your forehead against his again.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you needed to. The day had been loud. Demanding. Chaotic. But here?

Here there was only warm water and soft touches and your husband holding you like he’d finally gotten something back he’d been missing all day. And for a long while, you simply stayed there. Cleaning each other. Holding each other. Loving each other. Until the water began to cool and your fingers had wrinkled and the day, at long last, finally felt over.

******

The house was dark by the time you finished getting ready for bed. Not completely dark. The small lamp on Robby’s nightstand cast a warm glow across the room, and the television downstairs was still faintly audible, though neither of you had really watched it while eating leftovers in the kitchen.

You had simply sat across from each other. Bare feet. Damp hair. Quiet smiles. The kind of silence that only came after years together. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Now, however, you were officially done. Done with the day. Done with people. Done with making decisions. You climbed into bed with a relieved sigh and practically melted into the mattress.

“Oh, thank God.”

Robby looked up from where he was putting his watch on the dresser.

“Tired?”

You turned your head slowly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more tired in my entire life.”

“You said that last week.”

“And I meant it then too.”

He laughed softly. You pulled the blankets up to your chin and sighed. Your hair was still slightly damp, your skin warm from the shower, and every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy. You watched him move around the room. Tall. Broad shoulders. T-shirt and sleep pants. A little more gray in his beard than there had been a few years ago. A little more tired around the eyes.

Still the most handsome man you’d ever seen. You smiled to yourself.

“What?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me.”

“So?”

“You’ve got that look.”

You smiled wider.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I think my husband is handsome.”

He huffed a laugh.

“You’ve been married to me for twelve years.”

“And?”

“You know exactly what I look like.”

You grinned.

“I still like looking.”

The faint pink that touched his ears made you smile even more. The man who could stare down a trauma room without blinking and somehow still get shy when you complimented him.

“Cute.”

“I am not cute.”

“You are.”

“I am fifty years old.”

“And adorable.”

He shook his head and turned off the lamp on his side of the bed. The room dimmed. Then he walked around the mattress. You expected him to slide under his blankets.

Instead the mattress dipped heavily beside you. Then shifted. And suddenly there was an alarming amount of husband climbing into your personal space. You laughed.

“Michael.”

No answer. He simply kept going. One large arm wrapped around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. His chest pressed against your side. Then his face disappeared into your neck. You blinked. Then laughed again.

“Sir.”

Still nothing.

“Are you comfortable?”

A muffled sound came from your neck. You smiled.

“I can’t understand you.”

Another muffled noise. You laughed harder. Finally, he lifted his head just enough to look at you.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

You smiled.

“Then why are you laying on top of me?”

He looked entirely serious.

“I’ve got my wife back.”

Your entire expression softened.

“Oh.”

He rested his head back against your shoulder. You brought your hand up and ran your fingers through his damp hair. He sighed. A long, contented sigh.

“You’re right…that is nice.”

He looked up.

“What?”

“That happy little sigh.”

He smiled. Then buried his face in your neck again. You couldn’t stop smiling.

“You really had a hard day without me.”

“I did not.”

“Michael.”

“You kept disappearing.”

You laughed softly.

“I was working.”

“I know.”

“I was in the same building.”

“I know.”

“You saw me several times.”

“I know.”

You smiled into the darkness.

“And you still missed me.”

Silence.

“Maybe.”

You laughed.

“Maybe?”

“I don’t like it.”

“What?”

“Not seeing you.”

Your hand slowed in his hair. You looked down at him. Even in the dim light, you could see the exhaustion on his face. The vulnerability too. You softened completely.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He sighed.

“I know it’s ridiculous.”

“It isn’t.”

“I know we’re both busy.”

“We are”

“I know we work in the same hospital and that I can technically walk upstairs whenever I want.”

You smiled.

“But?”

“But I like seeing you.”

Your chest squeezed. He looked up at you then. Dark eyes. Soft expression. Entirely too honest.

“I like our mornings.”

You smiled.

“Our coffee?”

“Our coffee.”

“I like our lunches.”

“We never actually get lunch.”

“Still.”

You laughed.

“I like hearing your laugh in the hallway.”

Your smile grew.

“I like knowing where you are.”

“Twenty-seven times worth?”

He groaned.

“Oh my God.”

You laughed.

“I am never letting that go.”

“I know.”

You brushed your fingers through the gray at his temple.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“It was embarrassing.”

“It was adorable.”

“It was not.”

“It really was.”

He shook his head. Then he shifted closer somehow, which you honestly didn’t think was possible. You laughed softly.

“This side of you is great.”

“What?”

“My clingy husband.”

“I am not clingy.”

“You are currently wearing me like a blanket.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“You literally said you weren’t.”

He looked up at you.

“I’m emotionally comfortable.”

You stared at him. Then burst out laughing. The sound filled the room. And to his great offense, you laughed so hard tears gathered in your eyes.

“Emotionally comfortable?”

“Stop laughing.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re very mean.”

You laughed harder. He tried not to smile. Failed completely. You cupped his cheek.

“Oh, honey.”

“I regret saying anything.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately…No, he didn’t. You smiled softly and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then another. Then one to his temple. He closed his eyes.

“That feels nice.”

You smiled.

“You’ve had a long day.”

“So have you.”

“I know.”

You kept stroking your fingers through his hair. After a few moments, he spoke again.

“Do you know my favorite part of the day?”

You looked down at him.

“What?”

“This.”

You blinked. He lifted one hand and gently touched your cheek.

“Coming home.”

Your expression softened.

“Getting to be with you.”

You smiled.

“Not being chief attending?”

“No.”

“Not trauma medicine?”

“No.”

“Not the emergency department?”

“Absolutely not.”

You laughed softly. He smiled.

“This.”

You leaned down and kissed him. The kind of kiss that came after twelve years of marriage and still somehow felt like coming home. When you pulled back, he was smiling.

“You know,” you said softly, “I missed you too.”

He looked up at you.

“I know.”

“No, I really did.”

You touched his cheek.

“I kept thinking all day that I wanted this.”

You ran your hand through his hair again.

“Just us.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and covered your hand with his.

“Got us now.”

You smiled.

“Yeah.”

Silence settled around you. Comfortable. Warm. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars drove by. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded. The hospital would still be there tomorrow. Patients. Consults. Traumas. Chaos.

But none of it mattered right now. Because your husband was draped over you like a very affectionate weighted blanket. And honestly? You wouldn’t have had it any other way. A few minutes passed.

“You know what?”

“Hm?”

“I’m glad I married you.”

He smiled without opening his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You laughed softly.

“That’s all I get?”

He finally looked up. Then he smiled. That soft smile. The one that belonged only to you.

“I’d marry you again tomorrow.”

Your breath caught.

“Oh.”

“And the next day.”

You swallowed.

“And the day after that.”

Your eyes stung unexpectedly. You smiled.

“That’s very unfair of you.”

“What?”

“Making me emotional when I’m tired.”

He laughed softly. Then he lifted himself just enough to kiss your forehead.

“I love you.”

You wrapped your arms around him.

“I love you too.”

He settled back down, head against your chest. You kept your hand in his hair. Eventually his breathing slowed. Then slowed some more. You smiled into the darkness.

“Michael?”

A sleepy sound.

“Hm?”

“You know I’m coming home with you tomorrow too, right?”

A long pause. Then his arm tightened around your waist.

“I know.”

You smiled.

“But I still don’t like sharing you with the rest of the hospital.”

You laughed softly. Then you kissed the top of his head.

“Go to sleep, clingy husband.”

Another sleepy noise.

“Only with you.”

Your heart melted. And sometime later, with nearly two hundred pounds of chief attending draped warmly across you, his hand resting over your heart and your fingers still tangled in his hair…the two of you finally fell asleep. Together. Exactly where you’d both wanted to be all day.

[thefictionalmanswhxre]

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.

𝑻𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝑶𝒏 𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 | 𝘸𝘤: 𝟏.𝟏𝑲+ | ( 𝑺𝑭𝑾 ◡̈ )

𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘕𝘋𝘖𝘕 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘒 𝘟 𝘍𝘐𝘈𝘕𝘊𝘌𝘌!𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘋𝘌𝘙

summary: 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 :)

warnings! 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 & 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘣, 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 & 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦, 𝘪 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘦

“Let’s go do something new today.”

Was the first thing your fiancé had said at 6:30 this morning. You obviously were very on board with that. You and Brendon both had the same day off for the first time in a few weeks, so a new adventure was due.

That’s how you find yourself hand in hand with him as you guys stroll down the streets of downtown Pittsburgh.

You look around at all the shops in search of something interesting to do when you look up ahead and see a sign hanging from the building

‘Twists & Turns Tattoos’

You squeeze Brendon’s hand.

“Babe!”

He looks over at you “Yeah sweetheart?”

“I know what we can do.”

“And that is?” he questions with a raised eyebrow and small smile.

Raising your joined hands you point at the tattoo shop sign.

“You want a tattoo? For sure?” he grins

“Positive!” 

He pulls you gently towards the shop “Then let’s go get some tattoos.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

As you both look at designs, Brendon moves in front of you to get your attention.

“Wanna make this interesting?”

You raise an eyebrow at him “How so?”

“Let’s choose each other’s tattoos.”

“What if I already had something in mind?” you tease.

He takes a step closer.

“You can save that for another time. Easy.”

“Hmmmm” you hum as you think about it.

Brendon walks over to the counter and sets his elbow on it with his hand held out.

“How about this, if you win the arm wrestle, you can get your tattoo and I’ll get one I want. But, if I win, we each choose a tattoo for each other.”

Damn you Brendon.

He knew you couldn’t turn down a challenge.

“Deal. But we get to choose where we want it on ourselves.”

He nods with a smile “I can agree with that.”

You walk to the counter and grab his hand.

“Okay, on the count of three. 1…2…3!”

You put all your strength and effort into it. Brendon is strong but you were too. His hand slowly starts to move back and it seems you’re about to win. But then it’s like he catches a second wind and within a split second your hand is pushed back flat on the counter.

“Fuck!” you laugh as Brendon pumps his fist in the air.

He pulls you into a hug and kisses your head.

“Alright babe, go find something for me.” he says

“You too, Park” you poke his chest

He crosses his arms “I already know mine.”

Secretly you already had your idea too.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You both are taken to different rooms with the artists and prepped without seeing what the stencil is.

This wasn’t your first tattoo. You had a few small stars along your hip. This stencil was definitely bigger but nothing you couldn’t handle.

You lay face down on the chair, skin buzzing with nerves as the tattoo artist begins

—-

An hour and a half later, you’re sitting in the lobby area waiting for Brendon to be finished. You both agreed to make the other guess where the tattoo is and after then you’d both get to see the design the other chose.

Not even twenty minutes later Brendon walks out and over to you. He kisses you briefly and goes to hold both of your hands.

“You good? Excited?”

Your smile grows wide.

“Yesss. I’m so excited. How about you?” you check in

“Oh yeah. Can’t wait to see what you picked. Let’s start with yours first though.”

You pull him over to the giant floor to ceiling mirror at one end of the shop.

“Okay, you get three guesses.”

He looks you up and down for a few minutes.

“Mmmm , your thigh?”

You shake your head.

“Damn. Uh, your….back? Somewhere there?

“Good guess!”

He chuckles as you beam at him “Why there?”

“Because, regardless of what you chose, I knew it would be a reminder of you. So, I wanted it on my back because you’ve always had my back.”

You pull your shirt off and face away from the mirror as he stands right in front of you to block anyone from staring.

“Ready to see it sweetheart?”

You nod as he angles you to where you can see behind you.

Opening your eyes you look over your shoulder through the mirror.

When you see it, your heart swells.

It’s a shark design.

“I love it…” you whisper  “It’s beautiful, Bren. What made you choose a shark?”

He walks up to you and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

“You were the first person to call me shark. I’ll never forget you making that joke in medical school. I love it and although the pitt crew wear it out,” he rolls his eyes playfully “I’ll always love it when you say it. Just wanted you to have another reminder of me with you. Your shark.”

Your eyes water at his words and you quickly wipe a stray tear.

“God, I love you so much” you smile

He peppers kisses on your face until you're shaking from the laughter.

“I’ll always have your back, baby. Forever.”

“Alright handsome,” you step back a little “now to find where yours is.”

He stands straight with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

You eye him suspiciously “you better not have gotten it on your di—“

“No! No, of course not babe.” He chuckles

You try to think as your eyes roam his massive frame.

“On your arm?”

He shakes his head “That’s two guesses sweetheart. Only one more guess.”

“Your neck? I dont know!”

Brendon shakes his head again.

“Guess you’ll never know.”

You grab his hands quickly "please please please tell me Bren”

He looks at you for a minute to drag it out before pulling the collar of his shirt to the side where you see the covering.

“Your chest?”

“No,” he corrects “over my heart.”

You pout your lip out at his answer.

“I wanted whatever you chose as close to my heart as possible.”

Fanning your eyes you point back at the mirror “Okay now go look at it before I cry too much.”

He walks over as he pulls his shirt off, displaying all the muscle he normally has hidden under scrubs.

You watch as he analyzes the piece.

“Do you hate it?” you ask timidly from beside him.

“It’s amazing, sweetheart. Although you did copy my shark idea.”

“Nuh uh!” You gently hit his chest with a laugh “I was already thinking of it.”

“Well then copycat, any meaning for it?”

You wrap your arms around him from behind.

“It’s you and me, Bren.”

Your arms feel when he takes a deep breath and you see his face stare solemnly at the mirror.

You walk in front of him “You okay baby?”

Tears line his eyes as he looks up and sniffles.

“Yeah,” he says as he pulls you into his chest “I just… I love this and I love you.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: @kmc1989 @zeynire @livlovesfastcars @lospy41 @annabellq @ilocuras24 @thehockeynerd30 @straykids1011 @gf4lwt @itzpixiebabe @darknessofhell666-blog-blog

[paigepie213]

Teasing To Love - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - Do you know what I can't stop thinking about? Pissing off robby... like nothing serious, just having fun. Just being a bit of a brat and getting him all riled up during the day. 😇

thanks for the request, I might have made it slightly serious 🫶

Masterlist

*****************************************************

The emergency department had been open for exactly seven minutes when Dana looked up from the charge desk, watched you walk through the ambulance bay doors with entirely too much confidence, and sighed.

“Oh, no.”

Mel glanced over from the coffee machine. “What?”

Dana nodded toward you.

“You’ve got that smile.”

“What smile?”

“The one that says Robby’s about to have a bad day.”

You looked positively radiant. Hair neatly tied back. Gray scrubs freshly pressed. Trauma shears clipped to your waistband. Coffee in one hand. Breakfast sandwich in the other. You looked like every other nurse arriving for a twelve-hour shift. Except for the mischievous glint in your eyes.

“I resent that,” you said, dropping your backpack beside the nurses’ station.

Dana folded her arms.

“No, you don’t.”

“…No.”

She pointed a finger at you.

“I mean it. Robby’s already buried in staffing issues because two nurses called out, radiology’s running behind, and administration wants his quarterly report before lunch.”

You took a thoughtful bite of your breakfast sandwich.

“So…he’s vulnerable.”

Dana pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Lord, give me strength.”

Before you could answer, the doors to the physician workroom opened. Dr. Michael Robinavich stepped into the department already reading something on his tablet.

Six-foot-four. Dark green attending jacket. Stethoscope looped loosely around his neck. Salt-and-pepper beginning to claim the hair at his temples and the beard that framed an annoyingly handsome face. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He hadn’t even looked up yet. You smiled wider.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Dana muttered under her breath.

“I should’ve called in sick.”

Robby reached the nurses’ station without looking away from the chart.

“Morning.”

“Morning, Doctor.”

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

Then…

“Good morning, Chief.”

His eyes finally lifted. There it was. That smile. Small. Far too innocent. He knew that smile. He narrowed his eyes.

“…Good morning.”

You leaned casually against the counter.

“You look nice today.”

“…Thank you.”

“The gray’s coming in a little more.”

McKay choked on his coffee. Dana slowly looked toward the ceiling. Robby blinked once.

“Excuse me?”

You smiled sweetly.

“I said the gray looks distinguished.”

“It sounded like you said I was getting old.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“I absolutely did not.”

Silence. Then he looked at Dana.

“Has she had caffeine yet?”

Dana didn’t even hesitate.

“Two cups.”

“That explains it.”

You gasped dramatically.

“I compliment you first thing in the morning and this is the thanks I get?”

“I don’t trust compliments before seven-thirty.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll recover.” He turned back toward the physician workroom. “Rounds in ten.”

You watched him disappear around the corner.

“…That was easier than I expected.”

Dana looked horrified.

“Ma’am.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’ve already started.”

******

The first trauma arrived just before eight. Motorcycle accident. Middle-aged male. Open tib-fib. Stable airway. The organized chaos of the trauma bay swallowed everyone whole.

For twenty-five minutes there wasn’t room for jokes. You moved with practiced precision, handing instruments before Robby asked, anticipating medications, calming the patient’s terrified wife. It was one of the things Robby admired most about you. When it mattered…

You never played games. By the time the patient rolled upstairs, everyone let out the collective breath they’d been holding.

“Nice work,” Robby said quietly as he peeled off his gloves.

“You too.”

He offered a tired nod before heading toward the physician station. You watched him reach into his scrub pocket. Then pause. He frowned. Checked another pocket. Then another.

“…Where’s my pen?”

You looked down at your own scrub pocket. Three identical black pens peeked out. Mel saw them first. His shoulders immediately started shaking. Dana noticed next. She covered her face with both hands.

“Oh, no.”

Robby slowly turned.

“You.”

You looked around innocently.

“Me?”

“My pens.”

“What about them?”

“You have them.”

“I do?”

“You know you do.”

“I don’t think I—”

He walked over. Close enough that his shadow fell across you. Close enough that only you could hear the quiet warning in his voice.

“Give.”

“What?”

“My.”

You smiled.

“Pen?”

“My pens.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sighed through his nose.

“You are thirty-six years old.”

“And thriving.”

“You stole all three.”

“I don’t recall doing that.”

“I watched you.”

“When?”

“When you hugged me good morning.”

“…That was a hug?”

“You literally emptied my pockets.”

“I was being affectionate.”

“You committed theft.”

Dana was openly laughing now. Frank Langdon happened to walk past. He glanced between the two of you.

“…Do I want to know?”

Without looking away from you, Robby answered flatly.

“No.”

Frank looked at the three pens clipped neatly into your pocket.

“…Actually…” He grinned. “…I think I already do.”

You finally surrendered them one by one. Robby held out his hand.

“One.”

You placed one in his palm.

“Two.”

Another.

“Three.”

You hesitated.

“I’ve grown attached.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“You’ve known that pen for six minutes.”

“We’ve been through a lot.”

“You are impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

He slipped all three back into his pocket before taking exactly two steps away. Then he stopped. Without turning around, he said quietly,

“If another pen goes missing today…”

You folded your arms.

“Yes?”

“I’m writing your performance evaluation with a crayon.”

The entire nurses’ station erupted into laughter. Even you couldn’t help it. Robby shook his head as he continued walking toward his next patient, and despite himself…The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Dana leaned over beside you.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

“He smiled.”

You looked toward Robby’s retreating figure, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.

“I know.”

Dana sighed.

“This shift is going to be twelve hours of foreplay disguised as workplace harassment.”

You nearly spit out your coffee laughing.

“Dana!”

“What?” She shrugged. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Across the department, Robby looked back over his shoulder just in time to see you doubled over laughing with Dana. He couldn’t hear what she’d said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he had the distinct feeling…This was only the beginning.

******

By ten-thirty that morning, the emergency department had settled into its familiar rhythm. There was no such thing as quiet in an emergency room. There were only different levels of loud. Monitors chimed in different keys. Phones rang incessantly. EMS radios crackled with incoming reports. Families asked anxious questions. Residents hurried from room to room balancing coffee, clipboards, and the ever-present fear of being called on by the Chief Attending. And somewhere in the middle of all of it…

Dr. Michael Robinavich was beginning to suspect he was being hunted. He’d caught you watching him at least six times. Every time he looked up, you looked away with exaggerated innocence. Every. Single. Time.

He wasn’t imagining it. Frank noticed first.

“You know,” he said quietly while reviewing labs beside Robby, “she’s stalking you.”

“I’m aware.”

“You gonna do something about it?”

“I’ve considered transferring hospitals.”

Frank laughed.

“Bit dramatic.”

“You weren’t here when she stole my pens.”

“I was.”

“…Then you understand.”

Frank looked across the department. You were helping Mel splint a wrist while carrying on an animated conversation with an elderly patient that had the woman smiling despite being in obvious pain. You noticed Robby looking. Without missing a beat You smiled. And waved. Frank followed the exchange before looking back at Robby.

“…She’s definitely doing this on purpose.”

“I know.”

“So why are you smiling?”

“I’m not.”

“…Robby”

“I’m not smiling.”

Frank just stared.

“You’ve got it bad.”

Robby answered without looking away from the chart in front of him.

“I’ve had it bad for a while.”

******

The opportunity presented itself fifteen minutes later. A first-year resident was presenting a patient with abdominal pain.

“…CT is pending. Labs are reassuring. Vitals are stable.”

Robby nodded.

“What are you thinking?”

The resident hesitated. You happened to walk behind them carrying a medication tray. The resident looked terrified. Robby waited patiently.

“I think discharge is reasonable.”

Robby nodded slowly.

“I think that’s defens—”

You cleared your throat. Both men looked over. You blinked.

“Sorry.”

Silence.

“…Did you need something?” Robby asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you interrupt?”

“I just…” You looked thoughtfully toward the resident. “I don’t know if I’d discharge him.”

The poor resident looked like he’d just been told to defuse a bomb. Robby folded his arms.

“And why is that?”

You shrugged.

“Pain’s migrated.”

“It has.”

“He guarded when I gave him IV medication.”

“He did.”

“I’d probably wait for imaging.”

Robby looked at you for a long moment. Then he looked back at the resident.

“What do we learn from this?”

The resident swallowed.

“…Listen to experienced nurses?”

“Correct.”

You smiled victoriously. The resident escaped before Robby could ask another question. Once the two of you were alone, he looked at you over the top of his reading glasses.

“You enjoyed that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I was advocating for my patient.”

“You were showing off.”

“I can multitask.”

His lips twitched.

“You realize every resident in this department thinks you just challenged the Chief Attending.”

“I did challenge the Chief Attending.”

“You won.”

“I know.”

“You look entirely too pleased with yourself.”

“I am.”

He sighed dramatically.

“I miss when you were intimidated by me.”

You laughed.

“I was never intimidated by you.”

“You should’ve been.”

“I thought you were handsome.”

He blinked.

“…That wasn’t the answer I expected.”

You leaned in just enough to lower your voice.

“It was the truthful one.”

For just a heartbeat neither of you moved. The department disappeared around you. It was only the two of you standing beside the physician workstation. Then Dana walked by carrying a stack of charts.

Without even slowing down, she deadpanned, “Children, there are patients.”

The spell shattered instantly. You burst into laughter. Robby rubbed a hand over his beard.

“Dana.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to have a professional conversation.”

She looked between the two of you.

“Sure you are.”

******

Just after lunch, Robby was reviewing chest X-rays with another attending when his pager disappeared. Not the noise. The entire pager. He patted one pocket. Then another. Nothing. He frowned.

“Frank.”

“Hm?”

“Have you seen my pager?”

“Nope.”

Mel happened to overhear.

“Oh, that’s not good.”

Robby looked up.

“Why isn’t that good?”

Mel pointed silently toward the nurses’ station. You were charting. Completely focused. Absolutely innocent. With something clipped discreetly to the waistband at the back of your scrub pants. Robby closed his eyes.

“No…”

Frank followed his line of sight.

“Oh, she didn’t.”

Mel started laughing so hard he had to lean against the counter.

“Oh, she absolutely did.”

Robby crossed the department with long, determined strides. You looked up as he stopped beside your chair.

“Hi.”

“My pager.”

“What about it?”

“You have it.”

“I don’t.”

“It is literally attached to your waistband.”

You reached behind yourself with exaggerated confusion.

“…This?”

“Yes.”

“I wondered whose this was.”

“You wondered.”

“I thought maybe Dana got me an upgrade.”

“You thought I accidentally clipped my pager to your pants?”

“When you say it out loud…”

He held out his hand.

“…It sounds unlikely.”

“Look, sweetheart.”

“Yes, honey.”

“My pager.”

“I’ll trade.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“For what?”

You looked at him thoughtfully.

“Hmm.”

“You are negotiating with hospital equipment.”

“I am.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want?”

“A coffee.”

“You have coffee.”

“A better coffee.”

“You can buy your own.”

“I could.” Silence. “…But I don’t want to.”

Frank was openly eavesdropping now. So was Mel. Even Cassie had stopped charting. The entire nurses’ station had become an audience. Robby noticed.

“You all have jobs.”

Nobody moved.

“You are literally waiting to see who wins.”

Dana looked up from her computer.

“We’re heavily invested now.”

Robby looked skyward for a moment, as if silently asking for patience. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that only you could hear him. His voice dropped into that low, calm register that somehow always made your heart race.

“You enjoy making me chase you.”

You smiled softly.

“Maybe.”

“You enjoy seeing how far you can push me.”

“Maybe.”

His eyes held yours.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think…”

He reached past you—not touching you, but close enough that you caught the clean scent of cedar and soap that always clung to him—and effortlessly unclipped the pager from your waistband. His knuckles brushed the fabric of your scrub top for the briefest instant.

“…I think you’ve gotten a little too confident.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks before you could stop it. He noticed. Of course he noticed. A slow, satisfied smile finally broke across his face.

“Nice.”

Your confidence faltered just enough to make him chuckle.

“I was wondering if you were capable of blushing.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You started this.”

“I know.”

“And now you’re embarrassed.”

“I am not embarrassed.”

“You absolutely are.”

You folded your arms.

“I hate when you’re observant.”

“I know.”

He turned to leave. Halfway back to the physician station, he called over his shoulder without looking back.

“If my stethoscope goes missing…”

You couldn’t resist.

“No promises!”

He laughed. It was quiet. Warm. The kind of laugh that escaped before he could stop it. The entire department heard it. Dana looked from him…to you…and slowly shook her head.

“This is going to end in one of two ways.”

Cassie grinned.

“Wedding bells?”

Dana snorted.

“No.”

She watched the two of you continue stealing glances across the bustling emergency department.

“One of them is either going to murder the other…”

A beat.

“…or kiss them.”

Frank smiled to himself as Robby disappeared into Trauma Two, still shaking his head.

“I’ve got fifty bucks on the second one.”

Dana didn’t take her eyes off the trauma bay doors.

“So do I.”

Neither of them noticed the way Robby’s smile slowly faded as he reached for the next patient’s chart, the weight of a busy department settling back onto his shoulders. You did. But from across the nurses’ station, all you saw was him disappearing back into the role everyone depended on—the calm, steady Chief Attending. You didn’t yet realize that beneath that calm, you were occupying far more of his thoughts than either of you had intended.

******

By three o’clock, the emergency department had become exactly what everyone expected it to become on a Thursday afternoon. Completely relentless. There wasn’t a single open bed. EMS was stacked three ambulances deep outside. A toddler with croup screamed in Room Nine. An elderly man in septic shock was waiting on an ICU bed. Orthopedics was behind. Radiology was behind. Lab was behind.

Everyone was behind.

The playful atmosphere that had carried the morning had slowly dissolved into focused efficiency. Even you had stopped teasing him. Mostly. You were hanging fluids in Room Fourteen when Dana stepped beside you.

“You’ve been quiet.”

You finished programming the pump before answering.

“It’s busy.”

Dana looked toward the physician station.

“No.”

You followed her gaze. Robby stood surrounded by two residents, an intern, and Frank. He was answering questions while simultaneously reviewing CT images, signing orders, speaking with a consultant on his phone, and listening to EMS call in another trauma. He hadn’t stopped moving in nearly an hour.

“…He’s busy,” you corrected.

“He always is.”

“I know.”

Dana bumped your shoulder.

“So what’s different?”

You watched him rub a tired hand across his forehead before immediately moving toward another patient.

“I don’t know.”

But something in your chest tightened anyway.

******

The next trauma rolled through the ambulance bay doors at 3:27. Construction accident. Forty-eight-year-old male. Fallen approximately fifteen feet. Complaining of chest pain. Possible pelvic fracture.

The department shifted instantly. Everyone moved with practiced choreography. You met EMS at the door, taking report while helping transfer the patient onto the trauma bed. Robby arrived a second later.

“Airway?”

“Patent.”

“Breathing?”

“Equal bilaterally.”

“Pressure?”

“One-oh-eight over sixty.”

He nodded once.

“Okay, large bore IV.”

“Already in.”

“Good.”

“Dana, blood.”

“On it.”

The room hummed with controlled urgency. The patient groaned as you cut away the last of his work shirt. You glanced toward the cardiac monitor. Sinus tachycardia. One-twenty. Nothing alarming. Yet. Robby leaned over the patient.

“I’m Dr. Robinavich. Can you tell me your name?”

“Gary.”

“Gary, stay with me.”

The man nodded weakly. Everything looked routine. Busy. But routine.

Twenty minutes later the trauma was stabilized. CT had been completed. Orthopedics had accepted the consult. The patient was waiting for transport upstairs. You stepped out of the room to grab another bag of fluids.

Across the nurses’ station, Robby stood at the physician workstation reviewing Gary’s chart. He looked exhausted. Not physically. Mentally. Like his brain was running six tracks at once. He clicked through allergies. Medications. Imaging. Lab results. Someone interrupted him.

One resident. Then another. Frank asked a question from across the desk. The phone rang. His pager vibrated. Someone from radiology called his name.

You watched him answer every single one without missing a beat. Or so you thought. He clicked an order. Signed it. Started to turn away.

“Michael.”

Jack Abbott’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Robby stopped immediately. Jack was standing beside him, tablet in hand.

“You ordered cefazolin.”

“Right.”

Jack didn’t move.

“He has a documented anaphylactic allergy.”

Silence. Your stomach dropped. Robby looked back at the screen. His face didn’t change. Not even slightly. He canceled the order immediately. Replaced it with another antibiotic. Signed it

“Good catch.”

Jack nodded once.

“No harm done.”

“No.”

Another beat.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Jack studied him for a second longer.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jack gave a slow nod, though he didn’t look convinced. Then he walked away. The exchange had lasted maybe fifteen seconds. No raised voices. No patient had received the medication. No one else even seemed to notice. Except you.

Because you’d been watching him. And because in nearly two years of working beside Michael Robinavich. You had never Seen him miss something like that.

Your chest felt strangely heavy. You finished hanging the fluids in silence. Finished documenting. Finished helping discharge another patient. But your mind kept replaying those fifteen seconds.

“He has a documented anaphylactic allergy.”

“Good catch.”

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

No. He wasn’t.

******

An hour later you found Frank restocking airway supplies.

“Hey.”

He glanced up.

“Hey.”

You kept your voice casual.

“…Has Robby seemed…off today?”

Frank frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

You hesitated.

“He almost missed an allergy.”

Frank was quiet for a moment.

“I saw.”

“…Does he ever do that?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly. Too confidently. Your heart sank. Frank leaned against the supply cart.

“He’s human.”

“I know.”

“He caught himself before anything happened.”

“Jack caught him.”

Frank nodded.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you spoke for several seconds. Finally Frank sighed.

“I think he’s just distracted.”

The word hit you like a punch. Distracted. By what? You already knew.

You found Dana sitting at the charge desk reviewing staffing for night shift. She looked up immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

You sat down beside her.

“…I think I screwed up.”

Her expression softened.

“What happened?”

You stared at the computer screen without seeing it.

“I’ve been messing with him all day.”

Dana stayed quiet.

“I thought…” You laughed weakly. “I thought it was funny.”

“It was.”

“I kept distracting him.”

“You weren’t the only thing distracting him.”

“I didn’t help.”

Dana reached over and squeezed your forearm.

“No, but you weren’t trying to.”

“I know.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve never seen him miss something like that.”

Neither had Dana. It showed on her face.

“He puts a lot of pressure on himself.”

“I know.”

“He’ll probably blame himself all night.”

“And I’ll blame myself.”

Dana sighed.

“You two are exhausting.”

Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. She smiled back.

“But…”

Her voice softened.

“…If you’re worried…”

“I am.”

“Then tell him.”

******

The shift stretched on. The laughter from earlier never really returned. You still worked together seamlessly. You anticipated his orders before he gave them. He thanked you automatically. You answered. He answered. Professional. Efficient.

But something had changed. Every now and then you’d catch him standing still for half a second longer than usual, staring at a chart before forcing himself back into motion. Checking things twice. Sometimes three times. As though he no longer trusted his own instincts.

That hurt more than anything. Near the end of the shift, you passed each other outside Trauma Three. He handed you a chart without looking up.

“Can you take Room Eight?”

“Of course.”

“…Thanks.”

His voice sounded tired. Not irritated. Just…drained. He finally looked at you. For a brief moment, the noise of the department faded into the background.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been much fun this afternoon.”

The apology caught you completely off guard. He thought he was the one who had something to apologize for. Your throat tightened.

“Michael…”

He gave you a small, weary smile.

“We’ll talk later.”

Then he was gone again, disappearing down the hallway toward another patient before you could say a single word. You stood there with the chart clutched against your chest, watching him walk away. Dana came to stand beside you.

“You waiting for him after shift?”

You didn’t take your eyes off the end of the hallway.

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to say?”

You let out a slow breath.

“The truth.”

“And what’s that?”

You finally looked at her, your eyes shining with quiet regret.

“That I was trying to make him laugh.”

A pause.

“And somewhere along the way…”

Your voice fell almost to a whisper.

“…I forgot that the man I love carries everyone’s worst day on his shoulders before he even starts carrying mine.”

******

The night shift had officially taken over twenty-three minutes ago. The organized chaos of the emergency department had begun to settle into a new rhythm as fresh faces filtered through the doors, exchanging quick reports and tired smiles with the day crew. You should have been halfway home by now. Instead, you sat sideways on the seat of Robby’s motorcycle in the far corner of the physician parking lot.

The summer evening was warm, the concrete still radiating the heat it had collected all day. The Pittsburgh skyline glowed faintly in the distance, the fading sunlight giving way to the first hints of dusk. Your helmet rested beside you. His helmet hung from one handlebar. You stared at your hands. You’d rehearsed this conversation at least twenty times since leaving the department.

Every version sounded wrong. A car door slammed somewhere across the lot. You looked up. Robby. His shoulders were slumped in a way they almost never were. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, stethoscope tucked into the pocket, backpack hanging loosely from one hand. He looked…

Spent. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just empty. He didn’t notice you at first. His gaze stayed on the pavement until he reached the motorcycle. Then he stopped. His eyes lifted. You were sitting on his bike. Waiting.

For several seconds neither of you spoke. Finally he sighed.

“I figured you’d be here.”

“You did?”

“You’ve never been very good at letting things sit.”

A tiny smile threatened your lips.

“No.”

“You’ve also never apologized over the phone.”

“I haven’t.”

“No.”

Another silence settled between you. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“You gonna move?”

You looked down at the motorcycle.

“Eventually.”

“Okay.”

“I’m working up the courage.”

His expression softened just enough that you almost missed it.

“…You don’t need courage.”

“I think I do.”

He set his backpack on the ground before crossing his arms.

“I’m listening.”

You looked anywhere but at him. The asphalt. The handlebars. Your own shoes.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer. You continued.

“I know I was being ridiculous today.”

Still nothing.

“I thought I was making your day a little lighter.”

Your voice caught slightly.

“I wasn’t trying to make it harder.”

The evening breeze stirred a loose strand of hair across your face. You tucked it behind your ear.

“I never wanted you distracted.”

“I know.”

It was the first thing he’d said. You looked up hopefully.

“I really am sorry.”

He nodded once.

“I know.”

“But—”

“I said I know.”

The gentleness in his voice somehow hurt more than if he’d snapped. You slid off the motorcycle until you were standing in front of him. He still hadn’t moved closer. The distance between you suddenly felt enormous.

“I keep replaying it.”

“The allergy?” You nodded.

“I can’t stop.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I do.”

“No.”

His answer came quietly. Firmly.

“You don’t.”

You frowned.

“But if I hadn’t—”

“Stop.” His voice stopped you. “You didn’t almost order the wrong medication.”

“No.”

“I did.”

“You were distracted.”

“I was.”

“Because of me.”

He finally met your eyes.

“Not because of you.”

You blinked. He took a slow breath.

“I was distracted because I let myself become distracted.”

Another pause.

“That’s on me.”

“It still feels like it’s on me.”

“I know.”

He looked away toward the hospital for a moment. The ambulance bay doors opened again in the distance, another crew rushing another patient inside. Neither of you moved. Finally he spoke again.

“Do you know why it scared me?”

You shook your head.

“Because for fifteen seconds…”

His jaw tightened.

“…I wasn’t the doctor my patients deserve.”

The words landed like stones. Not dramatic. Not angry. Simply honest.

“I’ve built my whole career on being the calm one.”

He laughed once. There wasn’t any humor in it.

“The guy who doesn’t miss things.”

“You don’t.”

“I did today.”

“No, Jack caught—”

“I shouldn’t have needed Jack.”

His eyes closed briefly.

“I’ve trained residents for years to slow down. Double-check. Never assume.”

His shoulders rose and fell with a tired breath.

“And today I almost became the example I warn them about.”

Your heart broke a little. Not because he was disappointed. Because he was carrying the entire weight of it alone. You stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. Until only a foot separated you.

“Michael.”

He looked at you again.

“You know what I saw?”

“What?”

“I saw the best emergency physician I’ve ever worked with manage forty impossible things at once.”

His expression remained unreadable.

“I saw someone answer every question.”

“I saw someone comfort terrified families.”

“I saw someone teach residents.”

“I saw someone save lives.”

Your eyes stung.

“And I saw one tiny mistake…”

You reached out carefully, your fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket.

“…that never reached a patient because medicine is a team.”

He stared at your hand for a long moment before looking back at your face.

“I know all of that.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. Because he held himself to impossible standards. Because that was who Michael Robinavich was. You closed the remaining distance and rested your forehead lightly against his chest.

“I hate that I added to your day.”

He stayed perfectly still.

“I hate that I couldn’t tell when you’d stopped having fun.”

Your voice had become little more than a whisper.

“I should’ve.”

For several long seconds, he simply stood there. Then, almost hesitantly you felt his chin rest against the top of your head. One hand came to your back. Not pulling you closer. Just…there. Solid. Steady.

“I was having fun.”

You looked up.

“You were?”

“The first half of the day.”

His lips curved into the faintest smile.

“You stealing my pens…” A tiny shake of his head. “…was objectively ridiculous.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“The pager was pretty good too.”

“I was very proud of the pager.”

“I know you were.”

His thumb absentmindedly brushed against your shoulder.

“I haven’t laughed that hard at work in a while.”

Your chest loosened.

“But…”

His smile faded.

“…I should’ve recognized when I needed to put it away.”

“And I should’ve recognized it first.”

He looked at you for another long moment.

“You know…”

“What?”

“I think we’re both apologizing for something that belongs to both of us.”

You considered that. He was right. It hadn’t been one person’s mistake. It had been two people who loved each other enough to forget, for a little while, where they were. You let out a slow breath.

“So…”

“So.”

“I forgive you.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“You forgive me?”

“I was getting there.”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“I appreciate your generosity.”

“You should.”

“I’ll write you a thank-you card.”

You smiled for the first time in hours.

“Can I come home with you know?”

His eyes softened in a way that made your heart ache. He glanced at the motorcycle.

“I’m exhausted.”

“I know.”

“Let’s go home.”

You nodded immediately.

“Okay.”

He picked up his helmet and held yours out to you. No teasing. No jokes. Just a quiet invitation.

“Come on.”

You took it from him. The plastic felt cool in your hands. A moment later, he climbed onto the motorcycle. You settled in behind him, wrapping your arms carefully around his waist like you had countless times before.

For a second, neither of you moved. Then you felt his hand cover yours where they rested against his stomach. He squeezed gently.

“I’m not mad at you.”

Relief washed over you so suddenly your eyes filled again.

“I know.”

“I was never mad at you.”

“I know.”

He smiled to himself.

“You’ve said ‘I know’ a lot tonight.”

“Because I finally believe you.”

He nodded once. Satisfied. The engine rumbled to life beneath you, low and familiar. As the motorcycle rolled out of the parking lot, you rested your cheek against the broad expanse of his back.

The ride home was quiet. Not because there was anything left to say. But because some apologies didn’t end with words. They ended with trusting someone enough to simply hold on.

******

The ride home was as quiet as the drive to work had been loud. The city lights blurred past as you held onto Robby from the back of the motorcycle, your helmet resting lightly against his shoulder every time he slowed at a stoplight. His gloved hand would occasionally slide back, giving your knee a reassuring squeeze before returning to the handlebars. It was a small thing. The kind of touch that said I’m here.

The kind of touch that only mattered because it was him. By the time he pulled into the parking garage beneath his building, neither of you had spoken another word. You climbed off first, handing him his helmet.

“Go shower,” he said, locking the motorcycle. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“You aren’t coming?”

“I need to clear my head.”

You hesitated.

“…Okay.”

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. Brief. Gentle. Almost absentminded.

“I’ll be up.”

You nodded, though something in your stomach tightened.

The apartment was familiar enough now that it felt as much yours as his. You kicked off your shoes by the door. Changed into one of his old Pittsburgh Medical Center T-shirts that hung nearly to your knees. Pulled your hair down from its ponytail. Washed away twelve hours of hospital and antiseptic and adrenaline.

Normally, by this point in the evening, Robby would already be teasing you about stealing his shirt or insisting you were going to stretch out the collar.

The apartment was quiet. You climbed into bed. Waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. You heard the front door. The shower in the guest bathroom. Cabinet doors opening and closing. Eventually the bedroom door eased open.

Robby stepped inside wearing gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked cleaner. Still tired. He glanced toward you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He crossed the room. Plugged his phone into the charger. Set his watch on the dresser. Folded his attending jacket over the chair. Methodical. Calm. He hadn’t looked at you again.

Your stomach sank. He climbed into bed. Stayed on his side. Rolled onto his back. Folded his hands across his stomach.

“…Goodnight.”

You blinked.

“…Goodnight?”

“Mhm.”

Silence. The bedside lamp clicked off. The room fell into darkness. You stared at the ceiling.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.

“…Michael?”

“Hm?”

“…Are you still upset?”

“No.”

“You don’t sound like ‘no.’”

“I said I’m not.”

“You also haven’t looked at me.”

“I looked at you.”

“You glanced.”

“I observed.”

“You observed?”

“Mhm.”

You turned onto your side to face him.

“I don’t like this.”

“I know.”

“You’re being weird.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Michael.”

Silence. You reached across the mattress and poked his shoulder. Nothing. You poked him again. Still nothing. You frowned.

“You’ve cuddled strangers in hallway beds more enthusiastically than this.”

“I have excellent bedside manner.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Your heart began to sink all over again. Maybe he really was still hurt. Maybe he’d only said he wasn’t angry because he didn’t want you to feel worse. You scooted closer.

“…Can we please talk?”

“I’m listening.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

“But you’re not saying anything back.”

“I don’t believe that’s how listening works.”

You groaned into your pillow.

“This is torture.”

“I know.”

“You’ve barely touched me.”

“I held your hand on the motorcycle.”

“That was forty minutes ago.”

“Hm.”

Another silence.

“I’m sorry.”

He turned his head just enough to look at you.

“For what?”

“For making your day harder.”

“You already apologized.”

“I know.”

“And I forgave you.”

“I know.”

“But…”

You looked down at the blanket between you.

“I hate when I feel like I’ve disappointed you.”

His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“You haven’t.”

“It feels like I have.”

“You haven’t.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“I’m very convinced.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

He didn’t answer. You sighed.

“Fine.”

You threw the blankets back dramatically.

“If you’re going to be all stoic and emotionally unavailable, I’m sleeping on the couch.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. You made it exactly one step. A warm hand closed gently—but firmly—around your wrist. You stopped. You looked over your shoulder

Robby was sitting up now. Still holding your wrist. There was the smallest hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“…Michael.”

“What?”

“…Are you smiling?”

“No.”

“You liar.”

“I’ve been told.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“…You’ve been messing with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolute—”

Before you could finish the sentence, he gave your wrist a gentle tug. You let out a surprised laugh as you lost your balance, landing back on the mattress with an undignified bounce. He followed immediately, bracing himself on one arm above you before you could escape again.

Not trapping you. Not pinning you. Just…close. Very close. Close enough that you could see the tiny flecks of amber hidden in his dark brown eyes. Close enough to smell cedar soap lingering from his shower. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him after a day spent carrying an entire emergency department on his shoulders. You stared up at him in complete disbelief.

“You…”

His composure lasted all of three seconds. Then he laughed. A real laugh. Deep. The kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“You should see your face.”

“My face?”

“You’ve been panicking for twenty minutes.”

“I have not.”

“You started apologizing again.”

“I thought you were upset!”

“I know.”

“You weren’t?”

“Oh, I was.”

He leaned just a fraction closer, his voice dropping.

“But then I remembered something.”

“What?”

His smile grew.

“You spent twelve hours seeing exactly how much patience I have.”

“…Uh-oh.”

“So I thought…”

His nose brushed yours in a teasing nudge.

“…maybe it was your turn.”

You smacked his shoulder, trying—and failing—to hide your smile.

“I cannot believe you.”

“I can.”

“I was about to cry.”

“I know.”

“You are impossible.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He was enjoying this far too much. You folded your arms stubbornly across your chest.

“I don’t think I like this version of you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I think you do.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Oh?”

“No.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“You keep looking at my mouth.”

Your cheeks immediately warmed.

“I am not.”

“You just did it again.”

“I hate that you’re observant.”

“I know.”

For a moment, the teasing gave way to something quieter. The laughter faded. His smile softened. His hand, still loosely around your wrist, slid upward until his fingers intertwined with yours.

“I did miss you today.”

Your expression changed instantly.

“What?”

“I was standing three feet away from you most of the day…”

His thumb traced a slow circle over the back of your hand.

“…and somehow it still felt like I couldn’t have you.”

The confession settled gently between you.

“I had to be Chief.”

You nodded.

“And you had to be one of Dana’s best nurses.”

Another nod.

“So every time you stole a pen…”

He smiled to himself.

“…or challenged me in front of a resident…”

“…or clipped my pager to your scrubs…”

You laughed.

“…I wanted to kiss you.”

Your breath caught.

“But I couldn’t.”

The room felt very still.

“You know how unfair that is?”

You smiled softly.

“A little.”

“A little?” He shook his head. “It should be illegal.”

You laughed again, quieter this time.

“I’m pretty sure HR would agree.”

“They’d have paperwork.”

“So much paperwork.”

He chuckled, then leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then finally, after a beat where he simply looked at you with all the affection he’d held back through the entire shift, he kissed you softly.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t driven by the frustration of the day. It was slow. Intentional. A promise more than anything else. When he finally drew back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love that you make me laugh,” he murmured.

“But tomorrow…” His grin returned. “…leave my pens alone.”

You smiled innocently.

“I can’t promise that.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“And your pager?”

He groaned dramatically.

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet…”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him the last inch closer.

“…you still let me wear your shirts.”

He laughed again, the last remnants of the difficult day finally melting away as he held you close.

“Yeah,” he said with a contented sigh. “I really do.”

[thatfanficstuff]

Duke and the Fuckass Motorcycle

Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

synopsis: Jack "meets" Duke

warnings/notes: Widow!Jack number 12. Thanks as always to @tanely. Jack is...jack. Robby is part of this marriage whether he likes it or not. hope you enjoy. i'll be honest my brain isn't braining so...

wc: just shy of 1.1k

Previous Series Masterlist

You and Jack walked side by side toward the ambulance bay, getting ready to head into your shift. You were chatting about nothing at all really, but your words trailed off when you realized your husband had come to a complete stop. You turned to find him with a scowl on his face. “What is your problem?”

“Who is that?”

You followed his gaze to find Robby standing in the bay beside his motorcycle talking to Duke. The sight immediately brought a smile to your face. “That’s Duke. Come on.” You grabbed his arm to tug him forward but he refused to move.

“I don’t like him,” Jack said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You haven’t even met him.”

“Don’t need to. What’s Robby doing with him?” Jack’s brow was pinched as he glared at the stranger.

“You can’t kill him with your mind.”

“I can fucking try.”

The corner of your lips kicked up in a smirk. “Should I be concerned about the level of jealousy you’re exhibiting because Robby is talking to another man?”

His attention snapped to you. “I’m not jealous. I’m just worried.”

“Uh huh,” you resumed your walk into the building.

Jack fell into step beside you. “I’m not.”

“Okay, baby. You don’t have to convince me. I believe you.” You absolutely did not believe him.

Robby wasn’t just Jack’s friend. He was his brother, his favorite person other than you, his closest confidante. As such, Jack was protective, perhaps a bit possessive. He did not like that Robby had a friend he hadn’t met yet.

“What is he doing here?” Jack said low, so his voice wouldn’t carry.

“Him and Mike are going for a ride since he’s off the next three days,” you explained, though you were fairly certain Jack had already been informed of this multiple times.

“That’s him? That’s the motorcycle guy?”

You sighed. “Who did you think he was?”

Duke glanced over then did a double take when he spotted you. A wide warm smile covered his face. “Well, if it isn’t the Mrs.,” he said loudly and Robby looked over his shoulder to see the two of you.

He checked his watch. “You’re early.”

“Thought we’d let you get on the road,” you answered.

Jack was being unusually quiet beside you. When you glanced over you were surprised to find him glaring at you now. You just shook your head and turned back to the other two men. “Let’s get handoff done so you can get out of here.”

Robby smiled wide and clapped his hands together. “Absolutely. I’ll be right back, Duke.”

“I’ll be right here.”

You glanced at Jack. “You go do handoff. I want to talk to Duke for a minute.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed as he laced your fingers together. “Nope. You have to be there too. Those are the rules.”

You blinked. “Since when do you care about the rules?”

“Since now.” He looked past you to Duke. “Sorry. Duty calls. Nice to meet you.”

As he pulled you through the door, you waved at Duke. “I’ll text you.”

 Duke just laughed and waved back. “See you later, sweetheart.”

Jack continued to lead you through the department, past Robby where he stood at the hub. “With me, Robinavitch.”

Robby’s brows arched as he met your eye. You simply shrugged in response. When you reached a relatively quiet part of the department, he finally released you. He crossed his arms and scowled at the both of you.

“What?” you finally asked.

“Why is it exactly that Robby’s friend referred to you as ‘the Mrs.’?”

Your smile started small as you fought the twitching of your lips but it quickly grew. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

Robby’s smile mirrored your own as he nodded his head. “You are. It’s sweet.”

Jack’s face remained blank.

“I went with Robby to Duke’s garage about a month ago. It was fun. He called me Mrs. Robby. It was a joke because me and Mike kept finishing each other’s sentences,” you explained.

Jack’s form eased. “Mrs. Robby? Not…”

“Not what?”

“I thought he was calling you his Mrs.,” Jack explained.

Robby ran a hand over his beard, amusement written all over his face. “So, you don’t care that he called her Mrs. Robby at all?”

Jack shrugged. “Don’t be stupid. Why would I? I thought you wanted to leave. Why are you wasting my time talking about this?”

Once Robby was safely on his way, his location turned on for you and only you, Jack turned to you. “You went with Robby to Duke’s garage?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“How did you get there?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Robby’s bike. He got me my own helmet and everything.”

You went to check in with triage, ignoring Jack’s heavy stare.

Robby had been back at work for two days when his motorcycle was hit by one of the ambulances. You and Jack arrived as he was trying to get it upright. Jack bit the inside of his lip to hide his smug expression. He tried to grab you as you rushed forward to help, hand just missing your arm.

“What happened?” you asked.

Jack tuned out the explanation as his gaze moved past the two of you to make eye contact with the ambulance driver and his partner loitering just inside the entrance. He nodded once in acknowledgement.

He tuned back into your conversation when he heard you ask, “Is it bad?”

Robby traced his bottom lip with his tongue as he looked things over. “I don’t think so. Just scratched her up a bit.” To prove the point, he straddled the bike and started it up. There wasn’t even a hesitation in the engine.

Damn fucking incompetent ambulance drivers. He left you two to talk and went inside to talk to the idiots he’d hired.

“We did what you wanted, Abbot. When do we get the rest of our money?” one of them asked before Jack could say anything.

His brow furrowed. “You’re not getting anything. I don’t pay for shoddy work. There’s nothing wrong with the fuckass motorcycle. What was the point of you even hitting it if you weren’t going to damage it?”

If Jack had been paying more attention, he might have realized that the man was trying to signal for Jack to be quiet. Instead, the first indication he had that he might possibly be in just the smallest amount of trouble was your voice ringing out behind him. “Jack Mabel Abbot, what the hell did you do?”

[serafinacross]

Jack Mabel Abbot 😂😂

I'm dying, this is too good. He's never going to learn.

[serafinacross]

Thanks for this, HBO

[afterdarkbydel]

Courtship Karaoke

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Word Count: 10, 898

Summary: Jack Abbot has already attempted to court his wife with driveway gravel and deeply incorrect Shakespeare. Now, after a brutal week at PTMC, the crew goes out for karaoke, and Jack discovers a microphone. This goes exactly as well as you would expect.

Warnings: alcohol/drunk antics, established relationship/marriage, suggestive jokes, no smut, boundary-respecting drunk husband Jack, public wife worship, secondhand embarrassment, ridiculous amounts of “fuck yeah”

Author’s Note: This is the sister fic to Courtship Rocks, because apparently, drunk Jack Abbot publicly courting his own wife is now a genre. He has discovered karaoke. He has discovered a microphone. He has discovered that an entire bar will support his nonsense if he says “my wife” with enough conviction. I love him so much it’s embarrassing.

Xoxo, Del

Jack had been behaving beautifully for almost forty minutes, which should have been your first warning.

He was warm beside you in the booth, flushed from whiskey and the close, noisy heat of the bar, one arm stretched behind your shoulders like he had been personally assigned to make sure you did not drift away from him. His hair had lost whatever fight it usually won before leaving the house, one dark piece falling slightly forward every time he leaned toward you.

You loved him like this.

That was unfortunate, because this version of Jack was also a public safety concern.

Not dangerous. 

Just loose enough to be earnest. Drunk enough to be dramatic. Handsome enough that every bad decision looked briefly defensible before the consequences arrived.

Across the table, Robby was halfway through telling a story he had already told twice, with the bright-eyed confidence of a man convinced repetition was a form of emphasis. Shen sat beside him, nursing his beer with the loose, philosophical posture that only appeared when he was two drinks deep and beginning to consider himself a witness to history.

Crus had not touched his second drink. That, too, should have concerned you. Crus only stayed that sober when he suspected the evening required supervision.

“You know what I think the problem is?” Robby asked, leaning forward with both forearms on the sticky table.

“No,” Crus said.

Robby ignored him and pointed toward the little raised karaoke stage in the corner. “Nobody respects performance anymore.”

Shen tilted his head. “A broad cultural claim.”

“A correct one,” Robby said.

Crus glanced toward the stage, then toward Robby, then toward Jack. “No,” Crus said.

Robby blinked at him. “I did not say anything.”

“You thought it,” Crus replied.

Jack turned his head slowly from where he had been studying the side of your face with the soft, unfocused attention of a man discovering something important for the first time.

“What did he think?” Jack asked.

His voice had gone warm at the edges. You knew that voice. You loved that voice. That voice had once stood beneath your bedroom window and accused a shrub of sabotage.

You reached for your glass. “Nothing.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That was wife voice.”

You paused with your drink halfway to your mouth. “What?”

He pointed gently at you. “Wife voice.”

Robby sat up instantly. “Oh, we’re already there?”

Crus closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Shen nodded with interest. “The courtship dialect has returned.”

You set your glass down and turned to your husband. “Jack.”

He looked at you with bright, immediate attention. “Yes, my lady?”

Robby made a wounded sound. You inhaled through your nose. There it was. “My lady,” you repeated.

Jack’s face softened into something pleased and completely unhelpful. “Yes.”

Crus leaned back in the booth. “We should go.”

“We just got here,” Robby protested.

“We got here an hour ago,” Crus said. “And he has said my lady.”

Jack frowned at Crus like the man had failed a simple exam. “She is my lady.”

“I am aware,” Crus said.

Jack looked back at you, suddenly hopeful. “My wife?”

You tried very hard not to smile. You failed. “Yes,” you said. “Your wife.”

His whole face lit as if you had just handed him the sun. “Fuck yeah,” Jack said softly.

Robby slapped both hands on the table. “There it is.”

You pointed at Robby. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging,” Robby said, already pulling out his phone. “I’m documenting.”

Crus reached across the table and pushed Robby’s phone down with two fingers. “No.”

Robby looked offended. “For history?”

“For evidence,” Crus corrected.

Jack ignored all of them. His hand had slipped from the back of the booth to your shoulder, his thumb moving once over the fabric of your sleeve like he needed the confirmation of you under his hand. He leaned closer, warm and whiskey-sweet, and looked at you with the kind of reverence that made your stomach flip even when he was seconds away from humiliating you in public.

“You look pretty,” he said.

Your expression softened before you could stop it. “Thank you, baby.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. Then he shook his head. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“No,” he said again, more firmly.

Shen leaned forward a fraction. “Interesting.”

“Do not make this academic,” Crus warned.

Jack sat up straighter, his hand still resting possessively and clumsily sweet against your shoulder. “Pretty is too small.”

Your face warmed immediately. “Jack.”

He looked deeply bothered by the inadequacy of language. “Beautiful.”

Robby pressed one hand to his own chest. “Oh, no.”

“Stunning,” Jack continued.

“Jack,” you said, quieter.

“Gorgeous.” He nodded once, as if the evidence was building. “An angel.”

Crus rubbed both hands over his face. Jack looked at you for another long second, then turned slightly toward the table, solemn as a man delivering rounds.

“A goddess,” he announced.

Robby made a sound like he had been spiritually attacked.

You covered your face with one hand. “Oh, my god.”

“Yes,” Jack said, immediately. “Exactly.”

Shen lifted his beer. “The language has escalated.”

“It had nowhere else to go,” Jack replied.

Crus looked at you. “Are you going to stop him?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Do you think I can?”

Crus considered Jack, who was now gazing at you with the pleased awe of a man who had successfully diagnosed his wife as divine. “No,” Crus admitted.

Jack’s attention drifted, catching the waitress as she passed the booth with a tray of drinks. His expression brightened with fresh purpose.

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

Jack straightened. “This is my wife,” he told the bartender.

The bartender stopped, glanced at you, then smiled politely. “Hi.”

You gave a tiny wave that felt like an apology. “Hi.”

Jack pointed at you with the hand not currently anchored to your shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”

“Okay,” the bartender said, like she had not been trained for this but was willing to improvise.

“Stunning,” Jack added.

The bartender’s smile widened. “I can see that.”

Jack nodded, pleased. “Good.”

Robby made a strangled noise into his fist.

Jack looked back at you, still glowing. “She sees it.”

“She is working,” you said.

“She can multitask,” Jack replied.

The bartender laughed and kept moving. Jack watched her go for half a second, then looked back at you as if struck by another wonderful fact.

“You married me,” he said.

You felt your mouth curve despite yourself. “I did.”

Crus pointed at Jack. “You have been married for years.”

Jack did not look away from you. “To her?”

You nodded. “To me.”

His grin broke open. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby slapped the table again. “Two.”

Jack turned slowly toward him. “Two what?”

Robby froze. Crus looked at Robby with deep warning. “Nothing,” Robby said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Were you counting my joy?”

Shen sat back, pleased. “An excellent phrase.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “No.”

Jack pointed at him. “Do not quantify my joy.”

You dropped your head against Jack’s shoulder, laughing before you could stop yourself. Jack went still. Then, very carefully, he turned his face toward your hair.

“She likes this,” he said.

“I do not,” you lied into his shirt.

Jack’s arm curled more securely around you. “She does.”

Crus sighed. “She does.”

You lifted your head and glared across the table. “Traitor.”

Crus lifted his glass. “I’m tired.”

Jack looked deeply concerned. “My wife is tired?”

“No,” you said quickly.

He glanced down at your drink. “Water?”

You looked at him, “You need water.” 

His brows pulled together. “Less urgent.”

Robby dissolved.

Shen nodded solemnly. “A husband’s triage.”

“Terrible triage,” Crus said.

Jack ignored him again and shifted closer to you, lowering his voice like the bar was full of spies. “Would my lady like fries?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to court me with fries?”

Jack brightened. “Yes.”

Robby dragged a hand down his face. “God, marriage is disgusting.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack looked at you immediately, as if your almost-laugh had been a summons. “Did I woo you?”

You blinked. “With the fries?”

He nodded. 

Your brow furrowed, “The fries have not arrived yet.”

Jack considered that. “Pre-wooing.”

Shen lifted one finger. “An anticipatory courtship gesture.”

Crus set his glass down. “Nobody says courtship again.”

Jack’s entire face changed. You felt it before he said anything. The word had reached him. Courtship.

He turned toward you slowly, eyes bright and terrible. “My lady,” Jack said.

“No,” you said.

“I must court you.” Jack continued. 

You sighed, “Jack.”

He touched a hand to his chest. “Properly.”

“You tried to court me with driveway gravel last time.” You pointed out. 

Jack’s face fell instantly. “My greatest shame.”

“It hit my sweatshirt.” You replied. 

Jack frowned, “I wounded my lady.”

“You booped my sweatshirt with a pebble.” You corrected. 

His expression sharpened with moral injury. “A courtship rock.”

Robby leaned toward Shen. “They should have brought the rock.”

You pointed across the table. “Do not invoke the rock.”

Shen looked genuinely thoughtful. “It has symbolic weight.”

“It was gravel,” Crus said.

Jack looked at Crus, offended. “It was evidence.”

“Of what?” Crus asked.

Jack turned back to you. His expression softened at once. “That she let me in.”

Your laughter caught behind your ribs. For one second, the bar noise faded under the warmth of him. Under the stupid, impossible sweetness of your husband sitting beside you, drunk and flushed and still proud of the night he had stood in the yard mangling Shakespeare because he wanted to reach you.

Then Robby ruined it.

“Also, evidence that he tried to climb the house,” Robby said.

Jack pointed at him. “For love.”

“For whiskey,” you corrected.

Jack nodded seriously. “And tequila.”

“And tequila,” Shen agreed.

Crus looked toward the ceiling. “I need new friends.”

The fries arrived. Jack immediately sat up like the waitress had delivered a ceremonial offering.

“Thank you,” he said with deep feeling.

The waitress glanced at you. “Good luck.”

You smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

Jack took the basket, turned it toward you, and selected a fry with unnecessary care. He dipped it in ketchup, inspected it, then held it out to you. 

“For my lady,” he said.

You stared at the fry.

Robby whispered, “Eat the courtship fry.”

Crus muttered, “I hate that sentence.”

You leaned forward and took the fry from Jack’s fingers with your mouth because you were apparently not immune to public nonsense when your husband looked that pleased. Jack’s eyes widened. Then his face went delighted and faintly scandalized.

“She accepted,” he said.

Robby clutched his chest. “The courtship advances.”

Crus pointed at him. “I said stop saying courtship.”

Jack turned to you. “It advanced?”

You chewed slowly, already regretting every choice that had led to this table.

“Yes,” you said. “Fine. The fry advanced the courtship.”

Jack’s face lit. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby slammed his hand over his own mouth.

Jack whipped toward him. “Do not.”

Robby’s shoulders shook.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Do not count it.”

Robby spoke through his fingers. “I’m not.”

Shen leaned closer to you. “He is absolutely counting it.”

You looked at Jack. “Baby, drink water.”

Jack obeyed immediately. It was one of the deeply unfair things about him, how ridiculous he could be and still so sweetly, instantly responsive to your voice. You handed him the glass. He took it. You raised your eyebrows. He drank half of it, made a face like water had insulted his bloodline, then drank more when your eyebrows stayed up.

“Good,” you said.

Jack lowered the glass and looked at you with soft pride. “Wife voice.”

“Yes,” you said. “Wife voice.”

His face brightened. “My wife?”

You smiled. “Your wife.”

Jack shut his eyes briefly, overcome. “Fuck yeah,” he murmured.

Robby made a tiny, strangled squeak.

Jack opened his eyes. “Robby.”

Robby shook his head quickly. “Didn’t count it.”

Jack glared at him, “You counted it emotionally.” 

Robby pointed at him. “That is not a real thing.”

“It is in courtship,” Jack said.

Crus groaned. Before anyone could answer, the karaoke host’s voice crackled through the speakers. “All right, next up, we’ve got Marissa T.! Marissa T., come on up.”

A woman near the bar whooped and made her way toward the stage. Robby watched her go with the sudden, terrible stillness of a man receiving divine inspiration. 

Your stomach dropped. “Robby,” you said.

He looked at you too quickly. “What?”

“No.” You said. 

Robby frowned, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You looked inspired.” You replied. 

“I have eyes,” Robby said. “Sometimes they do that.”

Crus followed your gaze to Robby, then to the karaoke slips near the DJ booth. His expression went flat. “Robby,” Crus said.

Robby held up both hands. “Why is everyone saying my name like I’ve committed a crime?”

Jack leaned close to you, his breath warm against your ear. “What crime?”

You put your hand over his on the table. “Nothing.”

He turned his hand immediately under yours, lacing your fingers together. “My lady protects me from crime,” Jack said.

“You are usually the crime,” Crus replied.

Jack frowned. “Unkind.”

Robby slid out of the booth. You caught his sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom,” Robby said.

You glared at him, “The bathroom is the other way.”

Robby looked over his shoulder, then back at you. “I got turned around.”

Crus pointed at him. “Sit down.”

Robby sat down for exactly seven seconds. Then Santos appeared near the end of the booth with Dana beside her, both carrying drinks, both wearing the expressions of women who had been watching from across the room and had chosen, for reasons of entertainment, not to intervene.

Santos looked at Jack. “Is this the same drunk as the rocks?”

Jack sat up straighter. “Courtship rocks.”

Dana’s grin spread. “Oh, good.”

“No,” you said. “Not good.”

Santos slid into the booth beside Crus. “Did he say my lady yet?”

Robby nodded. “Multiple times.”

Dana leaned in, delighted. “Has he rediscovered the marriage?”

Jack looked at her, confused. “What marriage?”

The entire table went still. You turned slowly toward him. Jack blinked at you. Then his eyes dropped to your ring. His mouth parted.

“We’re married?” he asked.

You were helpless against the smile that took you. “Yes, Jack.”

His face transformed. “Fuck yeah.”

The whole table erupted. Robby put his head down and shook with silent laughter. Santos clapped once. Dana made a sound as if she were trying not to squeal. Shen smiled into his beer. Even Crus cracked, just barely, the corner of his mouth betraying him before he covered it with his glass.

Jack looked around the table, pleased by the response. “They’re happy for us,” he said.

“They were at the wedding,” you reminded him.

Jack looked back at you, stunned. “There was a wedding?”

Robby lifted his head. “Oh, buddy.”

“Beautiful,” Dana said. “Very beautiful.”

Jack’s eyes snapped toward her. “She was beautiful?”

“You both were,” Dana said gently.

Jack looked wounded by the insufficiency. “No. She was beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous.”

“An angel,” Robby supplied.

“A goddess,” Jack corrected.

Santos lifted her drink toward you. “A goddess.”

Jack pointed at her approvingly. “She understands.”

You rubbed your forehead. “I need all of you to stop helping.”

The karaoke host’s voice came back over the speakers. “All right! Give it up for Marissa T., everybody!”

The bar clapped as Marissa returned to her friends. Robby’s eyes slid toward the DJ booth again. This time, Santos saw it.

“Oh my god,” she said, delighted. “Are we putting Jack in?”

“No,” you said immediately.

Jack turned to you. “Putting me in what?”

“Nothing.” You replied immediately. 

“Karaoke,” Dana said.

You shot her a betrayed look. Jack’s eyes widened. The word entered his body like a calling. “Karaoke,” he repeated.

Crus pointed at Dana. “Why would you say that?”

Dana lifted both hands. “I panicked.”

Jack looked toward the stage. Then toward you. His expression went soft, bright, and dangerous. “My lady deserves music.”

“No, she does not,” you said.

Jack frowned. “Everyone deserves music.”

“I deserve peace.” You corrected him. 

“Also music,” Jack said.

Robby was already halfway out of the booth. You grabbed for him and missed. “Robby!”

Robby moved backward toward the DJ booth with both hands raised. “I’m just asking a question.”

You groaned, “No, you are not.” 

“I might ask where the bathroom is.” Robby continued. 

You exhaled loudly, “You know where the bathroom is.”

Robby shrugged, “Maybe I forgot.”

Crus started to stand. Santos caught his arm. “Wait.”

Crus stared at her. “Why?”

Santos’s mouth twitched. “I want to see what song.”

You looked at her in horror. “Not you too.”

Santos shrugged. “He called you a goddess. I’m invested.”

Jack watched Robby reach the DJ booth, then turned back to you with pure wonder. “Am I to perform?”

You answered immediately, “No.”

“Maybe,” Shen said. You glared at Shen. Shen took a slow drink. “The court must remain open to possibility.”

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Not hard. Just warm, clumsy, excited.

“If I perform,” he said carefully, “I will court you.”

“You have been courting me all night.” You replied. 

Jack nodded. “Practice.”

You sighed, “Jack.”

“I am a gentleman.” Jack continued. 

You quirked a brow, “You announced to a bartender that I was a goddess.”

Jack looked confused. “Gentlemen can recognize divinity.”

Dana choked on her drink. Crus sat back down slowly, like his body had accepted defeat before his spirit could catch up. Robby returned to the booth with the expression of a man carrying fire into a dry field.

You pointed at him. “What did you do?”

Robby slid into his seat. “Nothing.”

The karaoke host lifted the mic. “All right,” the host said, checking the next slip. “We’ve got Jack A. coming up next.”

The table exploded. You closed your eyes.

Crus said, “Robby.”

Dana gasped. Santos slapped a hand over her mouth.

Shen leaned toward you. “Something has been set in motion.”

Jack went very still beside you. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His eyes found yours, flushed and bright and entirely too pleased.

“My lady,” he said.

You opened your eyes and pointed at him. “Do not.”

Jack pushed himself carefully to his feet with tremendous dignity and only a small amount of sway.

“I have been summoned,” he said.

You groaned, “You have been sabotaged.” 

Jack leaned down, pressed a warm kiss to your temple, and murmured, “I will return.”

“You are going twelve feet away.” You replied. 

His face softened with drunken tragedy. “And yet,” he said, “it is unbearable.”

Robby made a strangled sound. Crus stood halfway, ready to catch him if necessary. Jack straightened, adjusted his shirt like he was about to address Parliament, and looked back at you one more time. You should have stopped him.

You absolutely should have.

Instead, you sat there in the booth, face burning, heart doing something stupid and soft behind your ribs, as your husband turned toward the stage.

The bar lights caught on his wedding band. Jack lifted his hand slightly, noticed it, and looked back at you with renewed awe.

“We’re married,” he said.

You sighed, helpless and smiling. “Yes, Jack.”

His grin broke open. “Fuck yeah.”

From three tables away, a stranger lifted their beer and echoed, “Fuck yeah!”

Robby’s mouth dropped open.

Santos whispered, “Oh, the bar’s learning.”

Crus stared into the middle distance. “We have lost control of the room.”

Jack turned toward the stranger, visibly moved. Then he looked back at you, glowing. “They understand,” he said.

And then Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, husband, former thrower of courtship rocks, and current danger to public dignity, walked toward the karaoke stage like a man going to war for love.

Jack made it to the stage without falling. That felt important.

Crus apparently agreed, because he remained half-standing beside the booth, one hand braced on the edge of the table, body angled like he was deciding whether tackling Jack in front of thirty strangers would count as prevention or assault.

Santos leaned around him, eyes bright. “He’s steady.”

“He is not steady,” Crus said. “He’s determined. There’s a difference.”

Jack reached the single step leading up to the stage and paused. You tensed. He looked down at it. The entire table went silent. Then Jack lifted one finger toward the step, as if addressing an enemy. “No sabotage,” he said.

Robby folded over the table.

“Oh my god,” Dana whispered.

Shen nodded slowly. “He remembers the shrub.”

“I hate that there is lore,” Crus muttered.

Jack took the step with the grave care of a man crossing international waters. When both feet landed successfully on the stage, someone near the bar clapped. Jack turned toward the sound, surprised and pleased.

“Thank you,” he said.

The man lifted his beer. “You got it, Jack.”

Jack looked back at you, glowing. “They’re supportive.”

“They do not know what they are supporting,” you called.

Jack frowned slightly, as if that was their personal problem.

The karaoke host, a man in a black T-shirt with a silver chain and the relaxed expression of someone who had seen every possible form of public embarrassment, held the microphone out. “All yours, man.”

Jack accepted it with both hands. You went cold. 

“Oh no,” Santos said, delighted. “Two hands.”

Crus closed his eyes. “I knew it.”

Jack tapped the microphone. The speaker popped. Half the bar winced. Jack blinked at the mic. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” the host said, backing away with a grin that told you immediately he had chosen entertainment over mercy.

Jack lifted the microphone again. “Good evening,” he said.

Robby made a strangled sound into his fist. Jack surveyed the bar. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a little wild, his shirt slightly untucked on one side. His wedding band caught the stage lights when he adjusted his grip on the microphone. He looked devastating. He looked ridiculous. He looked at you.

Everything in his face softened as he pointed to you. “This is my wife,” Jack announced.

The bar cheered. You shut your eyes.

Robby slapped the table. “Oh, they’re in.”

“This is my wife,” Jack repeated, pointing toward you like the crowd might need help identifying the woman currently trying to become furniture. “She’s pretty.”

The bar made a warm, approving noise. Jack paused. His brow furrowed. 

“No,” he said.

The bar quieted, waiting. Your stomach dropped because you knew that frown. That was the same frown he got over bad lab values, broken printers, and insufficient descriptions of you.

Jack shook his head. “Pretty is too small.”

Robby whispered, “Here we go.”

“Jack,” you warned.

He did not hear you. Or he did hear you, and worse, decided your voice belonged in the proceedings. “My lady,” he said, looking directly at you, “I’m correcting the record.”

A woman at the bar gasped. “Aw.”

You pointed at her. “Do not encourage him.”

Jack immediately swung his attention toward the woman. “Thank you for your support.”

She lifted her drink. “Anytime.”

Crus muttered, “The public is turning.”

Jack faced the room again. “My wife is beautiful.”

A few people clapped.

“Stunning,” Jack added. More claps. Jack continued, “Gorgeous.”

Someone whistled.

Jack looked pleased, but then he frowned again, still unsatisfied. “An angel.”

Robby dropped his head into his arms. Dana pressed both hands to her cheeks.

Jack leaned closer to the microphone, solemn and reverent. “A goddess.”

The bar erupted. You covered your whole face. Santos leaned into Dana’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. Crus stared at the stage like a man watching hospital administration announce a new charting system. Shen lifted his glass toward Jack in respectful acknowledgment.

Jack nodded once, as if the room had finally caught up. “And she married me,” he said.

The crowd cheered again. Jack’s face shifted. His eyes found yours through the lights and noise and awful, growing public investment.

“You married me?” he asked.

You could have lied. You should have lied, probably. For the good of the room.

Instead, you dropped your hand from your face and smiled at him like an idiot. “I did.”

His grin broke open. “Fuck yeah.”

Three tables over, the same man from before raised his beer. “Fuck yeah!”

Another voice echoed, “Fuck yeah!”

Robby lifted both hands. “The call is spreading.”

Jack turned toward the strangers, visibly moved. “Thank you.”

A woman near the pool table cupped her hands around her mouth. “We love your wife, Jack!”

Jack’s head snapped toward her. You froze. For one dangerous second, you thought his drunken courtly possessiveness might flare. Instead, Jack’s expression brightened with profound relief. 

“You see it,” he said.

The woman laughed. “We see it!”

Jack turned back to you, eyes shining. “They see it.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the stupid ache in your chest. “They see it, baby.”

His face softened. Then he remembered he had an audience. “And before me,” Jack said, turning back to the bar, “there were suitors.”

Every molecule in your body stopped. Robby slowly lifted his head. 

Santos whispered, “Oh my god.”

Crus said, “No.”

You stood halfway out of the booth. “Jack Abbot.”

Jack looked at you, gentle and serious. “My lady.”

You shook your head, “No.”

“The people deserve context.” Jack nodded solemnly. 

You shook your head faster, “The people do not deserve anything.”

“The people paid a cover,” someone shouted.

Jack pointed toward the voice. “The people have spoken.”

Shen leaned back in the booth. “Democracy is dangerous.”

Crus turned on him. “Do not call this democracy.”

Jack lifted one hand, as if asking the crowd for quiet. The crowd, horrifyingly, gave it to him.

“Before me,” he continued, “there were many suitors.”

“Many is generous,” you called.

Jack’s eyes cut to you. He looked wounded. “Do not diminish my victory.”

The bar laughed. You stared at him. “Your victory?”

Jack lifted his left hand. The ring gleamed. “Scoreboard,” he said.

The bar screamed. Robby made a sound like he had been punched with joy.

Santos slapped the table. “Oh, that was good.”

You turned on her. “Whose side are you on?”

Santos took a sip of her drink. “Love.”

“Chaos,” Crus corrected.

“Same table tonight,” Dana said.

Jack looked pleased by the reaction, which was the last thing anyone needed. He raised one finger. “First,” he said gravely. “Boat Shoes.”

You sat down so fast your hip hit the edge of the booth. Robby’s mouth fell open.

“Boat Shoes?” the karaoke host repeated into his own mic, because apparently he had decided to join the prosecution.

Jack nodded solemnly. “Boat Shoes wore boat shoes to a restaurant that did not have a dock.”

The bar booed. Actually booed. A man near the dartboard shouted, “Poor judgment!”

Jack pointed at him. “Exactly.”

“Oh my god,” you said into your hands.

“He did not have situational awareness,” Jack added.

Shen nodded. “Contextually damning.”

“Do not help him,” you said.

Jack lifted a second finger. “Grammar Crimes.”

The booing started before he even explained.

 Jack waited for it to settle like a seasoned public speaker. “He texted your when he meant you’re, with an apostrophe.”

The bar booed louder. Someone shouted, “Unforgivable!”

Jack nodded with grim approval. “My wife is intelligent. She deserves punctuation.”

A woman near the bar yelled, “She does!”

Jack pressed a hand to his chest. “Thank you.”

You turned to Dana, horrified. “Why are they backing him?”

Dana looked delighted. “Because he’s right.”

“He is announcing my dating history to a bar.” You replied miserably. 

Jack raised a third finger. “Five-Eight-Who-Said-Six-Foot.”

The room lost it. You did not look up. You could not. If you saw Jack’s face, you were going to laugh, and if you laughed, he would only become more powerful.

“He committed fraud,” Jack said.

“LOCK HIM UP,” someone yelled.

Jack lifted one hand quickly. “Metaphorically.”

Crus exhaled. “Thank God.”

Jack nodded, very serious. “We are not animals.”

Robby slid halfway down the booth, laughing so hard he appeared to be in pain.

Jack lifted a fourth finger. “Midnight texter.”

A chorus of groans rolled through the bar.

Jack’s disgust was immediate and theatrical. “He only texted after midnight.”

“LOW EFFORT,” a woman shouted.

Jack snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Exactly.”

The crowd applauded her.

Jack nodded, encouraged. “Courtship should occur during reasonable hours.”

Santos lifted one finger. “Unless she works night shift.”

Jack turned toward her. “Then respect the schedule.”

The bar cheered again. You stared across the table. “I hate this room.”

Robby wiped under his eyes. “This is bigger than us now.”

Jack lifted his final finger. You knew. Of course, you knew. Your head snapped up.

“Do not,” you said.

Jack looked at you, drunk and soft and solemn.

“My lady,” he said gently, “I must honor your standards.”

Your face went hot. “You must absolutely not.”

Jack turned back to the microphone. “Bra Hook.”

The eruption was instant. Nobody even knew the story, and somehow everyone knew enough. The karaoke host backed away from Jack, laughing into his hand. Robby made a noise like he had been shot. Santos slammed both palms on the table. Dana fully folded into herself.

Crus whispered, “I cannot believe this is my night off.”

Jack waited. Then, with the respectful gravity of a man delivering a eulogy, he said, “He could not unhook her bra.”

You covered your face.

“So she left,” Jack finished.

The bar exploded.

“AS SHE SHOULD!”

“QUEEN!”

“STANDARDS!”

Jack’s face went bright with pride. “She has standards,” he said.

The bar, because the bar had apparently become a single drunk organism, chanted back, “SHE HAS STANDARDS.”

“No,” you said, laughing now despite yourself. “No, we are not chanting.”

“SHE HAS STANDARDS.”

Jack looked at you like he might cry. “They understand you,” he said.

You covered your face with both hands. “They are chanting about my bra.”

“With respect,” Jack said immediately.

Robby slid out of the booth and braced a hand against the table, gasping for air. “I can’t breathe.”

Crus shoved a glass of water toward him. “Good.”

The chant continued for three more beats before Jack lifted one hand. The bar quieted. That, more than anything, terrified you. Jack had control of the room. Your husband, who had once thrown driveway gravel at your window and tried to scale the side of your house in the name of romance, now had command of a karaoke bar. Jack leaned into the microphone.

“I honor her standards,” he said.

The bar applauded.

Your chest gave a traitorous little squeeze. Damn him. Damn him for being impossible and embarrassing and still, somehow, so sincere that your heart kept climbing into your throat.

You stood, pushing out of the booth. Jack saw you immediately.

His whole face lit. “My lady approaches.”

The bar cheered.

You pointed at him as you walked toward the stage. “No.”

Jack nodded gravely, accepting the instruction like a knight receiving terms of surrender. “No more fallen men.”

You pointed at him from the edge of the stage. “Correct.”

His brow furrowed with immediate, drunken seriousness. “Boundaries.”

You pressed your lips together. “That is not exactly what this is.”

A woman near the bar called, “It kind of is!”

Jack turned toward her and lifted one finger. “Thank you for your support.”

You snapped your fingers lightly to bring his attention back. “Jack.”

His eyes came right back to you. “No public list of defeated suitors.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

Jack placed one hand over his heart, the microphone bumping softly against his chest. “I respect my lady.”

A beat.

Then he looked hopeful. “My wife?”

The crowd went quiet, invested all over again. You stopped below the stage and looked up at him. He was swaying slightly, flushed, bright-eyed, and completely pleased with himself. The microphone was still in one hand. His ring still caught the light. His grin was starting before you even answered, like some part of him already knew and was preparing for joy.

You sighed. “Yes, Jack. Your wife.”

His face lit. “Fuck yeah.”

The bar roared it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Robby stumbled to his feet at the booth, one hand raised like he was at a revival. “The people know the customs!”

Crus grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him down. “Sit.”

Jack looked out at the crowd, deeply touched. Then he looked back at you. “They understand marriage,” he said.

“They understand mob mentality,” you replied.

Jack tilted his head, considering that. “Could be both.”

The karaoke host stepped closer, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “You ready for your song, man?”

Crus dropped his head onto the table.

Dana whispered, “Oh, this is art.”

You stared at Jack.

Jack smiled down at you with all the bright, drunk, terrible promise in the world.

“I still have to woo you,” he said.

You shook your head, “You have done plenty of wooing.”

Jack’s brow furrowed.

“No,” he said, like the answer was obvious. “You need more.”

Robby let out a broken laugh. You closed your eyes. The opening notes started. One second passed. Then two. 

Your eyes flew open. “No.”

Robby shot upright. “YES.”

Jack’s grin widened. The bar recognized the song almost instantly, laughter and cheers breaking across the room as the first bright notes of “Never Gonna Give You Up” filled the speakers.

Jack raised the microphone. He looked directly at you.

“We’re no strangers to love—”

The bar went wild.

You stood at the edge of the stage, face burning, heart betraying you completely.

Jack pointed at you with the solemnity of a man making a vow.

“You know the rules,” he sang, then paused, frowning thoughtfully. “Because we’re married.”

The crowd laughed.

You covered your mouth.

Jack nodded, satisfied by his own lyrical amendment, and kept going.

“And so do I—” Then he leaned closer to the microphone. “Mostly,” he added.

The bar lost it.

You stared at your husband. He winked at you. It should not have worked.

It worked.

The song carried him toward the chorus, and Jack’s grip on the microphone tightened. The goofy triumph in his expression softened into something more focused when he found your eyes again.

“Never gonna give you up—” He pointed at you. “Correct,” he added.

Robby bent over the booth. “He’s fact-checking Rick Astley.”

“Never gonna let you down—” Jack nodded firmly. “Wouldn’t.”

The bar cheered. Your laughter caught somewhere behind your ribs. 

“Never gonna run around and desert you—” Jack stopped singing for half a beat. The backing track kept going without him. 

He leaned toward the microphone. “I would never desert my wife,” he said.

The bar erupted. “NEVER,” someone shouted.

Jack pointed in their direction. “Never.”

You went very still. Because it was ridiculous. It was so ridiculous. He was standing on a sticky karaoke stage in a crowded bar, drunk enough to have publicly indicted your romantic history under fake medieval law, singing Rick Astley with the conviction of a man signing a treaty.

And still, somehow, he meant it.

He meant every stupid word.

The chorus rolled on.

“Never gonna make you cry—” Jack frowned. “No.”

You blinked.

Robby lifted his head so fast he nearly hit the table. “No?”

Jack leaned closer to the mic, deeply concerned. “Sometimes happy tears.”

The bar laughed.

Jack shook his head. “Only happy tears.”

A woman near the front lifted her glass. “Happy tears are acceptable!”

Jack looked relieved. “Thank you.”

Then he looked back at you. “Like when we got married,” he said.

Your mouth softened before you could stop it. Jack’s expression changed, too. Less performance. Less spectacle.

Just Jack.

“She cried,” he told the bar, quieter now. “Happy.”

You pressed your lips together.

“Beautifully,” Jack added. “Very hydrated.”

The laugh broke out of you. The crowd laughed with you. Jack smiled, pleased that he had fixed whatever softness had fallen over the room, and jumped back into the song half a beat late.

“Never gonna say goodbye—” He lifted one hand. “Except for work.”

Cruz’s head snapped up. “He is adding exceptions.”

“Temporary goodbyes,” Jack clarified. “With returns.”

Then he looked at you again. The room seemed to tilt around the two of you.

“Always returns,” he said.

And there it was.

The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.

The reason you had let him get away with the gravel. The reason you were standing beside a karaoke stage while strangers chanted about your standards. The reason your face hurt from smiling, even though you were absolutely going to murder Robby later.

Jack loved you like this when the guardrails came down. Loudly. Badly. With terrible lyrics and worse judgment. But underneath it all, with his whole heart in both hands.

The music kept playing. The bar kept cheering.

Jack kept singing to you as if the song had been written specifically for your marriage, not, in fact, for every wedding reception and internet prank in modern history.

By the time the final chorus hit, the bar had joined him.

Robby was standing in the booth despite Crus trying to pull him down. Santos and Dana were singing into imaginary microphones. Shen had lifted his beer like a candle at a vigil. The karaoke host was laughing so hard he nearly missed the cue to lower the volume.

Jack stood center stage, flushed and bright and triumphant, singing directly to you. “Never gonna give you up—”

The bar shouted with him. “Never gonna let you down—”

Jack pointed at you again. Then, because he apparently had one more amendment to make, he added into the mic, “My wife deserves consistency.”

The bar screamed. You covered your face, laughing helplessly now.

The song ended in a crash of cheers, applause, and someone near the back yelling, “JACK FOR PRESIDENT.”

Jack blinked toward the voice. “No,” he said immediately. “Husband.”

The bar cheered louder.

You laughed so hard you had to grip the edge of the stage.

Jack stepped down carefully, one hand reaching for you before both feet were even on the floor.

You took it automatically.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and clumsy and pleased. 

“Well?” he asked.

You looked up at him.

His hair was a disaster. His cheeks were flushed. His shirt was still half-untucked. He smelled like whiskey and bar heat and your husband’s cologne. Behind him, an entire crowd of strangers was still applauding like they had just witnessed the restoration of true romance.

“Well, what?” you asked.

Jack’s brows pulled together. “Did I woo you?”

You stared at him. “You announced the crimes of my exes to a bar.”

He nodded. “Context.”

“You called me a goddess into a microphone.” You added. 

Jack nodded, “Accuracy.”

“You made strangers chant about my standards.” You continued. 

Jack looked proud. “They were respectful.”

You raised your brows, “You sang Rick Astley at me.”

His thumb moved over your knuckles. “With intent.”

You should have made him suffer longer. You really should have. But he was looking at you with so much drunk, hopeful sincerity that your chest gave up before your pride did.

“Yes,” you said. “You wooed me.”

Jack’s whole face lit. “Fuck yeah.”

The bar shouted it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Jack turned toward them, delighted and deeply moved. Then he looked back at you, eyes bright. “The courtship advances,” he said.

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “Apparently.”

Jack made it back to the booth like a man returning from battle.

A very drunk, very pleased, very publicly adored man returning from battle.

You kept one hand wrapped around his, partly because he reached for you before he even stepped off the stage, and partly because Crus was still half-standing from the booth with the alert, exhausted posture of someone prepared to catch a falling attending physician on his night off.

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours as soon as he reached the table. You stared at your husband. His hair was a mess. His cheeks were flushed. His shirt was still a little untucked from whatever dramatic stage movement he had considered necessary during the final chorus. His wedding band caught the bar lights when his thumb moved over your knuckles.

Behind him, strangers were still cheering. Someone near the dartboard yelled, “Never desert your wife!”

Jack turned immediately and lifted his free hand. “Never.”

The bar cheered again.

You closed your eyes. “This cannot be my life.”

Jack looked back at you, suddenly concerned. “But it is with me?”

Your annoyance took a direct hit. You opened your eyes. Jack was looking down at you with that soft, hopeful, drunken sincerity that made it impossible to stay mad at him for any meaningful length of time.

“Yes,” you said. “It is with you.”

His face opened. “Fuck yeah,” Jack said.

Half the bar echoed it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Jack ignored them and slid into the booth beside you, immediately pressing close. His thigh touched yours. His shoulder touched yours. His hand stayed wrapped around yours on the table, like letting go would be a personal failure.

“You said I wooed you,” Jack said.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the table, Robby pointed at you with a shaky hand. “You did look wooed.”

You turned toward him. “You are on very thin ice.”

Robby sat back and pressed both hands to his chest. “I respect your standards.”

Jack turned toward him instantly. “She has standards.”

“I know,” Robby said.

Jack nodded once, pleased. “Good.”

You looked at Jack. “You made an entire bar chant that.”

Jack’s mouth softened with pride. “They understood.”

You frowned, “They were chanting about my bra.”

“With respect,” Jack said immediately.

Santos lost it. Dana bent forward, laughing into her hands.

You pointed around the table. “Nobody gets to say Bra Hook again.”

Jack nodded gravely. “No more fallen men.”

You turned back to him and lifted a finger. “Correct.”

His expression tightened with solemn understanding. “Boundaries.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a laugh. “Exactly,” you said.

He placed one hand over his heart. “I respect my lady.”

Robby made a tiny squeaking sound. You did not look away from Jack. “Robby.”

Robby slapped both hands over his mouth and shook his head.

Jack’s eyes dipped to your mouth. You saw the thought arrive. It was not subtle.

“Jack,” you said.

He straightened slightly, caught, but not sorry. “Yes, my lady?”

“You’re drunk.” You replied. 

He blinked. Then he nodded once, serious as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”

You nodded once, “Good.”

Jack considered this for a second. Then he looked hopeful again. “Can I kiss your cheek?”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient. You looked at his flushed face. His warm eyes. The ridiculous, reverent set of his mouth. The man had just announced your dating history to an entire karaoke bar and somehow still looked like he was waiting for permission to touch something holy.

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack leaned over, bent his head, and pressed his mouth to your cheek.

The table went quiet for half a second.

Then Robby whispered, “Oh, he’s still got it.”

You shot him a look.

Robby immediately looked at the ceiling.

Jack lifted his head, pleased but still reverent. “A gentleman.”

“You told strangers about Bra Hook.” You replied. 

Jack’s expression turned solemn. “A gentleman honors standards.”

You rolled your eyes, “You are impossible.”

His thumb brushed over the place he had kissed. “But effective?”

You should have made him work harder for it. You really should have.

Instead, you leaned in and kissed him. 

It was meant to be quick. A soft little press of your mouth to his, enough to reward him and shut him up and maybe remind yourself that he was yours even when half the bar had temporarily adopted him.

Jack went completely still. Then you pulled back. His eyes opened slowly. For one perfect second, he only stared at you.

Then his face lit with pure, drunken triumph. “COURTSHIP ADVANCED!”

The booth exploded.

Robby folded forward with a shout of laughter. Santos slapped both hands over her mouth. Dana dropped her forehead onto the table. Shen lifted his glass like a witness at a royal ceremony. Crus closed his eyes and whispered, “I cannot keep living like this.”

A few people nearby heard him. Someone near the dartboard yelled, “COURTSHIP ADVANCED!”

The room cheered.

You turned very slowly toward the crowd. “No. No, we are not making that a thing.”

Jack looked at the cheering strangers, visibly moved. “They’re happy for us.”

“They are drunk.” You pointed out. 

Jack shrugged, “Still kind.”

Robby lifted his head, wiping at his eyes. “This is the best wedding reception I’ve ever been to.”

“We got married years ago,” you said.

Jack’s head snapped back toward you. “We did?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. “Oh, baby.”

Jack looked down at your hand, found your ring, then lifted his own left hand to inspect his wedding band under the bar lights.

His face opened all over again. “We’re married,” he said.

You smiled, helpless. “Yes.”

Jack’s grin broke wide. “Fuck yeah.”

Half the bar echoed it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Crus dropped his head into his hands.

Santos leaned toward Dana, wheezing. “The call and response is getting stronger.”

Jack turned back to you, delighted. “They remember.”

“You don’t,” you said.

Jack considered that. Then he squeezed your hand, pleased and unbothered. “But you tell me.”

Your chest warmed. You looked down at your joined hands, at the slow sweep of his thumb over your ring.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I tell you.”

Jack smiled at you like that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever offered him. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth again.

You touched a finger under his chin before he could lean in. “You’re drunk.”

Jack blinked. Then he straightened immediately. “Right. Boundaries.”

Robby sighed theatrically. “Boo.”

Jack turned on him instantly. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”

Robby lifted both hands, still laughing. “I forgot.”

“You should remember,” Jack said.

Robby nodded, “I do now.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Say you respect my wife’s boundaries.”

Robby sat up straighter, pressing one hand to his chest. “I respect your wife’s boundaries.”

Jack nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

He turned back to you, his seriousness softening into something warmer. His hand slid to your waist, careful and heavy and familiar.

“You know,” Jack murmured.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

His thumb moved once against your side. “I could continue to woo you.”

Your stomach flipped despite yourself. “Could you?”

Jack nodded, solemn and flushed. “At home.”

You raised one eyebrow.

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. “Naked.”

Across the table, Robby made a sound like he had swallowed a firework.

You pointed at him without looking away from Jack. “Do not.”

Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.

You looked back at your husband. “No.”

Jack blinked, wounded. “But wooing.”

“You’re drunk.”

His expression shifted at once, the flirtation giving way to immediate, grave understanding. “Right.”

You softened. “Right.”

“Boundaries,” Jack said.

“Exactly.” You agreed. 

He nodded once, as if accepting a ruling from a very respected court. “The downfalls of alcohol.”

Shen lifted his glass. “A tragic limitation.”

Crus pointed at him. “Do not toast that.”

Jack looked back at you, hopeful again. “Can I still want to woo you naked?”

Your mouth betrayed you, curving at the edges. “Privately.”

Jack nodded hard. “Private naked wooing.”

Santos choked on her drink.

Jack turned toward her, scandalized. “Do not perceive my private naked wooing.”

Dana dropped her forehead onto the table.

You laughed and pressed your face briefly into Jack’s shoulder. “Oh, my god.”

Jack tucked his chin near your hair, pleased and warm. “My wife likes me.”

You lifted your head. “I love you.”

His face softened. Then, before the tenderness could fully settle, Jack turned toward the table with grave importance. “And she likes my naked wooing.”

You froze.

Robby made a sound like his soul had briefly left his body.

Jack lifted one finger. “But only when I’m not drunk.”

Crus closed his eyes. “Why did you need to clarify that?”

“Accuracy,” Jack said.

“Jack,” you warned.

He looked back at you immediately, earnest and a little wounded. “I respected the boundary.”

“You did,” you said quickly.

His expression brightened. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby bent over the table, wheezing.

Jack glanced toward him. “Do not laugh at consent.”

Robby lifted both hands, still shaking. “I would never.”

Shen nodded solemnly. “The clarification was ethically sound.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

You looked at Shen. “Do not encourage naked wooing as a concept.”

Jack turned back to you, softer now, his hand finding yours again under the table. “Private concept.”

You opened your mouth to answer. Jack’s face shifted. A new thought arrived. That was never good.

“One time,” Jack said, turning back toward the table, “I naked wooed her in the—”

“Jack!” You slapped your hand over his mouth.

The entire booth erupted. Robby folded sideways into Santos. Dana shrieked into both hands. Shen’s eyebrows lifted with academic interest. Crus looked at the ceiling like he was personally appealing to God.

Jack went perfectly still beneath your palm. His eyes found yours. Warm. Bright.

Unrepentant.

Then, very gently, he kissed the center of your hand.

Your entire body betrayed you at once.

You kept your hand over Jack’s mouth because if you moved it, he would absolutely continue the sentence. Jack smiled against your palm.

You narrowed your eyes. “No more testimony.”

He nodded solemnly beneath your hand. You lifted your palm a fraction.

Jack immediately murmured, “But it was relevant.”

Your hand went right back over his mouth.

The booth dissolved again.

Jack kissed your palm a second time.

You closed your eyes. “Stop being charming while I’m trying to censor you.”

His eyes crinkled.

Robby slapped the table. “Censorship kiss.”

You turned your head slowly. “Robby.”

He held up both hands. “Sorry. Emotionally, I got swept away.”

Jack gently wrapped his fingers around your wrist and lowered your hand just enough to speak.

“My lady has silenced me,” he announced.

“Correct,” you said.

“With her hand.” Jack continued, raising a brow. 

You glared at him, “Do not make it sound sexy.”

Jack blinked at you. Then, slowly, his mouth curved.

You pointed at him. “Do not.”

He placed one hand over his heart. “A gentleman would never.”

Crus muttered, “Historically untrue based on the last thirty seconds.”

Jack ignored him and leaned closer to you, voice softer. “Can I kiss your hand?”

You stared at him.

He looked so pleased with himself. So warm and flushed and stupidly handsome under the bar lights. So clearly aware that he had found a loophole, you were enjoying despite every ounce of your dignity screaming for help.

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack lifted your hand properly this time and kissed your knuckles with theatrical reverence.

Then he glanced toward the table. “Courtship,” he said gravely, “advanced.”

Robby lost it all over again.

That was when you knew. Not suspected. Knew. The night had reached the point of no return.

Jack was pleased with himself. Robby was incapable of breathing normally. Shen had started using words like “ethically” and “jurisdiction” with alarming confidence. Santos and Dana were openly committed to the bit. Crus looked like he was moments away from writing an incident report on a napkin. 

And you loved your husband too much to let him keep gathering evidence against himself. You squeezed Jack’s hand.

He looked at you immediately. “Yes, my lady?”

You softened despite yourself. “It’s time to go home.”

Jack went very still. His eyes widened. “With you?”

Your heart gave the stupidest little ache. “Yes, Jack. With me.”

His whole face lit up. “Fuck yeah.”

The bar echoed it one more time, softer now, scattered and delighted.

Jack looked around, visibly touched. Then he turned back to you and pressed your hand against his chest like the whole room had given him something precious, and he needed you to hold it with him.

“My wife is taking me home,” he announced.

Crus stood so fast his chair scraped backward. “Finally.”

Robby wiped at his eyes. “End of an era.”

Santos lifted her glass toward you. “Protect your standards.”

Dana pointed at Jack. “Hydrate him.”

Shen nodded solemnly. “And preserve the evidence.”

You looked at Robby’s phone on the table. Robby pulled it protectively against his chest.

You smiled. “Send me everything.”

Robby’s grin went enormous. “Director’s cut?”

Jack perked up. “There’s a director’s cut?”

“No,” you said immediately.

Robby nodded at the same time. “Absolutely.”

Crus grabbed his jacket. “I am begging all of you to walk toward the door.”

You slid out of the booth, still holding Jack’s hand. Jack stood carefully beside you, swaying only a little, his eyes never leaving your face.

“You wooed me,” you said quietly.

His expression softened. “I did?”

“You did.” You confirmed. 

Jack’s smile spread, slow and beautiful and drunk and yours. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered.

This time, only you heard him.

You squeezed his hand and started leading him toward the door.

By the time you got Jack through the front door, he had told the Uber driver you were his wife three times.

The first time had been informational. The second had been celebratory. The third had happened after the driver said, “Have a good night,” and Jack, already halfway out of the car, leaned back in with grave importance and said, “She married me.”

The driver had smiled. “Good for you, man.”

Jack had turned to you on the sidewalk, glowing. “Fuck yeah,” he had whispered.

Now, inside the house, the quiet felt almost startling.

No karaoke track. No strangers cheering. No Robby screaming into his hands. No Santos and Dana wheezing in the booth. No Crus looking like he was reconsidering every friendship he had ever made.

Just the soft click of the front door shutting behind you.

Jack stood in the entryway, blinking slowly like he had crossed into a sacred place.

You set your keys in the little ceramic dish by the door. The courtship rock still sat there.

Jack noticed it immediately. His whole face changed. “My rock,” he said.

You followed his gaze to the pebble.

He stared at the pebble for another second, then looked back at you with fresh wonder. “I wooed you twice.”

“You did,” you said, slipping your hand around his wrist.

His smile went soft and crooked. “Fuck yeah.”

You tugged him gently toward the stairs. “Come on, Romeo. Upstairs.”

Jack followed you immediately. He made it up the stairs with one hand on the railing and the other in yours, taking each step with solemn focus. Halfway up, he paused and looked down at your joined hands.

“My wife is taking me to bed,” Jack said.

You glanced back at him. “To sleep.”

Jack nodded at once. “Boundaries.”

“Exactly,” you said.

He frowned thoughtfully. “The downfalls of alcohol.”

“You’ll survive,” you said.

“I will be brave,” Jack said.

You pressed your lips together and kept leading him up the stairs. “Very brave.”

By the time you got him into the bedroom, he was swaying slightly, eyes heavy, all the adrenaline of the bar finally draining out of him. The dramatic, stage-lit version of him softened into something warmer and clumsier around the edges.

You guided him toward the bed. “Sit,” you said.

Jack sat immediately. Then he looked up at you, dazed and pleased. “Wife voice.”

“Yes,” you said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “Wife voice.”

His eyes tracked your hands. “My lady,” Jack said quietly.

“I am helping you get ready for bed,” you said.

Jack nodded with grave dignity. “For sleep.”

“For sleep,” you confirmed.

“And marriage,” Jack added.

You huffed a laugh. “Sure. And marriage.”

He watched as you worked the first few buttons open. His chest rose under your fingers, warm beneath the fabric, his skin smelling faintly like whiskey and bar air and the cologne you had watched him put on before you left the house.

Jack’s gaze dipped to your face. “You’re pretty,” he said.

You paused. “We’re back to pretty?”

His brow furrowed immediately. “No.”

You smiled.

“Beautiful,” Jack corrected. “Stunning. Gorgeous. An angel.”

“Jack,” you said.

“A goddess,” he finished, satisfied.

You shook your head and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. “Arms.”

He obeyed, lifting both arms enough for you to pull the shirt free. Then he looked down at himself, bare-chested and serious.

“I am naked wooing adjacent,” Jack observed.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“Not wooing,” he clarified quickly. “Adjacent.”

You dropped his shirt into the hamper. “You are going to sleep.”

He nodded, solemn. “Right. Boundaries.”

“Exactly,” you said.

Jack looked down at his belt, then back up at you. “This is not naked wooing?”

“No,” you said, reaching for the buckle.

“Bed preparation,” Jack decided.

“Yes.” You replied. 

Jack grinned, “Domestic.”

“Very domestic,” you said.

His expression softened at that. “I like domestic.”

Your hands slowed on his belt. You looked up at him. His eyes were tired now, the flush fading from his cheeks. He looked younger like this, somehow. Not actually young, not fragile, but stripped of the sharp competence he carried all day. The attending, the husband, the man who could command a trauma bay and apparently a karaoke bar, sitting on the edge of your bed and letting you take care of him without resisting. You slipped the belt free and set it on the dresser. “I like domestic too,” you said.

Jack smiled. Then his face shifted. You recognized it instantly. A thought. A dangerous one.

“One time,” Jack began, very seriously, “I naked wooed you in the—”

“Jack,” you said sharply.

Your hand covered his mouth before he could finish. He went still beneath your palm. For one beat, he just looked up at you, eyes warm and bright and unbearably pleased with himself.

Then he kissed the center of your hand. 

You stared down at him. “Stop being charming while I’m trying to censor you.”

Jack smiled against your palm. You lifted your hand just slightly.

“No more testimony,” you said.

He nodded solemnly beneath your palm. When you finally moved your hand away, he caught your wrist gently and kissed your knuckles, slower this time, sweet and sleepy and still a little theatrical.

“A gentleman,” Jack reminded you.

“You are barely dressed and discussing naked wooing,” you said.

His mouth curved. “A tired gentleman.”

You laughed despite yourself and reached for his sleep shirt from the drawer. “Arms again.”

Jack let you pull the shirt over his head. For a second, he got mildly trapped in the fabric, his voice muffled through the cotton.

“My lady?” Jack asked.

You tugged the shirt down. “I’m right here.”

His head popped free. He blinked at you, then smiled like your face was the first good thing he had seen all night.

“There she is,” Jack said.

Your chest warmed.

“Pants,” you said, because if you let yourself soften too long, you were going to crawl into his lap and reward every terrible choice he had made in that bar.

Jack looked down at his jeans, then back up. “For comfort.”

“For comfort,” you said.

“And not wooing,” Jack added. 

You smiled, “Correct.”

He nodded once. “The rules are clear.”

“They are so clear,” you said.

They were not clear. Nothing about this man had ever been clear. But he trusted you completely as you helped him change into sweatpants, steadying one hand on your shoulder when his balance wobbled. He mumbled another apology to the moon at one point. You ignored it. He asked if the bar had “honored your standards adequately.” You told him yes, and he looked relieved enough that you nearly kissed him again. Then his gaze dropped to his prosthetic. His expression shifted, the drunken playfulness softening into something quieter.

“Leg?” you asked.

Jack nodded at once. “Leg.”

There was no joke in it. No performance. Just trust. That was the thing that always got you. Not the speeches. Not the courtship rocks. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.

It was this.

The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary and intimate as turning down the sheets. You knelt in front of him and carefully helped him ease the fabric out of the way. Your fingers found the release with practiced gentleness, and Jack stayed still, one hand resting lightly against your shoulder while you helped him out of the prosthetic. You set it where he could reach it in the morning.

“There,” you said softly.

Jack looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care,” he said.

Your throat warmed. “So do you.”

Jack considered that, then frowned. “I announced Bra Hook.”

“You also respected boundaries,” you said.

His face brightened. “Fuck yeah.”

You smiled and stood, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Into bed.”

Jack obeyed, carefully shifting back against the pillows and letting you pull the blankets over him. You placed water and painkillers on the nightstand. Jack eyed the glass with distrust.

You raised your eyebrows. He sighed, reached for it, and drank obediently.

“Good,” you said.

Jack lowered the glass. “Wife voice.”

You nodded once, “Yes.”

“My wife?” he asked.

You smiled. “Your wife.”

His face lit, softer now but still immediate. “Fuck yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Stay here while I get ready for bed.”

Jack looked wounded. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you said.

He glanced toward the open bathroom door, then back at you. “Far.”

Your brow furrowed, “It is twelve feet away.”

“Exactly,” Jack said, deeply serious. “Agonizing.” 

You pointed at him. “Stay.”

Jack nodded, settling back into the pillows. “I will wait forever.”

You smiled as you shook your head and walked toward the bathroom. When you came back out a few minutes later, your face washed, your hair pulled back, Jack was exactly where you had left him.

Mostly.

He had shifted onto his side, his head propped clumsily on one hand, watching the bathroom door like it had personally promised to return you to him.

“There she is,” he said softly.

You paused in the doorway. “You stayed.”

“I am obedient,” Jack said. You gave him a look. “Sometimes,” he amended.

You went to the dresser and pulled out your pajamas. Jack watched you with heavy-lidded attention as you changed. Warm, openly adoring, and tragically aware of his own circumstances.

When you pulled your sleep shirt over your head, he sighed. 

You glanced at him. “What?”

Jack stared at the ceiling with theatrical grief. “Curse alcohol.”

You turned toward him, pajama shorts in hand. “Excuse me?”

He looked back at you, solemn and devastated. “For prohibiting me from naked wooing my wife.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile. “Some other time, Romeo.”

Jack’s eyes brightened. “Promise?”

You stepped into your shorts and pulled them up. “When you’re sober.”

He nodded gravely. “A fair condition.”

You walked to the bed and climbed in beside him. “A necessary condition.”

Jack turned toward you at once, careful and warm under the covers. “The downfalls of alcohol.”

You smiled. “You’ve mentioned.”

He looked at you for a long, sleepy second. Then his expression softened into something smaller. “Will you kiss me goodnight?”

Your heart folded in on itself. “Yes, baby,” you said.

Jack went still as you leaned in. The kiss was soft. Gentle. Closed-mouthed. Nothing like the heat he had been hinting at all night. Just a quiet press of your mouth to his, one hand resting against his cheek, his breath warm against you when he exhaled. When you pulled back, Jack’s eyes stayed closed.

“There,” he murmured.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “There?”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Wooed.”

You laughed under your breath and settled beside him. Jack tucked himself closer, one arm sliding around your waist. His face found the curve of your shoulder with the satisfied sound of a man finally exactly where he wanted to be.

“No naked wooing,” he mumbled.

“No naked wooing,” you agreed.

“Just holding,” Jack said.

You smiled softly, “Just holding.”

He nodded against you. “A gentleman.”

You exhaled a laugh, “You are a menace.”

“Your menace,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours, where it rested against your stomach. His wedding band was cool under your fingertips.

“My menace,” you agreed.

Jack was quiet for so long that you thought he had fallen asleep. Then, soft and nearly gone, he murmured, “Did I really woo you?”

You stared into the dark. The bar came back to you in flashes.

Jack under the stage lights. Jack calling you a goddess. Jack declaring he would never desert his wife. Jack amending a ridiculous song so it could hold the weight of what he meant. Jack kissing your hand because it was the only loophole left. You turned your face slightly and kissed his hair.

“Yeah, baby,” you whispered. “You really wooed me.”

His smile pressed against your shoulder. “Fuck yeah,” Jack breathed.

This time, no one echoed him. 

This time, it belonged only to you.

@nosebeers @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixieba, @scott-890, @disappearintofanfiction, @laughsandlivia, @missmillivanilli, @normanscupcake, @tlc3802, @donttalktosposts, @sparklemermaidprincessgirl, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @meowtortellini, @voidsagent, @miahelen, @milesawayyy, @mkiving, @lanadelrey10, @doesanyonereadthis

[afterdarkbydel]

The Work Husband Clause

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2, 980

Summary: John Shen brings you a 48-ounce Dunkin' iced latte; fake marriage paperwork is discussed; and Jack Abbot discovers his girlfriend has a work husband.

Warnings: Established relationship, workplace teasing, jealous-but-not-really jealous Jack, Shen, and Reader being absolute menaces, fake marriage pact, excessive Dunkin, one deeply offensive sweet coffee beverage, no real angst.

Author’s Note: This is pure nonsense, and I love it. Jack is secure in his relationship, but unfortunately, his girlfriend and her work husband have paperwork, annual reviews, and a beverage vessel. Pray for him. Thank you @jennataurus for the idea!

Xoxo, Del

Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.

Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.

Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.

Then he saw what Shen was carrying.

For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.

Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.

Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.

“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”

Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”

You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”

Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.

“No,” Jack said.

You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“I know enough,” Jack replied. 

“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.

“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.

Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”

“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected. 

Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”

“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled. 

You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.

No.

Because he knew.

Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly.

Shen nodded. “Of course.”

Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered. 

Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”

Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”

Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”

Jack nodded once, “It is now.”

You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.

“Jack,” you said gently.

“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”

Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”

“That makes it worse,” Jack replied. 

You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”

“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction. 

You smiled. “With my work husband.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.

Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”

“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.

Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”

“Administrative,” Jack repeated.

“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.

Jack stared at him. “Very little?”

You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”

“Long shifts,” Shen said.

“Bad coffee,” you added.

“Printer failures,” Shen said.

“The cafeteria meatloaf incident,” you said.

Shen’s expression darkened. “We don’t discuss that.”

You nodded. “Out of respect for the dead.”

Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose. 

He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.

You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”

Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”

“He provided the bucket,” you said.

Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”

Jack watched him take a sip.

You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”

Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”

You nodded. “Expected.”

“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.

“But fun artificial?” You asked.

Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”

You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”

Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”

Jack went still again.

Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”

“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”

“No,” Jack replied immediately. 

Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”

Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”

“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”

You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.

Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”

You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Jack said.

You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”

Jack stared at you. You smiled sweetly.

Shen leaned slightly toward you. “I feel supported.”

Jack closed his eyes.

Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.

When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.

“Try it,” you said.

Jack shook his head, “No.”

“One sip.” You implored. 

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”

“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.

Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”

You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”

Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.

You brightened. “Well?”

Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.

Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”

You gasped. “Jack.”

Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”

Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”

You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”

Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped. 

He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.

That was all.

You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”

Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”

Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”

Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”

“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied. 

Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”

“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.

You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”

Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”

You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”

“Or forty,” Shen added.

Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”

Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”

You nodded. “For practical reasons.”

Jack stared at you.

“Tax benefits,” you said.

“Shared expenses,” Shen added.

“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.

“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.

Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”

You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.

Jack looked toward the ceiling.

Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.

“You’re not single,” Jack said.

You patted his chest. “I know.”

“So the pact is void.” Jack continued. 

Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”

Jack pointed at him. “Void.”

“Suspend—”

“Void.” Jack cut him off. 

You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”

Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”

Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”

“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.

Jack frowned, “Not better.”

Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.

“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.

“No,” Jack said.

“Yes,” you and Shen said together.

Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.

Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”

“Allegedly,” Jack said.

Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”

Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”

Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”

You gasped. “Ellis.”

Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”

“Because you did,” Jack said.

Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”

Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”

Ellis’s face lit up. “A what?”

You waved a hand. “It’s not active.”

“Not active,” Shen agreed.

Jack’s eyes shifted to him.

“Void,” Shen corrected.

Ellis blinked. “Do you two have paperwork?”

You nodded solemnly. “A shared note.”

Shen added, “Reviewed annually.”

Jack looked at him. “You have annual paperwork?”

“To assess the health of the union,” Shen said.

“Coffee compatibility,” you said.

“Update emergency contact information,” Shen added.

“Long-term tax strategy,” you finished.

Jack stared at you. “You’re making that up.”

You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”

Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”

Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”

Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.

“The what?” Jack asked.

“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.

Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”

Jack stared at him.

You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”

“And morale,” Shen added.

Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”

“It’s important,” you said.

“Vital,” Shen agreed.

Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”

Shen blinked. “Yes?”

“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”

Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”

Jack looked at him, “No.”

You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”

Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”

“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.

Jack stared at you.

Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.

Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”

Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.

Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”

Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.

Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Immediately,” Jack said.

Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”

“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.

You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”

Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”

Jack smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

Shen removed his arm.

You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.

“Smart,” Jack said.

Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”

Jack looked at him. “Good.”

You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.

Jack’s eyes dropped to you.

Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”

Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.

“Marginally,” he said.

You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”

His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”

Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”

Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”

“Yes?” Shen replied. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”

You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.

“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.

Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”

Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.

“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.

You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”

Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”

“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”

Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”

“Don’t,” Jack warned.

“Yes,” you and Shen said together.

Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”

Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”

“I have been very patient,” Jack said.

“You have,” you said solemnly.

He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”

“You did.” You agreed. 

“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added. 

You nodded, “You did.”

“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.

“Barely,” Shen said.

Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”

Shen nodded. “Understood.”

Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”

You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful. 

“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”

Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.

Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”

Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”

Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”

You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.

Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”

Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” Jack replied. 

You frowned, “You hate it.”

“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”

Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”

“It is not communal property,” Jack said.

“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.

Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”

Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”

You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”

“But under protest.” You added. 

Jack nodded once, “Noted.”

“And I want visitation rights.” You said. 

Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”

You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“The coffee,” you said quickly.

Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”

Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”

You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Shen mouthed, I miss you.

You coughed to hide your laugh.

Jack stopped walking. You froze.

He looked down at you. “What did he do?”

You replied quickly. “Nothing.” 

Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”

Shen did not look up. “Yes?”

“Do not make me come back there.”

Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”

Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

Your smile brightened. “You love me.”

“I do,” Jack said.

You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”

Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.

No, he didn’t.

He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.

“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued. 

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Former work husband,” you corrected.

Jack nodded once, “Better.”

You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”

Jack went very still.

Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”

Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”

Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.

You grinned. “Better?”

Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.

@nosebeers @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixieba, @scott-890, @disappearintofanfiction, @laughsandlivia, @missmillivanilli, @normanscupcake, @tlc3802, @donttalktosposts, @sparklemermaidprincessgirl, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @meowtortellini, @voidsagent, @miahelen, @milesawayyy, @mkiving, @lanadelrey10, @doesanyonereadthis

[serafinacross]

This is equal parts hilarious, much needed, and relatable!

[afterdarkbydel]

Marital Dancing Rights

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Wife!Reader

Summary: Girls’ night is going perfectly. You look hot, your lipstick survived, “Dracula” is playing, and you are having the best night ever. There is only one problem. You love dancing. You love your husband. Therefore, you love dancing with your husband. And your husband is not here.

Warnings: Established relationship/marriage, drunk reader, alcohol consumption, suggestive married flirting, Robby being painfully responsible while also losing his mind, public dancing, dirty jokes, implied past car sex, no actual drunk sex, excessive use of the phrase “my husband,” Santos being Santos, soft caretaking, fluff, humor, mild angst if you squint, Robby has a mouth on him

Author’s Note:

MY FIRST ROBBY FIC!!!

I am so excited/nervous to post this one because I have been living in Jack Abbot land for a while, and Robby is such a different voice to write. He is sharper, grumpier, more exhausted, more reactive, and somehow still deeply, painfully soft when it comes to the people he loves. This started as a drunk wife/girls’ night idea and spiraled into Robby being summoned to a bar because his wife loves to dance, loves her husband, and has decided those two facts are legally connected. Also, yes, this includes “Dracula,” marital dancing rights, Santos creating problems, Robby swearing through emotional devastation, and responsible husband behavior that is somehow hotter than anything else he could have done.

I hope you love my first Robby as much as I loved writing him. Please be gentle with me. I am emotionally attached already.

Xoxo, Del

Robby had lasted exactly eleven minutes pretending he was not going to bring work home. You knew because you had checked the clock when he sat down on the couch with a paperback in one hand, a highlighter tucked behind his ear, and a very convincing expression of a man who had absolutely no intention of opening the stack of discharge summaries on the coffee table.

Eleven minutes later, the book was still open. The charts had migrated closer.

You had not said anything because you were kind. Also, because you had been upstairs getting ready, and you had more important things to do than point out that your husband had the self-preservation instincts of a wet paper towel.

“I’m leaving soon,” you called from the top of the stairs.

Robby made a sound from the living room. It was not a word. It was barely an agreement. It was, however, very Robby, which meant it probably carried six distinct meanings and at least two insults directed at hospital administration. You smiled at your reflection in the hallway mirror and smoothed your hands down your jeans.

They were the jeans.

The ones that made Robby pause in doorways. The ones that made him suddenly fascinated by countertops, bookshelves, coffee mugs, anything he could stare at instead of getting caught looking at your ass like a newlywed with no shame.

Your hair was done. Your lipstick was fresh. Your top was cute enough to make you feel like a person and not just someone who packed lunches, answered emails, washed scrubs, and occasionally fell asleep with your husband’s hand tucked under the hem of your shirt.

Tonight was girls’ night. No PTMC. No charting. No Chief of Emergency Medicine pretending a paperback was going to save him from burnout. Just you, Dana, Santos, Javadi, Cassie, and Mel at a bar with loud music and overpriced drinks.

You came down the stairs. Robby was on the couch, one socked foot hooked over his opposite knee, book open against his thigh. The living room lamp was on low, softening the hard lines of his tired face. He looked like he belonged there and also like he was only one interruption away from going back into the hospital because somebody, somewhere, was probably doing something stupid.

He looked up when you reached the landing. Then he stopped. His eyes moved over you once. Slowly.

Jeans. Top. Hair. Mouth.

His book lowered by an inch.

You gripped the banister and tried very hard not to look pleased.

Robby stared for one more second. Then he said, “That’s not fair.”

Your smile broke wide before you could stop it. “What?”

Robby gestured at you with the hand holding his book, like your entire body was evidence in a case he had no intention of losing. “That.”

You came down the last few steps, deliberately slow now. “That?”

Robby’s eyes dropped again before he dragged them back to your face. “All of that.”

You stopped at the foot of the stairs and smoothed your hands down your top. “You told me to have fun.”

Robby closed the book around one finger to hold his place. “I meant safely.” His gaze betrayed him again, dropping to your jeans. “Not maliciously.”

You laughed, delighted. “Maliciously?”

Robby looked up at you, dry and unimpressed, except for the heat in his eyes. “Honey, you know what you’re doing.”

The warmth in your chest spread fast and bright. You stopped in front of the couch and did a tiny turn, not enough to be obnoxious, just enough to let him suffer.

Robby’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

You widened your eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

Robby tilted his head, book still loose in his hand. “You’re thinking loudly.”

You leaned a hip against the arm of the couch. “What am I thinking?”

Robby looked back at his book like it had answers in it. “That you’re adorable.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

Robby’s mouth twitched before he added, quieter, “And evil.”

You smiled down at him. “There it is.”

He glanced up at you. “You asked.”

You folded your arms, still smiling. “I did.” Then you let your gaze sharpen playfully. “You looked at my ass.”

Robby blinked once. “I did not.”

You stared at him. “Michael.”

He shifted on the couch, painfully casual. “I observed you entering the room.”

You leaned closer. “You were observing my ass.”

Robby’s mouth gave him away first, twitching at the corner. “You brought it with you.”

You burst out laughing. His expression softened for half a second before he looked down quickly, pretending to read the same line he had been stuck on since you reached the stairs. “You checked me out,” you said.

Robby turned a page that he definitely had not finished. “I assessed the situation.”

You moved closer until your knees brushed the couch. “The situation being my ass.”

Robby’s eyes lifted. “The situation being my wife attempting to leave the house looking like that while I’m expected to stay here and behave like a reasonable adult.”

You laughed, pleased enough that you probably should have been embarrassed.

Robby held your gaze for one long second. Then his book closed.

Your smile faltered. Not from nerves. From the way his face changed. “Michael.”

Robby set the book down beside him. “No.”

Your pulse jumped. “No?”

He reached for you before you could step back. “No, because you don’t get to come downstairs in those jeans, look at me like that, accuse me of checking you out, and then act surprised when I do something about it.”

Your stomach flipped. “That feels like a very specific rule.”

Robby’s hand slid from the back of your thigh to your hip. “It’s new.”

You swallowed. “When did you make it?”

His thumb pressed once into your hip. “About ten seconds ago.”

Before you could answer, he tugged. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough. You went willingly, because you were not stupid, and because your husband’s hands were on you, and because girls’ night suddenly felt very far away for something that was supposed to involve an Uber arriving in six minutes. You landed in his lap with a breathless little laugh, knees sinking into the couch cushion on either side of his hips. A little too close. Robby went very still. Your hands caught his shoulders. His face was level with your chest. For one long second, neither of you said anything.

Then Robby’s hands settled at your hips. “Well,” he said, voice lower than before, “would you look at that.”

Heat rushed up your neck. “Michael.”

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and wicked and so pleased with himself it should have been illegal. “Another situation.”

You laughed despite the way your stomach flipped. “You are unbelievable.”

Robby’s thumb moved once at your hip. “I’m observant.”

You looked down at him, trying and failing not to smile. “You are staring at my boobs.”

Robby’s gaze dropped again, then came back to yours with absolutely no shame. “Honey, you put them in my face.”

You pointed at him. “You pulled me.”

His mouth twitched. “And yet here they are.”

Your eyes narrowed. “They?”

Robby leaned back against the couch, looking entirely too comfortable under you. “You want me to pretend I don’t see them?”

You held his stare for half a second. “No.”

His voice dropped. “Good.” Then his hands tightened slightly at your hips. “Because I’m not that good of a man.”

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. Robby noticed. His eyes flicked to your hands, then back to your face. “Well,” he said, voice rougher, “now I want to go to girls’ night.”

You laughed. “Nope.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Nope?”

You sat back slightly in his lap. “You were not invited.”

Robby gave you a flat look. “I’m the Chief of Emergency Medicine.”

You shook your head. “Not of girls’ night.”

His mouth twitched. “That feels like a technicality.”

You smoothed your hands over his shoulders. “It feels like a boundary. Besides, Santos would weaponize your presence.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “Dana would pretend not to enjoy it.”

You smiled. “She’d fail.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Mel would observe quietly and say something devastating in two sentences or less.”

You glanced toward the door like you could already picture it. “Probably.”

Robby continued, voice dry. “Javadi would pretend not to be fascinated.”

You laughed. “She would absolutely be fascinated.”

His fingers flexed against your hips. “And Cassie would ask if it counts as team bonding.”

You looked down at him, smug now. “So you understand why you weren’t invited.”

Robby gave you another flat look. “Deeply.”

His hands moved over your waist, warm and sure, then down to your hips. Lower. Your breath caught before you could stop it. His mouth curved. “See, this is why the jeans are a problem.”

You tried to look stern, but it was difficult when he was looking at you like that. “The jeans are innocent.”

Robby’s fingers flexed once against the denim. “The jeans are an accomplice.”

You swallowed. “To what?”

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to yours. “My bad judgment.”

Your hands tightened on his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

Robby looked up at you, tired and warm and entirely too pleased with himself. “I was.” His thumb dragged once along your hip. “Then you came downstairs.”

Then his mouth was on your neck. Your breath caught. Robby knew exactly where to kiss you. That was one of the many irritating things about being married to him. He knew the places that made your shoulders drop, the places that made your fingers tighten in his shirt, the places that made your brain lose track of whatever perfectly reasonable point you had been trying to make.

His lips moved beneath your jaw.

Then his teeth grazed your skin, sharp enough to make you gasp.

Your hands slid into his hair. “Michael.”

He hummed against your throat. “That sounded a lot like staying home.”

You closed your eyes for half a second. “It was not.”

Robby’s mouth curved against your neck. “You sure?”

Your answer came too quickly. “No.”

Robby pulled back just enough to look at you. Your lipstick was in danger. Your hair was definitely less perfect than it had been two minutes ago. His eyes were dark and amused and too pleased with himself by half. “No?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t look so smug.”

Robby lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not smug.”

“You are extremely smug.”

His hand slid slowly up your back. “Honey, you climbed onto my lap.”

You tapped his chest. “You pulled me.”

He looked at where your finger rested against him, then back at your face. “And yet here you are.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “Interesting.”

You shoved lightly at his shoulder. “You are very annoying.”

He nodded once. “I’ve been told.”

You looked at his mouth. “And very hot.”

His mouth twitched. “Also been told.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt. “Mostly by me.”

Robby’s expression softened, just barely. “Only source I care about.”

That softened you enough that he got away with kissing you again. This one was slower. Deeper. The kind of kiss that made the bar, the girls, the music, the whole outside world blur into something unimportant. His hand slid up your back, pressing you closer, while the other settled low at your hip, fingers flexing like he was trying to decide whether being a good husband meant letting you leave or trying very hard to convince you not to. Knowing Robby, he considered both arguments with clinical seriousness. Then your phone buzzed in your purse—the Uber. Reality returned, rude and bright. You pulled back from his mouth. Robby followed.

You pressed one hand to his chest. “No.”

His expression went deeply offended. “No?”

You started to shift off his lap. 

Robby’s hands tightened at your hips. “Or,” he said.

You paused. “Or?”

His hands slid lower again, clearly, deliberately, unfairly. “Or you could stay home.”

Your stomach did something stupid. “That is cheating.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “That is strategy.”

You glanced down at his hands. “You are making your argument in a very specific location.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “It’s a strong argument.”

You tried to look unimpressed. “You are unbelievable.”

Robby gave you one slow, knowing look. “And yet you’re still in my lap.”

Your phone buzzed again. Your friends this time, probably. You leaned in close enough that your lipstick brushed the corner of his mouth. “Sorry, Mr. Robinavitch.” 

His eyes narrowed.

You smiled. “This ass is going to girls’ night.” Robby stared at you. “Alone,” you added.

His hand tightened once at your hip, like he was trying to make peace with a terrible diagnosis.

Then his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “That ass is coming home to me.”

Your stomach dipped hard. “Michael.”

His thumb moved once, still warm through the denim. “What?” he asked. “I’m respecting the sanctity of girls’ night.”

You laughed, breathless and warm. “You are actively disrespecting the sanctity of my Uber.”

Robby glanced toward your purse. “Your Uber can wait.”

You shook your head. “My friends cannot.”

He looked back at you. “Santos can absolutely wait. She loves drama.”

You nodded despite yourself. “She loves creating it.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Exactly. She’ll understand.”

You pressed one more quick kiss to his mouth before you could make a worse decision.

Robby tried to follow.

You pulled back. “I have lipstick on, and you already look too proud of yourself.”

Robby’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “You kissed me.”

You pointed at him. “You started it.”

His voice dropped. “I’m finishing it later.”

The words hit low and warm. You swallowed.

Robby noticed that too, because of course he did. His hand softened at your waist. “Go,” he said, voice rougher now. “Before I stop being supportive.”

You blinked at him. “You were being supportive?”

Robby’s hand moved once at your hip. “I was supporting your ass.”

You smacked his shoulder.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, eyes still on yours. “Text me when you get there.”

You softened. “I will.”

His thumb moved over your ring. “And if you need me—”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll call.”

Robby held your gaze for one more second. “Good.”

You climbed off his lap before you could talk yourself out of leaving.

Robby stayed where he was, head tipped back against the couch, book forgotten against his thigh, looking entirely too satisfied for a man who had just tried to ruin your plans and your lipstick in one sitting. You adjusted your top, smoothed your jeans, and checked your reflection in the mirror near the door. Then you stopped. “Michael.”

He looked over, innocent in a way that immediately made him guilty. “What?”

You turned toward him. “You ruined my lipstick.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then his expression became very calm and unapologetic. “Worth it.”

You crossed your arms. “Tell that to your face.”

Robby frowned. You pointed at him. Slowly, suspiciously, he lifted a hand to his mouth. His fingers came away colored. Your lipstick was smeared at the corner of his mouth, faint along his jaw, and just under the edge of his scruff where he had gotten entirely too enthusiastic about your neck. For one full second, Robby just looked at his fingers. Then he looked back at you.

You tried very hard not to laugh.

He sighed. “That’s less subtle than I thought.”

You stepped closer, delighted. “You have my lipstick on your jaw.”

Robby rubbed at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I gathered.”

You pointed again. “And your mouth.”

He glanced at his fingers. “I have been informed.”

You tilted your head, inspecting him. “And your neck.” His eyebrows lifted. You smiled sweetly. “Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

You gestured toward his face. “You look compromised.”

He looked up at you, lipstick still faint on his skin. “I am compromised.”

Its honesty made your stomach flip. Robby saw it immediately, because of course he did, and his mouth curved slowly despite the lipstick still smeared across his face.

You pointed at him again. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t get to look sexy while wearing my lipstick and then expect me to leave on time.”

Robby reached for the tissue box on the side table. “I’m not expecting anything.”

You watched him pull out a tissue. “You are sitting there with an agenda.”

He wiped at his jaw badly. “ I always have an agenda.”

You shook your head and turned back to the mirror, digging your lipstick out of your purse. Behind you, Robby kept wiping at his jaw.

You watched him in the mirror. “You’re making it worse.”

Robby paused. “I’m a doctor.”

You uncapped your lipstick. “You are not a makeup artist.”

His eyes lifted to yours in the mirror. “I’ve controlled arterial bleeds.”

You smiled sweetly. “Congratulations. My lipstick is apparently more challenging.”

He gave you a flat look in the mirror. You reapplied your lipstick while he watched. When you were finished, you pressed your lips together once and capped the tube. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Robby leaned back against the couch. “I’m not doing anything.”

You tucked the lipstick into your purse. “You’re thinking loudly.”

He tossed the ruined tissue onto the coffee table. “I’m thinking that girls’ night is already becoming a pain in my ass.”

You turned from the mirror. “Because I’m leaving?”

His eyes flicked down. “Because you’re leaving in those jeans with fresh lipstick after I just fixed my face.”

You crossed the room toward him. “You fixed maybe forty percent of your face.”

Robby held out the tissue. “Good enough for staying home.”

You took the tissue from his hand and carefully wiped the last mark from the corner of his mouth. Robby held still. Mostly. His hand found your hip again.

You gave him a warning look. “Do not.”

His face stayed innocent. “I’m not.”

You glanced down at his hand. “You are.”

His thumb rested against your hip. “I’m supporting the cleanup process.”

You gave him a look. “You are supporting my hip.”

Robby nodded. “Important part of the process.”

You laughed and pulled the tissue away. “There. Now you look respectable.”

Robby looked up at you, eyes warm and dark and entirely too pleased. “Shame.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. He noticed that too.

You stepped back quickly. “Nope.”

His mouth twitched. “Go, honey.”

You grabbed your purse. “I am.”

Robby watched you move toward the door. “Text me when you get there.”

You opened the door and looked back. “I will.”

His gaze held yours. You smiled. You laughed and pulled the door open wider.

“Have fun, Mrs. Robinavitch,” he said.

The name hit you exactly where it always did.

Low. Warm. Married. You glanced back at him.

He was still on the couch, lipstick mostly gone, book forgotten, looking tired and gorgeous and grumpy enough to make your heart do something stupid.

“Try not to think about my ass.”

Robby picked up his book, though you both knew he had no idea what page he was on anymore.

“Impossible request,” he said. “But I’ll pretend.”

You were still laughing when you closed the door behind you.

By the time your third drink arrived, Santos had already convinced Cassie to request a song, Javadi had pretended she did not know the words to the last three tracks and then sang every one anyway, and Dana had taken on the silent, self-appointed role of making sure everyone had water. Mel watched the table with a small smile, her drink held between both hands. “This is why Robby wasn’t invited,” Mel said.

Santos gasped. “Robby wasn’t invited because he would ruin the vibe.”

Cassie leaned closer to you. “Would he actually come to girls’ night?”

You smiled into your drink. “Only if he was dragged.”

Santos pointed at you. “Or summoned.”

You lowered your glass and gave her a warning look. “Do not summon my husband.”

Santos grinned. “No promises.”

You laughed because it was easy. Because the bar was packed and loud and a little sticky, the kind of place where everyone had to lean in to be heard, and the lights over the dance floor turned people into flashes of movement and color. It was not fancy. The drinks were too expensive. Someone near the bar had yelled the wrong lyrics to three songs in a row. It was perfect. You were having the best time. Not the polite kind of best time. Not the kind where you checked your phone every ten minutes and wondered when you could reasonably leave. The real kind. The kind where your face hurt from laughing and your lipstick was somehow still intact and the jeans had already earned three separate compliments, one from Santos, one from Cassie, and one from a woman in the bathroom who had grabbed your arm like it was medically necessary to tell you that your ass looked amazing.

You had texted Robby when you got there. You: Made it.

He had replied almost immediately. Robby: Good.

You looked down at the single word and smiled anyway, because Robby could make one syllable sound grumpy and relieved at the same time. Then another message came through.

Robby: Have fun. Call if you need me.

You typed back with one thumb. You: I won’t need you. It’s girls’ night.

The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally, his message came through. Robby: I’m aware. I wasn’t invited.

You smiled into your drink. You typed back. You: Try not to be sad about it.

This time, his response came faster. Robby: Devastated. Inconsolable. Barely surviving.

You laughed down at your phone. A second later, another message appeared. Robby: Call me anyway if you need me.

Your chest did that soft, stupid thing it always did when he let himself be sweet under the sarcasm. Santos made a noise beside you. You looked up immediately. “What?”

Santos smiled like she had found evidence. “That was disgusting.”

You slid your phone into your purse. “You are disgusting.”

Santos lifted her drink. “No, I am single and observant.”

Dana’s eyes cut to her. “Those are both dangerous things for you to be.”

Cassie laughed and leaned into your shoulder. “You two are cute.”

You pointed at Cassie with your straw. “Do not say that where Robby can hear you.”

Mel’s eyes gleamed. “Would he deny it?”

You sat back in the booth. “He would file a formal complaint.”

Dana nodded once. “He would.”

Javadi smiled into her glass. “And then do something cute while complaining.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Nothing came out. Santos slapped the table. “Exactly.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “I hate all of you.”

Mel looked around the table, her expression warm. “No, you don’t.”

You followed her gaze. Dana’s quiet amusement. Santos’s chaos. Javadi’s barely hidden grin. Cassie’s bright curiosity. Mel’s steady warmth. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

That was when the song changed. The opening beat of “Dracula” slid through the bar, darker and slicker, the kind of song that made the whole room shift before anyone consciously decided to move. The dance floor filled by instinct. Santos’s head snapped up. “Oh,” Santos said.

Dana looked wary immediately. “What?”

Santos turned to you, eyes bright. “This one is yours.”

You were already standing. “Obviously.” Cassie laughed as you grabbed her hand.

Mel set her drink down. “There she goes.” 

Javadi slid out after you, shaking her head like she was above it and absolutely was not. Santos followed with a delighted whoop. Dana stayed seated for half a second longer, looking at the four of you like you were all a problem she had been assigned. Then Dana sighed, stood, and followed. The music hit your body before you reached the dance floor. You loved this. You loved the bass, the lights, the way the room blurred around the edges until there was nothing to think about except the beat and the girls laughing around you. Santos danced like she was daring the world to keep up. Cassie danced as if she were surprised by how much fun she was having. Javadi tried to pretend she was only participating socially, and then immediately betrayed herself by knowing every single beat. Mel danced close enough to keep everyone together, smiling with her whole face. Dana danced with the restrained confidence of someone who had absolutely done this before and had chosen not to disclose that information.

You threw your head back and laughed. For a while, you were just happy. Hot. Loose. A little drunk. Very alive. The jeans were working. The lipstick was holding. Robby was home, probably pretending to read while doing charting he had sworn he would ignore, and you were here, with your friends, dancing under bar lights like your body belonged entirely to you. It felt good. So good that when Santos grabbed both your hands, you let her spin you.

You got back to your table, laughing, breathless, your cheeks warm. “This is the best night ever,” you announced.

Santos lifted both arms. “We’re only an hour in.”

You nodded seriously. “I stand by it.”

Dana checked the glass you had left on the table. “How much of that drink did you have?”

You pointed at Dana. “Don’t medically supervise me.”

Dana lifted an eyebrow. “I’m a nurse.”

Javadi leaned toward Cassie. “She says that to Robby, too.”

You pointed at Javadi next. “No commentary.”

Mel handed you your water. “Drink.”

You took the water immediately. “I like that you said it nicely.”

Dana’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”

You drank enough to satisfy the collective stare of five women who had all seen too much at PTMC to let anyone they loved dehydrate in a bar. Then you set the glass down and turned back toward the dance floor. That was when the man approached. He was nice-looking in a harmless way. Tall. Polite smile. Hands visible. Not crowding you. Not touching you. He stopped at a respectful distance. “Hey,” the man said. “Do you want to dance?”

You froze. The question hit you strangely. Not scary. Not offensive. Just wrong. You blinked at him. “With you?”

His smile faltered slightly. “Uh, yeah. If you want.”

You stared at him for one long, deeply distressed second. Then you shook your head. “No.”

The man lifted both hands immediately. “No problem. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

You frowned because now he looked apologetic, and that was not right either. “You didn’t.”

The man hesitated. “Okay.”

You pressed a hand to your chest like you needed him to understand the important part. “You’re just not my husband.”

Behind you, Santos made a sound that suggested she had just inhaled half her drink.

The man’s eyes flicked to your left hand. “Oh,” he said quickly. “Totally fair.”

You nodded, solemn and sad. “I have a husband.”

The man smiled, still backing away. “Good for you. Have a good night.”

You meant it when you answered him. “You too.”

He left. Nicely. Respectfully. Completely unprepared for whatever had just happened.

You watched him go, then turned back to the table. Your bottom lip pushed out before you could stop it. “Boo.”

Dana looked at you over her drink. “Boo?”

You nodded, deeply wounded. “My husband didn’t ask me to dance.”

Santos set her glass down very carefully. “Oh, my God.”

Mel’s expression softened, though her mouth twitched. “Honey, your husband isn’t here.”

Your eyes widened. “I know.”

Cassie leaned toward Javadi and whispered, “Oh, she’s sad, sad.”

Javadi nodded as if she were observing a clinical phenomenon. “Very.”

You pointed toward the dance floor, where music was still playing, still pulsing, still existing without Robby. “I love to dance.”

Dana folded her hands around her glass. “Yes.”

You pressed your palm to your chest. “And I love my husband.”

Mel nodded. “Also yes.”

You looked around the table, devastated by the math of your own life. “So I love to dance with my husband.”

Santos pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Dana closed her eyes briefly. “There it is.”

You looked back at the dance floor, miserable now. “But my husband is not here.”

Mel slid your water closer. “Take a sip.”

You looked at the glass, then back at her. “Will it make my husband appear?”

Cassie made a noise that sounded painfully close to a squeak. Mel’s face softened further. “No.”

You pushed the glass away by an inch. “Then I’m very upset about it.”

Dana sighed and nudged the water back toward you. “Drink anyway.”

You frowned at her. Dana held your stare. “If we call him, the first thing he’s going to ask is whether you’ve had water.”

That made sense. Robby would ask that. Robby would ask if you were safe, if you were hurt, if you had water, if anyone had touched you, and then he would act annoyed while doing exactly what you needed him to do. Your chest pinched. You picked up the water and drank.

Santos watched you, delighted. “Wow. That worked immediately.”

You set the glass down with dignity. “I respect my husband’s medical opinions.”

Javadi coughed into her drink. Cassie smiled at you. “That’s sweet.”

You turned to Cassie, suddenly very serious. “He’s very smart.”

Dana nodded slowly. “He is.”

You added, because it was important, “And hot.”

Santos’s face lit up. “Oh, we’ve entered that phase.”

Mel reached for her own drink. “What phase?”

Santos leaned back in the booth like she was preparing to deliver a lecture. “The husband phase.”

You pointed at Santos. “Correct.”

Dana leaned back in the booth. “Do we need to define that?”

Santos answered at the same time Javadi did.

“No,” Santos said.

“Probably,” Javadi said.

You ignored them both. “I love girls’ night,” you said.

Cassie patted your arm. “We love you too.”

You nodded. “And I love dancing.”

Dana’s gaze flicked to Mel. Mel’s mouth twitched. You continued, because everyone needed to understand. “But I cannot dance with the girls.”

Santos leaned forward, offended. “Excuse me?”

You touched Santos’s hand, earnest. “You’re beautiful.”

Santos’s expression softened immediately. “Thank you.”

You squeezed her hand once. “But you are not my husband.”

Santos sat back. “That is true.”

Mel tried to comfort you. “You can dance with Robby when you get home.”

You turned to Mel with the patience of a woman explaining something very obvious to a room full of interns. “The music is here.”

Dana stared at you for one beat. Then another. Finally, Dana said, “That’s hard to argue with.”

You pointed at her. “Thank you.”

Javadi looked down at the table, shoulders shaking. Cassie was fully smiling now. “So the problem is that the music is here, and Robby is not.”

You nodded, relieved someone understood. “Yes.”

Santos lifted both hands. “And because we are not your husband, you cannot dance with us.”

You nodded again. “Exactly.”

Mel took a slow sip of her drink. “This is airtight drunk logic.”

Dana pushed your water toward you again. “It is drunk, at least.”

You drank without being told twice. Then you looked at your phone. Your whole face fell. “My husband is at home.”

Dana’s voice softened. “He is.”

You looked at Dana, eyes suddenly wet. “Alone.”

Santos froze. “Oh, no.”

Mel put a hand over her heart. “Oh, honey.”

You stared down at your phone, miserable. “I left him alone with his book.”

Javadi opened her mouth. Dana shook her head once. Javadi closed her mouth.

Cassie bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh. “Is the book bad?”

You looked up, horrified. “No, but the charts are.”

Dana nodded as if this were a valid concern. “The charts are a risk.”

“He needs supervision,” you said.

Santos reached for your phone. “Okay, I think we have to call him.”

Dana took your phone before Santos could. “I’ll call him.”

Santos looked offended. “Why do you get to call?”

Dana gave her a look. “Because I will lead with ‘she’s safe,’ and you will lead with ‘guess what your wife did.’”

Santos considered this. Then nodded. “Fair.”

Dana tapped Robby’s contact. You sat up straighter, suddenly nervous. “Wait.”

Dana paused with the phone halfway to her ear. “What?”

You smoothed your hands over your jeans. “Do I look okay?”

Every woman at the table softened and lit up at once. Santos pointed at you. “You look hot.”

Cassie nodded immediately. “So hot.”

Javadi smiled. “The jeans are excellent.”

Mel’s voice was warm. “Your lipstick is perfect.”

Dana’s expression gentled. “You look beautiful.”

Your eyes stung again. “My husband likes these jeans.”

Santos lifted both eyebrows. “I’m sure he does.”

You nodded solemnly. “He said they were a problem.”

Mel smiled. “That sounds like Robby.”

You looked down at your lap. “They’re an accomplice.”

Javadi blinked. “To what?”

You opened your mouth. Then frowned. “I don’t remember.”

Santos grinned. “I cannot wait for him to get here.”

Dana pressed the phone to her ear. You grabbed your water and drank again because Robby would ask. The phone rang twice.

Then Robby answered, voice rough and familiar. “Honey?”

Dana’s eyes flicked to you. “She’s safe,” Dana said.

Robby went quiet. Then his voice sharpened. “Dana, why do you have my wife’s phone?”

In the background, you leaned toward the phone. “I’m sad.”

Robby paused. “Is that my wife?”

Santos leaned closer to Dana’s shoulder. “Your hot wife.”

Dana held up one hand to silence her. “She’s fine,” Dana said. “No one’s hurt.”

Robby exhaled, but not enough to sound relieved. “Is she okay?”

Dana looked at you. You shook your head, then reconsidered. “I miss him.”

Dana closed her eyes. “She’s okay.”

Robby’s voice turned flatter. “Drunk?”

Dana glanced at your half-finished drink and the empty glass beside it. “A little.”

You frowned. “I am appropriately festive.”

Santos nodded. “Put that in the chart.”

Robby heard enough to sigh. “What happened?”

Dana opened her mouth. Santos leaned in again before she could answer. “A nice man asked her to dance.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Robby’s voice changed. “Define nice.”

You sighed softly. “He was nice.”

Dana gave Santos a look before she answered Robby. “Polite,” Dana said. “Respectful distance. Left immediately when she said no.”

Robby’s question came fast. “Did he touch her?”

Dana’s expression softened despite herself. “No.”

Robby asked another question immediately. “Did he scare her?”

You leaned toward the phone again, offended. “No. He wasn’t scary.”

Robby went quiet. Dana looked at you. You looked deeply wounded. “He just wasn’t my husband,” you said.

Another silence. This one was different. Softer. Santos pressed both hands over her mouth. Dana’s eyes warmed.

On the other end of the phone, Robby exhaled. “Put her on,” he said.

Dana handed you the phone. You took it carefully with both hands, as if it were something precious. “Michael?”

His voice changed immediately. “Hey, honey.”

Your chin wobbled. “A guy asked me to dance.”

“I heard.”

You looked down at your jeans, feeling suddenly very serious. “He was nice.”

“That’s good.”

You rubbed your thumb along the edge of your phone case. “But he wasn’t you.”

Robby was quiet for half a second. Then he said, softer, “Yeah, honey. I heard that too.”

You swallowed hard. “I love to dance.”

“I know.”

You pressed one hand to your chest. “And I love my husband.”

His voice went even quieter. “I know.”

You looked toward the dance floor. “So I love to dance with my husband.”

You heard him shift on the other end of the line. “Okay.”

You frowned because he did not sound like he understood the full seriousness yet. “But my husband is not here.” Robby was silent. You added, because this was the entire point, “The music is here.”

Santos dropped her forehead onto the table. Mel rubbed your shoulder. Dana watched you with the controlled face of a woman trying very hard not to smile.

You sniffed. “I’m very upset about it.”

On the other end, Robby sighed. But it was not his annoyed sigh. Not really. It was the sigh he gave when he was already standing up. “Yeah,” Robby said. “I’m getting that.”

Your face lifted. “You are?”

Robby’s answer came immediately. “I am.”

You clutched the phone tighter. “Are you coming to the music?”

There was a pause. Then Robby said, “I’m coming to the bar.”

You considered that. “The music is at the bar.”

“I have been informed.”

You smiled, sudden and bright. “Okay.”

Robby’s voice warmed. “Did you drink water?”

You looked at Dana, triumphant. “I did.”

Dana pointed at the glass. You took another sip while Robby was still on the phone. “I’m drinking more now,” you told him.

“Good girl,” Robby said, distracted and relieved.

The table went dead silent. Santos’s eyes widened. Cassie’s mouth fell open. Mel looked down into her drink like she was suddenly very interested in the ice. Javadi pressed her lips together. Dana stared at the ceiling.

You, however, melted fully in the booth. “Oh,” you whispered.

Robby went still on the phone. Then, very carefully, he said, “Honey.”

You blinked slowly. “You said good girl.”

Santos made a dying sound into her napkin. Robby’s voice dropped into warning. “Do not repeat that to the table.”

You looked around at the table. Everyone was already staring. “Too late,” you whispered.

Robby muttered something under his breath. It sounded like fuck.

You smiled dreamily. “My husband swears.”

Santos whispered, “We know.”

Robby heard her. “Santos,” he said.

She leaned toward the phone, delighted. “Chief.”

“If my wife is not upright and hydrated when I get there, I’m blaming you.”

Santos placed a hand over her heart. “I accept this sacred duty.”

Dana took the phone back before it got worse. “We’ll keep her at the table,” Dana said.

“Thank you,” Robby said.

His voice was dry again, but softer underneath. You leaned toward the phone one last time. “Michael?”

Robby answered immediately. “Yeah, honey?”

You smiled. “Wear shoes.”

Robby was silent for one beat. Then he said, “I was planning to.”

You nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

Robby waited. You added, “Because we have to dance.”

Robby exhaled through his nose. “One dance,” he said.

Your whole face lit up. Dana looked at you and knew immediately that Robby had made a grave tactical error. “One husband dance,” you said.

Robby’s voice went rough around the edges. “Yeah, Mrs. Robinavitch. One husband dance.”

Dana ended the call before Santos could scream directly into the phone. For three seconds, the table stayed quiet. Then Santos exploded. “He is so fucked.”

You looked down at your phone, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Dana pushed your water closer again. “Drink,” she said.

You obeyed happily. Because your husband was coming. The music was here. Soon, Robby would be too.

Robby arrived fifteen minutes later. Dana saw him first. She had positioned herself at the end of the booth with the kind of quiet tactical awareness that made it clear she had been monitoring the door, your water intake, Santos’s volume, and your emotional stability all at once.

“There he is,” Dana said.

You turned so fast that Mel had to catch your glass before your elbow sent it sliding across the table. Robby stood just inside the bar, framed by the front door and the humid Pittsburgh night behind him. He had clearly not dressed for a night out. Jeans. Dark jacket. The same T-shirt he had been wearing at home, maybe with less lipstick on it now. His hair was a little mussed, like he had run a hand through it on the drive over. His face had that tired, serious set it got when he had been pulled out of quiet and into noise.

Your whole body went warm. “Michael.”

Robby’s eyes found you immediately. Something in his expression shifted. Not a lot. Not enough for anyone else, maybe. But you knew his face. You knew the line of his mouth when he was worried. You knew the way his shoulders held tension until he confirmed you were intact. You knew the way his eyes moved over you once, fast and clinical first, husband second.

No blood. No fear. Upright. Hydrated enough. Drunk, yes. But safe.

Only then did his gaze soften.

Santos leaned across the booth, stage-whispering loudly enough to count as public record. “Oh, he’s already done.”

Robby’s eyes cut to her. “Santos.”

She smiled brightly. “Chief.”

“I’m not on shift.”

Santos lifted her glass. “Even better.”

Dana stood and offered him your purse. “She’s fine.”

Robby took the purse from Dana without looking away from you. “I see that.”

You frowned. “You sound skeptical.”

His mouth twitched. “Honey, you told me the music was here.”

Your face lit up because he remembered. “It is.”

Robby looked briefly toward the dance floor, then back at you. “Yeah. I found it.”

Cassie pressed both hands over her mouth. Mel looked down at her drink, but she was smiling. Javadi sat very still, the way people sat when they were trying not to make a sound.

You slid out of the booth. Too quickly. Robby stepped forward at once, hand catching your elbow before Dana could even reach for you. “Easy.”

You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him. “You came.”

His thumb moved once against the inside of your arm. “You called.”

“Dana called.”

Robby’s eyes flicked to Dana. “Dana called from your phone after opening with ‘she’s safe,’ which took ten years off my life.”

Dana’s mouth curved. “You’re welcome.”

You leaned closer to Robby, whispering with drunk seriousness. “I was sad.”

His attention came back to you immediately. “I know.”

You frowned. “A guy asked me to dance.”

Robby nodded once. “I heard.”

“He was nice.” You continued, lip trembling.

Robby brushed his hand down your arm. “That’s good.”

You looked up at him, wounded all over again by the memory. “But he wasn’t you.”

Robby’s face changed. The dry amusement faded just enough for something softer to show through. “I know, honey.”

Behind him, Santos made a quiet, strangled sound. Robby pointed toward her without turning his head. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

Santos pressed her lips together.

You reached for the front of Robby’s jacket. “I love to dance.”

His hand settled at your waist, automatic and steady. “I know.”

You stepped a little closer. “And I love my husband.”

Robby swallowed. “I know.”

You looked toward the dance floor, then back at him. “So I want to dance with my husband.”

His mouth softened at one corner. “Yeah.”

Your fingers tightened in his jacket. “The music is here.”

Robby exhaled through his nose like he was trying very hard not to smile. “I remember that part.”

“So,” you said, looking up at him expectantly.

Robby glanced at the table. Dana looked calm. Mel looked touched. Javadi looked fascinated. Cassie looked delighted. Santos looked like she was seconds away from becoming a legal problem.

Robby looked back down at you. “One dance.”

Your whole face lit up. “One husband dance.”

His expression softened before he could stop it. “One husband dance,” he agreed.

Santos made a triumphant noise.

Robby looked at her. “You make one comment, I leave.”

You gasped and grabbed his jacket tighter. “No.”

His eyes came right back to you. “I’m not leaving.”

You looked at him gravely. “You promised.”

“I said one dance,” Robby replied.

You nodded solemnly. “That is a promise.”

Robby stared at you for half a second. Then he sighed. “Fine. Apparently, that’s contract law now.” Robby set your purse on the table, then started guiding you toward the dance floor.

You stopped. He stopped with you immediately. “What?”

You looked toward the speakers, then back at him with sudden distress. “This isn’t the song.”

Robby blinked. “What song?”

You gave him a look as if he were being medically obtuse. “The song.”

Santos was already sliding out of the booth. Dana caught her wrist. “What are you doing?” Dana asked.

Santos grinned. “Fixing the marital emergency.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed. “That sentence better not involve me.”

Santos lifted her phone. “It exclusively involves you.”

Mel leaned toward Cassie. “She’s requesting it again.”

Cassie smiled. “That feels right.”

Robby looked at Dana. “Stop her.”

Dana took a sip of her drink. “No.”

Robby stared at her. “You’re letting this happen?”

Dana’s mouth curved. “I’m off duty.”

Robby glared at her. “That has never stopped you from having judgment.”

Dana shrugged. “It is stopping me tonight.”

A minute later, the opening pulse of “Dracula” came back through the speakers.

Your whole face lit up.

Robby looked toward the ceiling. “Of course.”

Santos slid back into the booth, triumphant. “You’re welcome.”

Robby pointed at her. “You’re fired.”

Santos lifted her drink. “I’m off duty.”

“Recreationally fired,” he said.

You tugged on his jacket. “Michael.”

His attention came right back to you. “What, honey?”

You pointed toward the dance floor. “The music.”

Robby sighed, but his hand was already settling at your waist. “Right,” he said. “The music.”

Robby led you onto the dance floor with one hand at your waist and the other loosely around your hand. At first, he held you as if he were transporting a patient with questionable balance. Careful. Measured. Responsible. You stared at him.

Robby looked down at you. “What?”

You frowned at his feet. Then his hips. Then his face. “What are you doing?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Dancing.”

You looked at him for one long second. Then you said, “Michael.”

That made him immediately suspicious. Robby’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

You planted both hands on his shoulders. “Move your hips.”

Robby stared at you. From the table, someone made a sound. It was probably Santos.

Robby did not look away from you. “Honey, I am moving.”

You looked down again. Then back up. “No. You’re transferring weight.”

Dana choked on her drink somewhere behind him. Robby’s mouth flattened. “That is movement.”

You shook your head, solemn and drunk and disappointed. “That is physical therapy.”

His eyebrows rose. “I am a physician.”

You slid your hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck. “Then you should understand anatomy.”

Robby closed his eyes briefly. “Jesus Christ.”

You smiled up at him, pleased. “I’m serious.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Robby said.

You glanced down at his body again, then back up with deep concern. “You’re dancing like hospital administration is watching.”

Robby opened his eyes. “Worse.”

You blinked.

His gaze flicked past you toward the booth. “Santos is watching.”

You glanced back. Santos waved. You looked at Robby again. “She’s waving.”

“I know,” Robby said.

You frowned. “You didn’t look.”

Robby shrugged. “I felt it.”

You laughed, bright and loose, and pressed closer before he could stop you. Robby’s hand tightened at your waist. “Careful.”

You beamed up at him. “See? You can do it.”

Robby looked down at you. “That was me keeping you upright.”

“With rhythm,” you said.

“With concern,” Robby corrected.

You rolled your eyes and moved with the beat, trying to coax him into it by sheer married persistence. Robby resisted for exactly four seconds. Then his hand settled more securely at your waist. Not polite now. Not clinical. Still safe. Still steady. But warmer. More familiar. More husband than physician.

Your smile softened into something victorious. “There he is.”

Robby looked down at you. “You’re a menace.”

You nodded. “I’m hot.”

His stare sharpened. “I am well the fuck aware of that.”

Your mouth fell open in delight. Behind him, Santos made a sound like she had witnessed history. Robby pointed backward without looking. “Do not.”

You grinned up at him. “I wore the jeans.”

His jaw worked. “I am also painfully aware of that.”

You leaned closer, thrilled. “The ones you like.”

His hand flexed once at your waist. “Honey, you know I noticed those goddamn jeans before you left the house.”

You smiled slowly. “And I did my lipstick.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth before he could stop them. Your smile turned smug. “See?”

Robby looked back up, pained. “I wore half of it before you left the house. I noticed.”

You laughed. He stared down at you for one beat too long. Then his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying this.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Robby gave you a dry look. “You’re drunk.”

You nodded again. “Also yes.”

His hand stayed firm at your waist. “And you’re trying to kill me in front of my coworkers.”

You tilted your head. “They’re off duty.”

“That does not make this better.”

You smoothed your hands over his shoulders. “Robby.”

His eyes narrowed again. “That tone is dangerous.”

You held his gaze. “I’m hot.”

Robby exhaled through his nose. “We covered that.”

You moved a little closer, your body finding the rhythm even if his dignity was still fighting for its life. “You’re hot.”

“That has been alleged,” Robby said.

You smiled. “And I’m your wife.”

His expression shifted. Softer. Hotter. “That one’s documented.”

Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck. “So dance like you know that.”

For a second, the joking fell away. Robby looked down at you, and the noise of the bar blurred around the edges. You were drunk, yes. He knew that. He had cataloged it the second he walked in. The looseness of your smile. The shine in your eyes. The way your balance kept trusting him before your feet did. But you were also his wife. His beautiful, ridiculous, delighted wife, who had called him out into the night because someone else had asked you to dance and it had made you miss him. His wife, who had come downstairs in the jeans he liked and the lipstick he had ruined and then fixed, who had laughed in his lap and left anyway, who wanted him here not because there was an emergency, but because you were happy and wanted him inside that happiness.

That one got him. It always did. Robby’s hand shifted at your waist. Firmer. Closer. Still careful, but no longer pretending. He moved with you. Not much. Not enough to make it a spectacle, no matter what Santos’s face suggested from the booth.

But enough.

Enough that his body followed yours instead of resisting the beat out of sheer stubbornness. Enough that his hand felt less like a seatbelt and more like a promise. Enough that when you tipped your face up toward his, his eyes dropped to your mouth again.

Your heart went soft and stupid. The song moved around you, dark and warm and alive. The bass hummed under your skin. The bar lights shifted over Robby’s face, catching the tired edges of him and the softness he kept trying to hide under sarcasm. You wanted to keep him there. Not in the hospital. Not on the couch with charts creeping toward him. Not carrying the weight of everyone else’s emergencies. Here. With the music. With you. You rested your forehead against his chest for half a second.

Robby noticed immediately. His arm tightened around your waist. “Tired?”

You shook your head against him. “Happy.”

His hand spread over your back. “Those are different diagnoses.”

You smiled into his shirt. “This is the best night ever.”

His mouth brushed your hair. “Because I moved one hip?”

You laughed softly. “Both hips.”

Robby huffed. “I’m glad we’re keeping accurate records.”

You tipped your face up. “Because I love to dance.”

His eyes softened. “I know.”

You curled your fingers gently at the back of his neck. “And I love my husband.”

His throat moved. “I know that too.”

You pressed closer, warm and blissful. “And now my husband is here.”

Robby looked down at you. For once, he did not make a joke fast enough to hide from it.

“Yeah, honey,” he said quietly. “I am.”

You smiled. “I can die happy now.”

Every trace of softness vanished from his face. “No.”

You blinked. “What?”

Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “Do not say you can die happy while I’m holding you upright in a bar.”

You frowned. “But I’m so happy.”

His expression softened again, against his will. “Then say that.”

You nodded seriously, accepting the correction. “I’m so happy.”

“Good.”

You sighed and tucked yourself closer. “Because you came to the music.”

Robby stared at you. His hand moved once against your back. “Yeah.”

You looked up at him. “You came to the music.”

He looked over your head at the sticky floor, the bad lights, the table full of women pretending not to watch, and the life he had tried so hard to keep contained to work and home and a couch with a book he never finished.

Then he looked back down at you. “You asked me to.”

You sighed, blissful. “Best night ever.”

Robby’s mouth curved faintly. “You mentioned that.”

You patted his chest. “It remains true.”

He held you for a few more seconds, letting you sway against him, letting himself have this ridiculous, beautiful thing. Then he felt your weight sink a little heavier into him. His responsible-husband brain came back online. “Okay,” he said.

You hummed. “Okay what?”

Robby shifted one hand to your waist and started guiding you carefully off the dance floor. “You got your husband dance.”

You looked up at him. “I did.”

His thumb moved once at your side. “So now we’re getting your coat, your purse, more water, and going home.”

You smiled dreamily. “With you?”

He huffed. “Yes, Mrs. Robinavitch. With me.”

From the booth, Santos lifted both hands like a victorious coach. “She got the dance!”

Robby gave her a look as he approached. “She also got drunk.”

Santos shrugged. “Women can have layers.”

Dana handed him your purse. “Here.”

Robby took it. “Thank you.”

Mel passed over your water. “She drank most of it.”

Robby looked at the glass, then at you. “Most?”

You smiled. “I respected your medical opinions.”

His mouth softened. “Good girl.”

The table went silent again. Robby closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

Santos folded forward, laughing silently. You melted against his side. “Say it again.”

Robby opened his eyes and looked down at you. “No.”

You tugged lightly at his shirt. “Please?”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “Absolutely not.”

Dana held out your jacket. “Here. Before this gets worse.”

Robby took the jacket from her. “It has been worse since I walked in.”

Cassie smiled from the booth. “You’re very good at girls’ night.”

Robby gave her a flat look. “I have been here seven minutes.”

Javadi lifted her glass. “And yet, very impactful.”

Robby ignored that and helped you into your jacket. You turned obediently when he guided one arm in, then the other. When he smoothed the collar around your shoulders, your face softened. “My husband.”

He looked down at you. “Yeah, honey.”

You smiled up at him. “You’re hot.”

He sighed. “Still?”

You nodded. “Always.”

Santos whispered from the booth, “I love marriage.”

Robby shot her a look. “No, you don’t.”

Santos grinned. “I love yours.”

His expression flattened. “That’s worse.”

Dana’s mouth twitched. Robby tucked your purse over his shoulder because he was out of hands and far past dignity. You stared at him. He stared back. “What?”

You pointed at the strap on his shoulder. “You have my purse.”

 His expression did not change. “I’m aware.”

Your smile widened. “It looks good.”

His mouth twitched. “It looks like I’m married.”

You softened immediately. “You are.”

His face softened before he could stop it. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

The softness lasted exactly two seconds before you swayed slightly. Robby’s hand tightened at your waist. “Okay.”

You blinked up at him. “Okay?”

He nodded toward the door. “Time to go.”

You pouted. “But the music.”

Robby started guiding you toward the exit. “You had the music.”

You nodded reluctantly. “I did.”

He kept his hand firm at your waist. “You had the dance.”

Your smile came back, dreamy and satisfied. “I did.”

Robby guided you another step. “And now you’re getting in the car, Mrs. Robinavitch.”

You stopped. Robby stopped too, immediately alert. “What?”

Slowly, you turned your face up to his. “Say that again.”

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

You pointed at him. “You did the song.”

Robby stared at you. “I did transportation.”

Santos made a strangled sound behind you. Mel whispered, “Oh my God.”

Dana muttered, “Here we go.”

You smiled up at him, delighted. “Mr. Charisma.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

You tugged lightly at his jacket. “Say it again.”

His eyes opened. “No.”

“Michael.”

“Honey,” Robby said, voice low and warning, “if I say it again, Santos is going to rupture something.”

From behind him, Santos wheezed, “Too late.”

Robby turned his head just enough to glare at the table. “All of you are why I don’t come to girls’ night.”

Dana lifted her drink. “You’re not a girl.”

Robby stared at her. “True.”

You leaned against his side, smiling up at him like he had personally invented nightlife. “Get in the car,” you said softly.

Robby looked back down at you.

His expression shifted. “What?”

Your smile turned slow and pleased. “Remember the last time you said that to me?”

Robby went still. Completely still. Not confused. Not joking. Still.

Santos went quiet for half a second. Dana’s brows lifted. Mel looked down at her drink like she had suddenly become very respectful of privacy.

Robby did not look at any of them. He remembered. Of course, he remembered. A wedding. Bad champagne. Your dress. Your heels dangling from two fingers because you had given up on being reasonable halfway through the reception. You dancing with him like you had wanted to ruin him in front of everyone. His hand low at your back. Your mouth near his ear. The parking lot air cool against his overheated skin. Your laugh against his jaw. His voice, rough and wrecked, when he opened the back door and said, “Get in the car, Mrs. Robinavitch.”

He remembered what happened after. Vividly. Inconveniently. In full clinical detail, because his brain was an asshole.

You smiled up at him, clearly pleased by whatever expression had crossed his face. “You remember.”

Robby swallowed once. “Honey.”

Your smile widened. “You do.”

His hand tightened at your waist. “I remember.”

The admission came out low enough that the table probably could not hear it. You heard it. That was what mattered. “Mr. Charisma,” you whispered again.

Robby exhaled hard through his nose. Then his face steadied. Still warm. Still affected. But responsible now. Painfully responsible. “Listen to me,” he said.

You blinked up at him. His thumb moved once at your waist. “The last time I said that to you, you were not three cocktails deep and trying to start a dance-floor labor movement.”

You frowned. “It was a good dance-floor labor movement.”

“I’m sure it was.”

You touched his chest. “You liked it.”

His jaw worked. “I liked it a lot.”

Santos made a faint noise. Robby pointed backward without looking. “Not a word.”

You looked up at him hopefully. “So?”

Robby looked down at your hand, then back at your face. “So tonight, I’m getting you water, getting you in the car, taking you home, and putting you to bed.”

You smiled dreamily. “With you?”

His mouth twitched. “Near me.”

You pouted. “Boo.”

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “Devastating.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You think I’m sexy.”

Robby gave a rough little laugh and leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Honey, of course I think you’re sexy.”

Your eyes brightened. He kept his hand steady at your waist. “I have been losing my fucking mind since you came downstairs in those jeans.”

Your smile softened, pleased, and warm.

You stared at him for one beat. Then you nodded solemnly. “Approved.”

Robby blinked. “Approved?”

You patted his chest. “That’s hot.”

He looked toward the ceiling. “I cannot win.”

Dana, calm as ever, said, “You seem to be doing fine.”

Robby looked at her. “I expected better from you.”

Dana lifted one shoulder. “That was your mistake.”

You giggled into his side. Robby looked down at you, all his irritation softening at the edges. “Come on, Mrs. Robinavitch.”

You let him guide you toward the door. This time, when he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Get in the car.”

You sighed happily. “There it is.”

Robby opened the door to the night air and shook his head. “You are impossible.”

You leaned into him, warm and drunk and loved. “But I’m your wife.”

His hand spread across your back. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you safely outside. “That’s the problem.”

You looked up at him, offended. Robby’s mouth curved. “And the point.”

By the time Robby got you home, you had told him the night was perfect six times. Seven, if he counted the one you had whispered to the passenger-side window while he was parking. Robby counted it. Mostly because you had pressed your cheek to the glass, sighed like a woman in a tragic romance, and said, “The music was there, and then you were there.”

He kept both hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. “That is how locations work,” Robby said.

You smiled at your reflection in the window. “My husband knows science.”

Robby pulled into the spot outside your place. “Barely. I’m running on three hours of sleep and whatever fumes were left from your dance-floor crisis.”

You turned your head against the seat. “It was not a crisis.”

Robby cut the engine and looked over at you. You blinked back at him, seatbelt still on, hair a little messy from dancing, lipstick faded at the center from the straw in your water, and the kiss you had stolen outside the bar before he could stop you. Robby lifted his eyebrows. You considered it. “It was a marital emergency,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “There it is.”

You pointed at him with great dignity. “And you handled it.”

“I’m an excellent emergency physician,” Robby said.

You smiled, softer now. “You’re an excellent husband.”

That shut him up. Only for a second. Long enough for your words to land somewhere soft.

Then Robby cleared his throat and opened his door. “Okay,” he said, voice rougher. “Before you say something else dangerous, let’s get you inside.”

You were still smiling when he came around to your side of the car. Robby opened your door and leaned in to unbuckle you. You watched him, delighted. “You told me to get in the car.”

His hand paused at the seatbelt. “Honey.”

“You did,” you said.

“I remember.”

You leaned toward him as much as the seatbelt allowed. “You said it like the song.”

Robby released the buckle. “I said it like a man trying to transport his drunk wife home.”

You smiled dreamily. “Mr. Charisma.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Out of the car.”

You gasped. “Again.”

His eyes opened, tired and warm and deeply unimpressed.

“That was not the same thing,” Robby said.

“It was bossy,” you replied.

“It was logistical.”

You nodded solemnly. “Hot logistical.”

“Please stop making categories.” Robby helped you out of the car. The sidewalk tilted a little when your feet hit the ground. Robby caught your waist before you could even pretend you had meant to do that. “Easy,” he said.

You patted his chest. “I’m fine.”

“You are leaning into my kidney.”

You looked down. “Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters medically,” you said.

“It matters that you walk,” Robby said.

You wrapped one arm around his waist as he guided you toward the door. “I like when you’re bossy.”

Robby unlocked the door with one hand, his other arm firm around you. “I like it when you don’t say that in front of Santos.”

“She loves marriage,” you said.

“She loves chaos.”

You rested your cheek against his shoulder while he pushed the door open. “She loves our marriage.”

“That is the chaos,” Robby said.

The house was quiet when he got you inside. Soft. Dim. Exactly the way you had left it, except now Robby was here with your purse over one shoulder, your heels hooked in two fingers because you had abandoned them in the car, and your whole body leaning into his side like gravity had become negotiable. You looked at the couch. Your smile widened. “That’s where you kissed me.”

Robby shut the door behind you. “That is one of many places I’ve kissed you.”

You pointed toward the couch, serious now. “With my lipstick.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth. “And then I wore it.”

“You looked hot.”

“I looked compromised.”

You nodded. “That too.”

Robby set your purse on the entryway table and bent to place your shoes beside it. When he straightened, you were still staring at him. He paused. “What?”

Your smile turned slow. “You have my purse.”

“I had your purse,” Robby said.

“You carried it.”

“Yes.”

You touched his arm. “Because you’re my husband.”

His expression softened. “Yes.”

“And you came to the music.”

Robby looked at you for a beat too long. Then he reached for your hand. “Come on,” he said. “Bathroom.”

You followed him because his fingers were warm around yours and because your body had finally started to realize that cocktails, dancing, emotional devastation, emotional repair, and marital dancing rights all took energy. In the bathroom, Robby turned on the softer light over the mirror instead of the bright overhead. You watched him do it. That almost made you cry. Which was ridiculous. Probably. Robby caught your expression in the mirror. His face changed immediately. “Hey,” he said.

You shook your head. “I’m not sad.”

He turned toward you fully. “Then what’s happening?”

You looked at him. Your husband, tired and rumpled and still beautiful, standing in your bathroom at the end of girls’ night with your lipstick faintly ghosted at the edge of his jaw because neither of you had quite gotten all of it. “I’m happy,” you said.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. “Okay.”

You looked at him seriously. “I told you.”

Robby nodded. “You did.”

You held up one finger. “Many times.”

Robby opened the drawer and found your makeup remover. “Eight, by my count.”

You gasped softly. “You counted?”

“I count a lot of things,” Robby said.

You sighed deeply. “That’s romantic.”

“That is not usually the feedback I get,” Robby replied. He pointed to the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

You sat because he pointed, and also because standing was becoming less of a talent by the minute. Robby knelt in front of you with a makeup wipe in one hand. “Close your eyes.”

You obeyed. Mostly. One eye opened immediately. He gave you a look. You shut it again.

“Bossy,” you whispered.

“Observant,” Robby corrected. “You have mascara under one eye and a suspicious relationship with gravity.”

You smiled. His hand was careful on your face. So careful. Robby wiped gently beneath your eye, then along your cheek, then paused near your mouth. “Lipstick held up pretty well,” he said.

You opened your eyes. “You noticed my lipstick.”

Robby’s gaze flicked to your mouth. “I wore your lipstick.”

“You liked my lipstick.”

“I liked your mouth,” he said. “The lipstick was involved.”

Your whole face warmed. “Michael.”

He gave you a dry look, but his thumb was soft at your chin. “What? I’m allowed to like my wife’s mouth.”

“I’m drunk,” you reminded him.

“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s why I’m taking your makeup off instead of doing anything about it.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, the teasing wanted to come. Something about a responsible hot husband. Something about approved. Something about Mr. Charisma.

Then you remembered the car. Your smile shifted. “You did something about it at that wedding.”

Robby’s hand went still. You smiled wider. “You remember.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Honey. You weren’t drunk at the wedding.”

You leaned closer, delighted by the warning in his voice. “You told me to get in the car.”

Robby looked down at the makeup wipe, as if it might save him. “I did.”

“And then I got in the car,” you said, very seriously.

“Yes,” Robby said.

“And then you got in the car.”

He closed his eyes. “Honey.”

You kept going, because the memory was warm and funny and suddenly very vivid in your drunk brain. “And my dress was—”

Robby’s eyes snapped open. “No.”

You blinked at him. “No?”

He pointed at you with the makeup wipe. “No details.”

You smiled slowly. “But you remember the dress.”

Robby exhaled through his nose. “I remember the dress.”

You leaned closer, voice dropping like you were sharing a state secret. “And the back seat.”

Robby’s face went completely still. Then he looked toward the ceiling. “Honey, I’m begging you.”

You dissolved into delighted laughter.

He lowered his gaze back to yours, pained and amused and visibly suffering. “I am on my knees in our bathroom trying to remove your makeup responsibly,” Robby said. “Do not make me relive that right now.”

You gasped. “But you liked it.”

Robby stared at you. Then he gave up. “Honey, we fucked in the back seat of my car like horny teenagers,” he said. “Yes, I liked it. Okay? I fucking loved it.”

Your smile turned triumphant. “Mr. Charisma.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Still no.”

You touched his wrist. “Okay.”

He opened one eye. “Okay?”

You nodded, suddenly soft. “I’ll stop.”

“Thank you.”

You watched him wipe gently at the corner of your mouth. “I like that,” you said.

Robby’s hand paused again. “You like stopping?”

You shook your head. “I like that you remember.”

His expression shifted. You swallowed. “And I like that you still tell me I’m pretty.”

Robby’s thumb brushed your chin. “Honey.”

“And sexy,” you added.

His mouth twitched. “And sexy.”

Your voice softened. “But you still take care of me.”

The room went very quiet. Robby looked at you for a second, like you had reached into him and touched something bruised. Then he looked down at the makeup wipe in his hand. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “That’s the job.”

You touched his wrist again. “No.” He looked back up. “That’s the love.”

Robby went still. You watched his throat move. Then he cleared it, because he was Robby, and apparently, one emotionally direct sentence from his drunk wife could do more damage than an entire trauma shift.

“Okay,” he said.

You smiled softly. “Okay?”

His thumb brushed your jaw. “Okay, Mrs. Robinavitch. Let me finish before you emotionally concuss me.”

You laughed, and he went back to cleaning your face. After your makeup was off, he helped you into pajamas. Responsibly. Mostly. You told him three times that he was hot when he concentrated. Robby told you three times to lift your arm. You told him he had excellent husband hands. He told you that it was not an anatomical term. You told him anatomy was exactly the point.

He muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and handed you a glass of water.

You drank half because he watched you like an attending waiting for compliance.

Then he put the glass on your nightstand, set a trash can beside the bed just in case, plugged your phone in, and folded your jeans over the chair instead of throwing them on the floor. You watched from the bed, tucked under the covers, face bare, body warm and loose and tired.

“You folded the jeans,” you murmured.

Robby looked over his shoulder. “They’re an accomplice. I’m preserving evidence.”

You smiled. “My husband is funny.”

“Don’t spread that around.”

“Too late,” you whispered. “I told everyone you’re hot.”

Robby came to sit on the edge of the bed. “Yes, honey. I was there.”

You reached for his hand. He gave it to you immediately. His fingers curled around yours, thumb brushing over your wedding ring. For a little while, neither of you said anything. The room was dim and quiet. No music. No bar lights. No Santos narrating the collapse of his dignity from a booth. Just Robby, sitting beside you with tired eyes and your hand in his.

You blinked up at him. “Best night ever.”

His mouth softened. “You mentioned that.”

“I mean it.”

His expression softened, “I know.”

You squeezed his hand. “No, I mean…” You frowned, trying to make the words line up properly through the alcohol and the sleepiness and the big warm feeling in your chest. “I like when you’re there for happy things too.”

Robby’s thumb stopped moving. You looked down at your joined hands. “You’re always there when things are bad,” you whispered.

His face shifted. “Occupational hazard,” Robby said quietly.

You shook your head against the pillow. “No. I mean for me.”

Robby did not answer. You kept going, softer now. “You come when I’m scared. Or upset. Or when something’s wrong.”

His fingers tightened around yours. You made yourself look at him. “But tonight nothing was wrong.”

His thumb moved once over your ring. You smiled sleepily. “I just wanted you.”

Robby stared at you. The silence stretched. Not awkward. Not empty. Full. He looked like he wanted to make a joke and could not find one. Like sarcasm had finally met something it could not cover.

You blinked slower. “I want you there when things are good,” you whispered.

Robby swallowed. His voice came out rough. “Yeah?”

You nodded, already halfway under. “The music was there.” His hand tightened around yours. “And you came.” Robby looked down at your joined hands. Then back at your face. You were barely keeping your eyes open. Still, you smiled. “I like it when you’re there for the good things. You deserve that.”

His mouth trembled at the edge of something too soft to be a smile. “I like being there too,” he said quietly.

Your eyes closed, and you hummed. “For the good things?”

His thumb brushed your ring again. “Yeah, honey,” he whispered. “For the good things.”

You smiled with your eyes still shut. “But you do need to move your hips when you dance.”

Robby stared at you. Then his head dropped. A quiet, helpless laugh broke out of him. Of course, you had one more in you. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, Mrs. Robinavitch.”

You sighed happily. “Mr. Charisma.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Still no.”

But he was smiling when he said it. He stayed there until your breathing evened out, one hand still wrapped around yours, the water on the nightstand, your shoes by the door, your jeans folded over the chair, and the faintest trace of your lipstick still hidden along the edge of his jaw.

Tomorrow, you might be embarrassed. Or you might wake up proud and call the entire thing a successful exercise of marital dancing rights. Knowing you, it would be the second one. And Robby, who had been summoned out of his quiet house because the music was there and you wanted him with you, would pretend to complain. But he would remember the way you had looked up at him under bad bar lights and told him you were happy.

He would remember that you had asked him to come to the good things.

And he had.

@nosebeers @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixieba, @scott-890, @disappearintofanfiction, @laughsandlivia, @missmillivanilli, @normanscupcake, @tlc3802, @donttalktosposts, @sparklemermaidprincessgirl, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @meowtortellini

[serafinacross]

😭 The absolute chaos. I love it

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Fix It, Daddy - Dr Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader}

Your daughter becomes sick and is rushed to the ED

If you love small-town romance, found family, emotional firefighters, slow-burn love, and characters learning how to heal without having to be perfectly fixed, then I hope you'll give What The Fire Left a read. This story means so much to me, and I can't wait for you to meet Caspian, Corrine, and everyone in Alder Ridge. Available to read on Wattpad @fanficwritinggirl

The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Sick-kid quiet. The kind where cartoons played softly in the background, half-watched, and the usual tornado of four-year-old chaos had been replaced by a small lump on the couch under three blankets and one very dramatic stuffed rabbit. Rosie looked personally offended by the existence of illness. Which, honestly, fair. She was curled into the corner of the couch in dinosaur pajamas, cheeks pink with fever, curls messy from sleep, and clutching Mr. Bunny like he was the only thing holding society together. You stood in the kitchen measuring out another dose of medicine while trying to convince yourself the thermometer was lying. Again.

Robby, meanwhile, had checked her temperature four times in the last twenty minutes. Aggressively. He stood in front of Rosie now, arms crossed, watching her like she might spontaneously combust if he blinked wrong.

"She still feels warm."

You glanced over.

"She has the flu."

"She feels warmer."

"She is four degrees wrapped in blankets."

He frowned like that was medically suspicious. Rosie looked up at him with the tragic expression only sick toddlers and Victorian heroines could truly master.

"Daddy," she said in her tiny, scratchy sick voice, "I'm dying."

Robby sat down beside her so fast it was almost impressive.

"No, baby, you are absolutely not dying."

She leaned dramatically against his side.

"My nose is broken."

You snorted into the medicine cup.

"Your nose is stuffy."

"Broken," Rosie repeated firmly.

Robby nodded with complete seriousness.

"I agree. Very serious condition."

"Thank you," she whispered, like he alone understood her suffering.

Traitor. You walked over with the medicine.

"Okay, tiny plague victim. Drink this."

Rosie narrowed her eyes.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

She looked at Robby for backup. He betrayed her immediately.

"Yes."

Her tiny gasp of outrage deserved an award.

"Daddy!"

"Doctor's orders."

"You're a doctor."

"Exactly."

She stared at both of you like she was considering emancipation.

Eventually, after enough bribery involving popsicles and approximately seven dramatic sighs, she took the medicine and flopped back against the couch like a woman abandoned by the world. Robby smoothed her curls back from her forehead, pressing his lips there automatically. His expression softened in that way it only did with her. Quiet. Protective. Completely gone. You leaned against the doorway, watching them. This was your favorite version of him. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Not everyone's dependable, slightly terrifying attending. Just Robby. Barefoot. In old sweats. Arguing with a four-year-old about medicine like it was life or death. Which, to Rosie, it probably was. He looked up at you.

"She's still too warm."

"She has a fever."

"She's breathing faster."

"She's congested."

"She looks sad."

"She's four."

Rosie lifted one hand weakly.

"I am sad."

Robby pointed at her like Exhibit A.

"See?"

You laughed despite yourself.

"You have to go to work."

His expression shifted immediately. He looked back at Rosie, still curled up in her blanket nest, looking impossibly small.

"I hate leaving when she feels like this."

There it was. Not the doctor. Just Dad. You softened.

"I know."

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already halfway regretting every professional responsibility he had.

"I know it's just the flu. I just…" He exhaled. "I hate being somewhere else when she needs me."

The honesty of it hit you right in the chest. Because that was Robby. He could handle trauma rooms and mass casualty incidents and impossible shifts without blinking. But one feverish four-year-old with pink cheeks and watery eyes? That wrecked him. You stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm.

"She needs you to keep your job so we can continue funding her incredibly expensive popsicle habit."

That got the smallest smile.

"Valid."

Rosie shifted upright just enough to look at him, blanket still wrapped around her like a tiny fever burrito.

"Daddy stay home."

And there it was. The emotional violence. Robby visibly melted. You watched it happen in real time. His whole face softened, and he looked like a man one tiny cough away from calling out for the rest of his life. Rosie added, quieter this time,

"Please?"

Illegal. Absolutely illegal. He looked at you like maybe the hospital could survive without him. Honestly? Debatable. You crossed your arms.

"Don't even think about it."

"She asked very politely."

"She is manipulating you."

"She learned from the best."

You smiled.

"She really did."

Robby sighed like the burden of fatherhood was tragically heavy and leaned down, pressing another kiss to Rosie's forehead.

"I have to go to work, bug."

She frowned.

"No."

"I know. I hate it too."

"Stay home."

He brushed her curls back gently.

"I'll come home early, okay? And Mommy's here. She's the boss while I'm gone."

Rosie looked at you. Then back at him. Then whispered like she was sharing classified information:

"Mommy meaner."

You gasped.

"Wow."

Robby, the absolute traitor, laughed.

"Honestly? Fair."

You pointed at both of them.

"I do everything in this house."

Rosie nodded solemnly.

"And mean."

Unbelievable. Robby stood, grabbing his bag from the chair by the door, but he hesitated like leaving physically hurt. Because it did. You walked him to the door while Rosie watched sadly from her blanket fortress.

"She'll be okay," you said softly.

He nodded, but not convincingly.

"I know."

"You can text every ten minutes if it helps."

"I was planning every five."

"That feels insane."

"That feels like excellent parenting."

You smiled. He leaned down and kissed you—quick, soft, familiar. Then quieter, against your forehead:

"Call me if anything changes."

"I will."

"Anything."

"I know."

He looked past you toward Rosie, still curled on the couch. Then back at you. Another kiss. Then he was gone. And the apartment felt too quiet again. From the couch, a tiny miserable voice called:

"Mommy?"

You turned. Rosie held up Mr. Bunny weakly.

"He's sick too."

You smiled softly, walking back to her.

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Emergency."

By noon, the apartment looked like a pediatric disaster zone. Half-drunk juice boxes. A thermometer abandoned on the coffee table. Three different blankets in active rotation. Mr. Bunny facedown on the floor like he'd also given up. Cartoons still played softly in the background, though Rosie had long since stopped paying attention to them. She'd migrated from the couch to your lap sometime around eleven and had stayed there like a feverish little koala. Hot. Sleepy. Miserable. You sat with her curled against your chest, one hand rubbing slow circles over her back while answering your fifth text from Robby in under two hours.

Robby: Temp now?

You: 101.8 Still hates medicine Still thinks she's dying

Three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Dramatic. Inherited that from you.

You smiled despite yourself.

You: Rude. She also says Mr. Bunny is critically ill

Robby: Keep me updated on both patients

You shook your head, setting your phone down. Rosie shifted against you with a soft whine.

"Water, baby?"

She shook her head against your shoulder.

"No."

"You have to drink something."

"Nooooo."

The dramatic extension of the word told you she was still at least partially herself. Good. You pressed a kiss to her warm temple.

"Just a little."

After some negotiation that involved exactly two sips of apple juice and one promise of ice cream fraudulently offered for later, she settled again, heavy and warm in your arms. Too warm. You frowned. She'd been running a fever all morning, but now—now something felt off. Mothers knew things. Instinct before logic. You reached for the thermometer again. Rosie groaned dramatically.

"No more."

"Just one more."

"You said that last time."

"And yet here we are."

She gave you the saddest look a four-year-old had ever weaponized. Still—you checked. 103.7 Your stomach dropped. Okay. Not ideal. Not panic. Not yet. You adjusted her against you, trying to stay calm.

"Rosie, baby, can you look at me?"

She did, but slowly. Heavy-lidded. Too tired.

"Do you want to sit up a little?"

"No."

Her voice was weaker now. That—that made your pulse jump. You shifted forward, brushing damp curls off her forehead.

"Rosie?"

She blinked at you. Too slowly. Her breathing had changed. Faster. Shallower. You sat up straighter. No. No, no. Maybe congestion. Maybe fever. Maybe—She coughed, and it sounded wrong. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like something in your body recognized danger before your brain caught up.

"Okay," you said softly, mostly to yourself. "Okay."

You stood, still holding her, and suddenly everything felt too quiet. Too bright. Too sharp. You carried her to the bathroom, steam from the shower filling the room while you sat on the closed toilet seat with her in your lap, hoping maybe it was just congestion. Maybe she just needed—Rosie's head lolled against your shoulder. Your heart stopped.

"Rosie."

Nothing. Not fully. She stirred, but sluggishly. Too sluggishly.

"Rosie, look at Mommy."

A tiny whimper. No real response. Fear arrived all at once. Cold. Sharp. Total. You grabbed your phone with shaking hands and called Robby. Straight to voicemail. Of course. He was probably in trauma. In a patient room. Saving someone. You called again. Voicemail. Again. Nothing. Your hands were shaking now.

"Okay," you whispered, even though your voice didn't sound like yours anymore. "Okay, okay."

Rosie made another weak sound against your chest. Her skin was burning. Her breathing too fast. Her body too heavy. Every parent had that moment—the one where your brain stopped saying maybe and started screaming now. This was that moment. You stood so fast you nearly dropped your phone. Hospital. Now. Shoes. Keys. Wallet. Blanket. Your brain became a checklist. Movement was easier than panic. You wrapped Rosie in the soft yellow blanket she always wanted when she was sick, grabbed Mr. Bunny because God forbid there be additional tragedy, and wrestled shoes onto your feet one-handed. Rosie barely protested. That scared you more than the fever. She was always loud. Always dramatic. Quiet Rosie was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You buckled her into the car seat with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. She blinked up at you, flushed and glassy-eyed.

"Mommy?"

"I'm here, baby."

"Want Daddy."

The words nearly broke you.

"I know."

You kissed her forehead.

"I know. We're going to Daddy, okay? We're going right now."

She nodded weakly, clutching Mr. Bunny. You shut the car door and got in the driver's seat trying very hard not to panic and drive at the same time. It did not go especially well. You called Robby one more time as you pulled out. Still nothing. Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. The city blurred past too slowly. Every red light felt personal. Every second too long. In the backseat, Rosie coughed again. You looked at her in the mirror. Too pale. Too tired. Too still. Fear sat in your chest like something alive.

"Stay with me, baby," you whispered.

Half to her. Half to yourself.

"The hospital's close. Daddy's there. We're almost there."

Your voice cracked on the last word. Rosie's eyes fluttered.

"Okay."

And somehow that tiny, sleepy little okay was worse than if she'd cried. The Pitt came into view. Bright. Familiar. Never once this terrifying.

You pulled into the ambulance bay like someone fleeing a crime scene, barely remembering to park. The second the engine stopped, you were moving. Door. Blanket. Rosie. Go.

The automatic doors opened. And suddenly—everything changed.

The automatic doors opened, and suddenly the world got louder. Monitors. Phones. Voices. Footsteps. The sharp fluorescent brightness of the ED hitting all at once. Usually, The Pitt felt familiar. Safe, even. Today it felt terrifying.

You pushed through the doors with Rosie in your arms, the yellow blanket wrapped tight around her small body, Mr. Bunny trapped between you both. Her head rested against your shoulder, too still, too warm, her little hand weakly clutching your shirt. Your heart was somewhere in your throat. Everything felt wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too slow.

"Hey—"

Frank. He was at triage, halfway through arguing with someone about paperwork when he looked up. The second he saw you, everything changed.

No joke. No teasing. No dramatic Frank commentary. Just immediate seriousness. His face dropped.

"Hey—hey, bring her here."

That alone made your fear spike harder. Because Frank being serious meant this was bad. Really bad. He was already moving toward you before you reached the desk, hands gentle as he touched Rosie's forehead, checked her breathing, looked at her flushed cheeks, then looked at you. And just like that, he wasn't Uncle Frank. He was Dr. Langdon. Sharp. Focused. Steady.

"What happened?"

"Flu," you said too fast, words tripping over each other. "She's had a fever all morning and it got worse and she's too sleepy and she won't really wake up and she's breathing weird and I—I called Robby but he didn't answer and—"

Your voice cracked. Frank nodded once. Calm. Grounding.

"Okay. Okay, I've got you."

Not I've got her. I've got you. And somehow that nearly made you cry. Because Frank—loud, ridiculous, impossible Frank—was suddenly the safest person in the room. He gently touched Rosie's cheek.

"Hey, Ro. Uncle Frank's here, okay? You're good."

Rosie stirred weakly, eyes fluttering.

"Unca Fwank…"

Frank physically looked like someone had punched him directly in the chest.

"I'm here, bug," he said quickly, voice softer than you'd maybe ever heard it. "I'm right here."

Then, louder—

"Mel! Dana!"

Both of them appeared almost instantly. Mel from down the hall, already pulling on gloves. Dana from the nurses' station, coffee abandoned somewhere behind her, expression immediately sharpening the second she saw Rosie. No jokes. No usual dry commentary. Just movement. Fast. Efficient. Terrifying. Dana stepped in beside you first, one hand gentle at your elbow.

"Hey," she said, voice low and calm. "Look at me."

You did. Barely.

"She's here. We've got her. Okay?"

You nodded. She squeezed your arm once. Grounding. Dana wasn't soft often. Which somehow made it matter more when she was. Mel was already checking Rosie over.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, listening to her breathing, checking her pulse, the flush in her cheeks. "Hey, Rosie-bug, can you open your eyes for me?"

Rosie stirred weakly, more instinct than response. Mel's eyes flicked to Frank for half a second. Something passed there. Not spoken. But enough. We need a room. Now. Frank nodded before she even said it.

"Room four's open."

Dana was already moving.

"I'll get oxygen and fluids set up."

Everything happened fast after that. Too fast. Not fast enough. A nurse came with a pulse ox. Someone brought a wheelchair. You refused it immediately.

"I'm carrying her."

No one argued. Because no one with sense argued with mothers in crisis. Frank walked beside you the whole way. One hand at your back. Steady. Grounding. Dana was ahead of you already setting things up. Mel kept asking questions as you moved.

"How long has the fever been this high?"

"Since this morning. It was lower earlier but then it just—"

"Has she been drinking?"

"Barely."

"Any vomiting?"

"No."

"Any history of febrile seizures?"

"No."

"Okay."

You hated how calm they all were. Because it meant they knew how scared you should be. And somehow that was worse. Rosie whimpered softly against your shoulder.

"Mommy…"

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

You kissed her burning forehead and nearly broke all over again. Because she was so hot. Too hot. She'd never felt this hot. Once inside the room, everything got worse. Because stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant panic. Mel guided you to the bed.

"Let's get her up here."

You laid Rosie down like she might break. She looked so small in the hospital bed. Too small. Children should never look that small. Dana was already placing the pulse ox gently on Rosie's tiny finger.

"Hey, Rosie," she said quietly. "You're making this place look bad."

Rosie blinked at her sleepily.

"Hi Auntie Dana."

Dana's entire expression shifted for half a second. Tiny. Soft. Gone almost immediately.

"Hi, trouble."

Frank handed you tissues. You hadn't even realized you were crying. Great. Excellent. Love that. Mel was checking her lungs, adjusting oxygen. The monitor beeped too loudly. You hated it instantly. Rosie's lip trembled.

"Don't like it."

Your heart cracked clean in half.

"I know, baby. I know."

Frank leaned against the bed rail.

"Tell you what, when this is over, I'll personally smuggle you the good popsicles."

Rosie blinked at him.

"The red ones?"

"The illegal red ones."

That got the tiniest sleepy nod. Dana muttered while adjusting the IV supplies,

"Do not promise contraband to the pediatric patient."

Frank looked offended.

"She deserves quality care."

"She deserves licensed care."

"Tomato, tomahto."

And somehow, absurdly, that tiny bit of normal helped. Because if Frank was still Frank—maybe the world hadn't fully ended. Mel adjusted the oxygen and looked at you. Not as your friend. Not as Rosie's honorary aunt. As your doctor. And somehow that was scarier.

"We're going to help her breathe a little easier and get fluids going. I need you to stay calm for me, okay?"

You nodded immediately. Even though calm had left your body somewhere in the parking lot. Then—from across the department—you heard his voice. Robby. Somewhere behind you, coming out of trauma two, saying something to Dana's replacement nurse. Normal voice. Work voice. Unaware. And before you even turned—you knew. The second he saw you. The second he saw Rosie. Everything would change. You turned. He was halfway across the hall, chart in hand, still talking—until he looked up. Saw you. Saw Rosie. Saw the oxygen. Saw the fear. And stopped. Completely. The chart slipped slightly in his hand. His face changed in a way you never wanted to see again. Not doctor. Not attending. Not calm. Dad. Terrified dad. It happened in an instant. You watched the exact second his brain stopped being physician and became father. Dana saw it too. She stepped back quietly, giving him the space before he'd even asked for it. He crossed the room so fast it barely registered.

"What happened?"

And there it was. The crack in your composure. Because now he was here. Now you could fall apart. You looked at him and your voice broke instantly.

"She got worse—I didn't know, I thought it was just the flu and then she got so sleepy and she wouldn't wake up and she was breathing weird and I called and—"

"I know," he said immediately, both hands on you now, grounding, steady, even though you could feel the panic under it. "Hey, I know. I know. You did exactly the right thing. You brought her here. She's okay."

His eyes were already on Rosie. Burning. Checking. Assessing. Trying to be doctor and father at the same time. Trying and failing. Because this wasn't some kid. This was his kid. Rosie shifted weakly in the bed, eyes barely opening. And in the smallest, sleepiest little voice—

"Daddy…"

That was it. That was the sound of your husband's heart breaking in real time. Robby was at her side instantly, one hand brushing her curls back, the other holding her tiny hand like letting go wasn't an option.

"Hey, bug," he said, and his voice cracked right down the middle. "Hey, I'm here. I'm right here."

Rosie blinked up at him.

"Don't like it."

His face folded. Completely.

"I know, baby. I know."

She reached for him with weak little fingers. And every person in that room quietly stopped pretending this wasn't destroying them. Frank looked at the ceiling. Dana looked very hard at the monitor. Mel kept working. You stood there trying not to come apart completely. Because seeing Robby scared—really scared—was somehow worse than your own fear. Because if he was scared—then this was real. And that was terrifying.

Robby stayed at Rosie's bedside for exactly thirty seconds before Dana shut that down. It happened the moment he reached for the stethoscope hanging around his neck. A reflex. Instinct. Doctor before thought. Dana caught his wrist. Not hard. Just enough.

"No."

The room went still. Robby looked at her, already tense, already halfway in that dangerous space between physician and father.

"I can help."

"I know."

His voice sharpened.

"Dana—"

She didn't let him finish.

"No, Michael."

Not Robby. Michael. Which somehow made it heavier. Dana held his gaze, calm and unmovable, her voice low and firm.

"You are not her doctor right now."

The words landed hard. Robby's jaw tightened. Every instinct in him was fighting it. You could see it. He needed to do something. Fix something. Control something. That was how he survived everything. Action. Knowledge. Medicine. And right now all of that was being taken away. Dana softened, but only slightly.

"You are her dad."

Silence. Frank stood near the foot of the bed, unusually quiet. Mel kept checking Rosie's breathing, giving Dana the space because she knew Dana was right. Even Rosie, half-asleep and feverish, seemed still. Robby looked at his daughter. Small in the hospital bed. Flushed cheeks. Oxygen tubing. Tiny hand still wrapped around two of his fingers. And something in him gave. Not broke. Just… shifted. Because Dana was right. And he hated that she was right. You stepped closer then, your hand finding his without thinking. Warm. Tight. Familiar. He gripped it immediately. Harder than usual. Like he needed something solid to hold onto. You squeezed back. I'm here. Always. He let out a slow breath. Then nodded once. Barely.

"Okay."

His voice sounded rough. Not doctor voice. Dad voice. The one that only existed for you and Rosie. Dana gave the smallest nod back.

"Good."

Then, because she was still Dana:

"Now stop trying to work and stand there looking stressed like a normal parent."

Despite everything, that almost made you laugh. Almost. Robby swallowed hard.

"I hate this."

"I know."

And somehow that sounded like surrender. Dana stepped in then, practical as ever.

"Great. Since everyone is done having an emotional breakthrough, I need this arm."

She gently reached for Rosie's hand. Rosie frowned weakly.

"No."

Dana crouched beside the bed, suddenly softer.

"Unfortunately, tiny dictator, I need to put your IV in."

Rosie's lower lip trembled.

"No needles."

Frank immediately stepped forward.

"Counteroffer: if you survive this tremendous injustice, I will personally bring you the best contraband popsicle in the hospital."

Rosie sniffled.

"The red one?"

"The illegal red one."

Dana sighed.

"I work with children."

"You chose this life," Frank said.

"I absolutely did not."

Despite everything, you laughed—a broken, tired little sound. Robby looked at you for half a second, and there it was again: that silent thing between you. I'm barely holding it together. Me too. Your fingers stayed laced with his. Neither of you let go. Rosie reached weakly toward him.

"Daddy stay."

He was beside her instantly.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He climbed onto the edge of the bed without hesitation, one arm carefully around her while Dana worked. Rosie buried her face against his chest.

"I don't like this place."

He kissed the top of her head.

"I know, bug. I know."

Dana glanced up.

"Offended, honestly. We worked very hard on this place."

"No offense," Rosie mumbled.

"Some offense taken."

Mel checked her lungs again, her expression unreadable in the way that made you want to scream. You stayed close, your hand resting against Robby's back now, slow comforting circles between his shoulder blades. Grounding him. Trying to ground yourself. Samira appeared quietly in the doorway then, having clearly heard enough to know this wasn't a normal visit. Her eyes went straight to Rosie. Then to you. And immediately softened. She crossed the room and wrapped you in a hug before you could pretend you didn't need one. And that—that nearly undid you more than anything else. Because Samira hugs were dangerous. Too kind. Too safe.

"I'm okay," you whispered.

Samira pulled back just enough to give you a look.

"Lying."

You gave a watery laugh.

"Probably."

She brushed your hair back gently.

"She's in the best place she can be."

You nodded. Even though that didn't make it easier. Samira stepped to the bedside, smiling softly.

"Hey, Rosie-girl."

Rosie cracked one sleepy eye open.

"Auntie Samira."

"There she is."

Rosie looked around blearily. Then asked, in the smallest voice—

"Where's Uncle Jack?"

And there it was. The tiny knife straight to everyone's chest. Because of course she noticed. Of course she expected him too. Samira smiled, warm and easy even as her eyes softened.

"He's at home sleeping, baby. Night shift means Uncle Jack turns into a very grumpy vampire during the day."

That got the tiniest sleepy smile.

"He grumpy."

"He is extremely grumpy."

Frank nodded solemnly.

"Medical fact."

Samira leaned down closer.

"But he told me if you were brave, he'd come by later with snacks and probably let you boss him around."

Rosie considered this.

"Okay."

"Thought so."

Dana was threading the IV line now, focused and careful.

"Everyone in this child's life is exhausting."

"Correct," Frank said.

Rosie looked up at Robby again. Still feverish. Still too warm. Still too tired. But calmer now. Because he was there.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

Her tiny fingers curled in his scrub top.

"Don't go to work."

And there it was again. That quiet devastation. Robby closed his eyes for one second. Just one. Then opened them and kissed her forehead. His hand found yours again where you stood beside the bed. Firm. Certain.

"I'm not going anywhere."

And this time—everyone in the room believed him.

For a little while, things almost felt manageable. Not okay. Never okay. But quieter. Rosie was settled with oxygen, the IV finally in after what Frank dramatically referred to as "the betrayal of modern medicine," and the fever had stopped climbing—for now. She was still too warm. Still too pale. Still curled against Robby like if she let go, the world might end. Which, honestly, felt reasonable. He stayed half-sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm around her, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles against her back. His other hand found yours whenever he could reach it. Like if either of you let go, something terrible might happen. You understood that feeling. You were sitting in the chair beside the bed now, exhaustion settling heavy into your bones, your free hand smoothing Rosie's curls back every few minutes just to reassure yourself she was still there. Still breathing. Still here. Mel came back in with updated labs, quiet and focused. Robby looked up immediately. Too quickly. Doctor reflex. Dad panic. Mel noticed.

Of course she noticed.

"She's dehydrated," Mel said gently. "Which we expected. Her lungs are tight, but not alarming. We're staying ahead of it."

Not alarming. You clung to that. Not alarming. Good. Safe. Okay. You nodded like your body remembered how. Robby asked, voice too controlled,

"And the fever?"

"We're watching it."

Which was not an answer. He knew that. You knew that. Mel knew that he knew. But she held his gaze anyway. Steady.

"She's okay, Michael."

He nodded once. Didn't look convinced. Neither were you. Frank reappeared carrying a juice box like it was a sacred offering.

"For the patient," he announced.

Dana, behind him, didn't even look up from Rosie's chart.

"She is four and currently on fluids."

Frank looked offended.

"She may desire options."

"She desires chaos because you raised her wrong."

Frank pointed at Dana.

"That accusation is both rude and completely accurate."

Mel, adjusting Rosie's blanket, said without looking up,

"You absolutely encourage bad behavior."

Frank grinned.

"She thinks I'm fun."

"She thinks glitter glue is a personality trait."

"Which is why she and I understand each other."

That got the smallest smile from Mel—the kind she tried to hide and absolutely failed at. Rosie stirred against Robby's chest, blinking slowly.

"Unca Fwank?"

Frank was at the bedside immediately.

"Yeah, Rosie-girl?"

She stared at him for a long second with the heavy seriousness only sick children possess.

"You old."

Silence. A beat. Then Mel snorted. Dana turned away suspiciously fast. You laughed so suddenly it startled you. Even Robby let out a tired, helpless laugh into Rosie's hair. Frank placed a hand over his heart.

"Wow. Brutal. I show up with medical-grade juice offerings and this is the thanks I get?"

Rosie blinked.

"Wrinkly."

"Unbelievable. I'm being bullied by a toddler."

Mel, still fighting a smile, murmured,

"She's not wrong."

Frank looked personally betrayed.

"Et tu, King?"

"Especially me."

And somehow, absurdly, that helped. Because if Frank was still being dramatic and Mel was still pretending she wasn't amused—maybe the world hadn't fully tilted off its axis. Samira slipped back in a little later with your phone charger, your abandoned bag, and the kind of quiet care that made her impossible not to love.

"I raided your life," she said, setting everything down beside you.

You looked up at her like she'd handed you emotional support itself.

"I might actually cry."

"Acceptable."

She squeezed your shoulder. Rosie cracked one sleepy eye open.

"Auntie Samira…"

"There she is."

Rosie blinked slowly.

"Where's Uncle Jack?"

And there it was. The tiny knife straight to everyone's chest. Because of course she noticed. Of course she expected him too. Samira smiled, warm and easy even as her eyes softened.

"He's probably breaking at least three traffic laws trying to get here."

That got the tiniest sleepy smile.

"He fast."

"He drives like he has no respect for the law or other people."

Frank nodded solemnly.

"Medical fact."

Samira smiled, brushing a curl off Rosie's forehead.

"He's on his way. And he's probably bringing enough snacks to qualify as a health code violation."

Rosie considered this.

"Good."

"Very good."

Dana was threading the IV line now, focused and careful.

"Everyone in this child's life is exhausting."

"Correct," Frank said.

Rosie looked up at Robby again. Still feverish. Still too warm. Still too tired. But calmer now. Because he was there.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, bug?"

Her tiny fingers curled tighter in his scrub top.

"Fix it."

And there it was. The knife. Because she said it so simply. Because to her, Daddy fixed things. Broken toys. Nightmares. Scraped knees. This should be no different. Robby closed his eyes for one second. Just one. Then opened them. You felt his hand tighten around yours. He kissed her forehead gently.

"I'm trying, baby."

And somehow that was worse. Because you could hear it—the helplessness. The desperation. The fact that if he could take this from her and carry it himself, he would do it without hesitation. For a few minutes, there was peace. Hospital peace. The strange kind. Machines beeping softly. Muted voices in the hall. The rise and fall of your daughter's breathing. Robby's thumb brushing over your knuckles. Your hand still resting against his. Just enough to say: I'm here. I know. Me too. And then—Rosie's body jerked. Small at first. Then again. Sharper. Wrong. You sat up immediately.

"Robby."

He was already moving. Rosie's breathing changed. Too fast. Too shallow. Then—the monitor alarm screamed. Everything happened at once. Dana was at the bedside before the second beep. Mel was already reaching for the oxygen settings. Frank's voice cut through the room—

"Get respiratory—now."

Rosie's little body trembled again and your entire world dropped out from under you.

"Rosie—"

Your voice didn't sound like yours. Robby had both hands on her now, trying to keep her still, trying to keep himself still.

"Hey, hey, bug—look at me. Rosie, look at Daddy."

But her eyes were glassy. Too unfocused. Too far away. Your legs moved before your brain did. You were there. At the bed. At her side. Your hand on her leg. Her hand. Anything.

"Baby, Mommy's here, Mommy's here—"

The fever. Too high. Her body too hot. The possibility hit you all at once. Febrile seizure. The thought made your blood run cold. You looked at Robby. And that—that was the worst part. Because he knew it too. And for the first time that night—you saw real fear. Not controlled concern. Not doctor focus. Fear. Pure. Sharp. Paralyzing. And if Robby was scared—truly scared—then terror became something alive inside your chest. Dana's voice was calm. Too calm.

"We've got her. Stay with me."

Mel was adjusting meds, Frank already beside her without being asked, handing her exactly what she needed before she said it. A practiced thing. An us thing. Everyone was doing everything. And somehow it still felt like not enough. Rosie made a small, broken sound. And Robby—your steady, impossible, always-in-control Robby—looked like he was trying not to break apart right there beside her. He pressed his forehead briefly to hers. One second. Just one. And whispered, so quietly you almost missed it—

"Please, baby."

And that was the moment. The one you'd remember forever. Not the monitors. Not the panic. That. Your husband begging your daughter to stay. And nothing in the world had ever felt scarier.

The seizure stopped. And somehow—the silence after was worse. No alarms. No shouting. No frantic movement. Just the sound of everyone trying to breathe again. Rosie lay still in the hospital bed, tiny and flushed and terrifyingly quiet, her little chest rising too fast, too shallow. Too still. Your whole body was shaking. Your hand was still wrapped around her leg, like if you let go this would somehow become real. Maybe it already was. Maybe you were still waiting to wake up. Robby stood frozen at her bedside, one hand locked around Rosie's tiny fingers so tightly it looked painful. His other hand braced against the bed rail like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Because no one wanted to be the first person to break whatever fragile thing was holding the room together. Then Mel stepped closer, checking her pupils, her breathing, listening to her lungs again. Calm. Steady. Like the world hadn't just tilted off its axis. Finally, softly—

"She's postictal."

You blinked. Your brain felt slow. Heavy. Mel looked at both of you this time.

"She's okay. She's exhausted. Her body needs a minute."

Okay. That word again. You nodded like you understood it. You didn't. Not really. Because okay still felt impossibly far away. Dana adjusted the monitor, eyes on the numbers.

"She's coming back down."

Frank stood near the door, arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was physically holding himself together. For once, no jokes. No commentary. Just watching. Samira had appeared beside you at some point and you hadn't even noticed. Her hand was warm against your back. Grounding. Keeping you upright. Rosie made the smallest sound. Barely there. A weak little whimper. And every person in the room turned toward her like the world had started again. Your heart stopped. Then started. Too fast. Her eyes fluttered. Slowly. Heavy. Confused.

"Daddy?"

That—that was the moment Robby nearly broke. He moved so fast it hurt to watch, leaning over her immediately, one hand brushing damp curls from her forehead.

"I'm here, bug. I'm right here."

Her sleepy eyes searched again.

"Mommy?"

And that was yours. You were there before the word had fully left her mouth, your hand cupping her warm little face, brushing tears and sweat and curls away all at once.

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

Her lip trembled.

"Tired."

And there it was. The smallest word in the world. The biggest relief you'd ever felt. Robby swallowed hard beside you.

"I know, baby."

She reached weakly for both of you. No hesitation. Robby climbed onto the edge of the bed and carefully pulled her against him despite the wires, the oxygen, the monitors. Careful. Like she might shatter. Maybe she already had. Maybe all three of you had. You climbed up beside them, ignoring the awkward angle and the hospital equipment and everything else that didn't matter. Rosie curled between you both immediately, one hand fisted in Robby's scrub top, the other reaching for yours. Like she needed proof. That both of you were real. That both of you were staying. You took her hand and kissed her forehead with shaking lips. Still here. Still yours. Still breathing. And suddenly—you couldn't breathe. The adrenaline hit all at once. The crash after the fear. Your hands shook harder. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. Because she was okay. Because she hadn't been. Because for one horrible second you thought—No. You couldn't even finish the thought. Robby looked at you. And because he knew you—really knew you—he saw it instantly.

The panic. The aftermath. The collapse. His hand found yours across Rosie without a word. Warm. Certain. Anchoring. You held on like drowning people held on to wreckage. Dana stepped back slightly, finally letting herself exhale. Mel rubbed a hand over her face. Frank looked at the ceiling like he was personally negotiating with the universe. Nobody said it. But everyone had felt it. How close fear had gotten. Mel checked Rosie again, gentler now.

"Her fever spiked too fast. That likely triggered it. We're staying ahead of it now."

You nodded. Maybe. You weren't sure. You couldn't feel your body properly. Only adrenaline and relief and leftover terror. Robby hadn't looked away from either of you. Not once. Dana glanced at him. Then, quieter than usual—

"Michael."

He looked up. Barely.

"They're okay."

Two words. Simple. But they cracked something open. His face shifted. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just enough. Enough that you saw it. Enough that Dana saw it. Enough that Frank looked away. Robby nodded once. Then once more like maybe the second one would make it true.

"Okay."

But his voice broke anyway. And because sometimes kindness looked like pretending not to notice—Mel busied herself with the chart. Frank made himself useful somewhere else. Dana adjusted the IV for absolutely no reason. Samira squeezed your shoulder. And the room gave him that small mercy. A minute to be a father instead of a doctor. A minute to be scared. A minute to breathe. Rosie shifted sleepily between you both. Her voice barely more than air.

"Daddy came."

Then, after a beat—

"Mommy too."

And that—that destroyed everyone. You let out a broken laugh that turned into tears all over again. Robby pressed a kiss to the top of her head and closed his eyes.

"Always," he whispered.

Always. Not sometimes. Not if he could. Always. And maybe that was the truest thing he'd ever said. Hours later, after the meds, after the fever finally started coming down, after the worst of the fear had loosened its grip—Rosie slept. Really slept. Heavy. Safe. Exhausted. She looked impossibly small in the hospital bed. Tiny fingers still curled around the ear of Mr. Bunny. Flushed cheeks softer now. Breathing steadier. Better. Not perfect. But better. And right now—better felt like everything.

The room was finally quiet. Not emergency room quiet—that never really existed. There were still monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall, footsteps passing outside the door, the low hum of the hospital carrying on whether your world had stopped or not. But inside this room—quiet. Rosie was asleep. Really asleep. Curled on her side in the hospital bed, one hand still wrapped around Mr. Bunny's ear, curls messy against the pillow, cheeks still pink from fever but softer now. Her breathing was steady. Even. The most beautiful sound in the world. You sat on one side of the bed. Robby on the other. Neither of you had really moved in the last hour. Like standing watch. Like if you looked away, something bad might happen. Exhaustion sat heavy in your bones, but sleep felt impossible. Every time Rosie shifted, your heart stopped. Every single time. Your fingers rested lightly against her ankle over the blanket. Proof. Still here. Still warm. Still yours.

Across from you, Robby sat leaning forward, forearms on his knees, still in scrubs, watching her with that same look he'd had all day. Like he was trying to memorize the fact that she was okay. Like if he watched hard enough, he could keep her that way. You reached across the bed and touched his hand. He turned it over immediately, fingers threading through yours like instinct. For a while, neither of you said anything. There wasn't much left to say. Finally, quietly, you asked:

"Are you okay?"

Robby let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

"No."

Honest. Immediate. You nodded.

"Yeah. Same."

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles.

"I keep replaying it."

You knew exactly what he meant. That moment. The monitor. The shaking. The fear. The worst few minutes of your life. You looked down at Rosie.

"I thought we were losing her."

Saying it out loud made your throat close. Robby's jaw tightened.

"So did I."

There it was again. That honesty he only gave you when things were too big for pretending. He leaned back slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I've told parents their kid was going to be okay. I've stood in those rooms and watched them wait for me to say the right thing."

His voice was low. Rough.

"And today I was standing there realizing if someone else was in my place, I'd hate them for how calm they sounded."

You gave the smallest, saddest smile.

"Dana was very calm."

"She was infuriatingly calm."

"She threatened you."

"She was right."

"She usually is."

"Unfortunately."

That got the tiniest smile from him. Then it faded. He looked at Rosie again.

"When she said fix it…"

Your chest hurt. Because yes. That.

"She looked at me like I could."

"You would have if you could."

He swallowed hard.

"Yeah."

Quiet. Then quieter:

"I would've taken all of it. Every fever she'll ever have. Every bad night. Every scared second. I would've taken it all if it meant she never had to feel like that again."

You stood and walked around the bed. No hesitation. Just the need to be closer. You sat beside him and leaned into his side, his arm coming around you automatically. Familiar. Safe. Home.

"She knows that," you said softly.

He frowned a little.

"She's four."

"She knows you show up. She knows when she's scared, you're there. She knows Daddy fixes monsters and bad dreams and broken toys and scary hospitals."

You looked up at him.

"That matters."

His hand moved to your hair. Slow. Thoughtful.

"I should've answered my phone."

There it was. The guilt. You pulled back enough to look at him properly.

"No."

"I should have."

"You were working."

"I still should've answered."

"You were saving someone else's kid."

That stopped him. Because that was the truth. The brutal, impossible truth of who he was and what he did. You touched his face. Gentle.

"This is not your fault."

His eyes closed for a second. Just one. Like he needed permission to believe that. A soft knock came at the door. Neither of you moved. Jack stepped in quietly, hoodie over scrubs, looking like he'd come straight from trying to pretend he wasn't worried. He'd clearly already found Samira first—he had that look, the one that said he knew enough and hated all of it. His eyes went straight to Rosie sleeping in the bed. Then to both of you. Softer.

"How is she?"

No jokes. No sarcasm. Just Jack. Robby looked back at Rosie before answering.

"Better."

A pause.

"Scared the hell out of us."

Jack nodded once. Like that was enough explanation. Because it was. He walked over, setting a coffee beside you and a small plastic bag on the chair.

"For you," he said. "Samira said neither of you have eaten like functioning adults."

You looked inside. Crackers. Juice. Hospital gift shop nonsense. Perfect.

"She's a snitch."

"She's correct."

Also true. He stepped closer to the bed, looking down at Rosie with that soft expression he'd never admit to having.

"She asked for me?"

You smiled tiredly.

"First thing she asked Samira."

That hit him. You saw it. Small. Quick. But there. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well. She's got standards."

Rosie shifted a little in her sleep, tiny hand tightening around Mr. Bunny. Jack reached into the bag and quietly pulled out a stuffed giraffe wearing a ridiculous little hospital t-shirt. You stared.

"Of course you bought that."

He looked offended.

"What kind of uncle would I be if I showed up empty-handed?"

"Probably still her favorite."

"Obviously."

He set it gently beside her pillow. For when she woke up. No big speech. No big moment. Just there. Like he always would be. And somehow—that meant everything.

A couple of hours later, the room felt lighter. Not normal. Not quite safe enough for that yet. But lighter. The sharp edge of panic had dulled into something softer—exhaustion, relief, the strange fragile calm that comes after surviving something you were sure would break you. The fever had finally started coming down. Her breathing was easier. The monitors had stopped sounding like threats. Mel had explained that because of the seizure and how high the fever had spiked, they were keeping Rosie overnight for observation upstairs in pediatrics. Which, while terrifying in its own way, also meant she was stable enough to leave the chaos of the ED. That mattered. That helped. For now, though, she was still here—waiting for a room upstairs to open. Safe. Watched. Still yours. And for the first time all day, everyone in the room had started acting like they believed she was actually going to be okay. Rosie was still asleep, sprawled dramatically across the hospital bed like she had personally fought death and found it inconvenient.

Mr. Bunny had been joined by the stuffed giraffe Jack brought, both tucked under one arm like emotional support staff. Frank had declared himself "off-duty but still emotionally available," which mostly meant he'd stolen the chair in the corner and was pretending not to nap. Dana had finally left after threatening Robby one last time to stop trying to read his own daughter's chart like she wouldn't notice. Samira had promised to come back with actual food and not just crackers pretending to be dinner. Mel had gone to check on another patient, after reminding Frank—for at least the third time—that being pregnant did not, in fact, make her medically decorative. He had disagreed. Loudly. Jack was leaning against the wall drinking bad coffee and looking like he intended to stay there until someone physically removed him. And Robby—Robby was still beside Rosie. Of course he was. One hand resting lightly over her blanket-covered leg like proximity alone could keep her safe.

You sat beside him, your shoulder against his, both of you too drained to pretend personal space mattered. The afternoon light coming through the hospital blinds made everything feel strangely softer. Quieter. Rosie stirred. Just a little. A sleepy frown. A shift under the blanket. Every adult in the room immediately noticed. Like a pack of emotionally unstable meerkats. Frank sat up. Jack straightened. You and Robby were already there. Her eyes blinked open slowly. Heavy with sleep. Confused for a second. Then—

"Daddy?"

Robby leaned forward instantly.

"Hey, bug."

Her voice was rough with sleep.

"Why'm I here?"

Well. That was a question. You exchanged a look with Robby. The universal parent look of: how honest are we being today? Robby chose carefully.

"You got really sick, remember? Your fever got too high, so Mommy brought you here so we could help."

Rosie frowned like she disapproved of this entire experience.

"Bad hospital."

Dana would have been offended. You smiled softly, brushing curls from her forehead.

"Very rude of it, honestly."

She looked around the room slowly. At Frank. At Jack. At the giraffe. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"That mine?"

Jack pushed off the wall immediately.

"Yes. I brought tribute."

She held her hand out with the authority of a tiny queen.

"Gimme."

"Excellent. Demanding already. She's feeling better."

He handed it over solemnly. Rosie inspected the giraffe. Approved. Then her sleepy eyes landed fully on him.

"Uncle Jawk."

Jack smiled.

"Yeah, bug?"

She lifted the giraffe slightly.

"You good uncle."

That—that nearly killed him. Frank made an offended noise from the corner.

"Excuse me? I also brought emotional support and superior charm."

Rosie looked at him.

"You old."

Jack lost it. Actually laughed, loud and helpless. Robby dropped his head for a second, shoulders shaking. You were openly laughing now. Frank pointed dramatically.

"This is targeted abuse."

"Wrinkly too," Rosie added helpfully.

"Unbelievable. I save lives."

Jack wiped at his eyes.

"She's my favorite person."

"Traitor," Frank muttered.

Rosie settled back against the pillows, giraffe tucked under one arm. Then she looked around again.

"Where Auntie Mel?"

Frank answered immediately.

"Bossing everyone around. Very pregnant. Very scary."

From the doorway, Mel's voice:

"I can still hear you, Frank."

Perfect timing. She walked in carrying a chart and the kind of look that said she was deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork. Rosie brightened immediately.

"Auntie Mel!"

Mel softened instantly, walking to the bedside and brushing a hand over Rosie's hair.

"There she is. Feeling better?"

Rosie nodded once. Then very seriously, she pointed at Mel's stomach.

"Baby okay?"

And there it was. Mel smiled—real and warm.

"Baby's okay, sweetheart. Just like you."

Rosie seemed satisfied with that. Critical information received. She nodded once.

"Good."

Robby was trying and failing not to smile. You kissed Rosie's forehead.

"How are you feeling now?"

She considered it.

"Tired."

"Fair."

"Hungry."

Better. Definitely better. Frank stood immediately.

"I was born for this moment."

"You were absolutely not," Jack said.

Frank ignored him.

"I shall retrieve the sacred red popsicle."

And disappeared before anyone could stop him. Rosie watched him go, then snuggled deeper into the pillows, sleepy but calmer now. She looked at all of you—her strange collection of hospital aunties and uncles and exhausted parents—and smiled. Small. Real. Safe. And just like that—the whole day felt survivable.

By the time Rosie was finally moved upstairs to pediatrics, the sun was starting to set. The frantic terror of the day had faded into something quieter. Not gone. Probably never gone, if you were being honest. But quieter. The pediatric floor felt different from the ED. Softer. Less chaos. More quiet voices. More pastel walls trying very hard to convince children hospitals were fun. Rosie, now significantly recovered and therefore significantly bossier, had strong opinions about all of it.

"This room pink."

"Yes," you said, helping settle her into the new bed.

"Too pink."

Jack, carrying approximately twelve unnecessary things behind you, nodded solemnly.

"She's right. It lacks edge."

Frank, who had somehow followed despite being repeatedly told to go home, pointed at the cartoon frog mural.

"That frog has seen things."

"It's judging me," Jack agreed.

"It should."

Rosie giggled. Real giggled. And the sound of it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Because there it was. Your girl. Still your girl. Robby was handling admission paperwork with the kind of intensity usually reserved for trauma cases, because if he stopped moving, he might have to feel things again. Dana had texted three separate threats reminding him he was not allowed to secretly practice medicine on the pediatric floor. He had ignored all of them. Naturally. Mel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the whole circus unfold with tired amusement.

"You all know she is, in fact, allowed to rest without a committee present."

"No," Frank said immediately.

"Incorrect," Jack added.

Samira, arriving with actual food and better judgment than everyone else, sighed.

"This is why none of you are allowed in civilized society."

Rosie, from the bed:

"Stay."

And that was that. Nobody argued with the patient. Hospital law. A little while later, Princess and Perlah appeared—both out of scrubs, both very clearly off shift, and both looking like they had absolutely no intention of staying away once they'd heard Rosie had been admitted. Princess walked in first, holding a small stuffed unicorn and a level of offended concern usually reserved for major crimes. Perlah followed with juice boxes and snacks like she was responding to a humanitarian crisis.

"There's my girl," Princess said immediately, crossing to the bed.

Rosie brightened.

"Auntie Princess!"

Princess leaned down, kissing her forehead.

"I leave for one day off and you start scaring people?"

Rosie pointed at Frank.

"Uncle Fwank old."

Princess didn't even blink.

"Correct."

Frank looked around the room.

"This is harassment."

Perlah stepped in next, gentler, smiling as she brushed Rosie's curls back.

"Hi, sweetheart. Heard you gave everyone a very dramatic day."

Rosie accepted the juice box with the seriousness of a CEO accepting a merger.

"I sick."

Perlah nodded.

"Yes, baby, we noticed."

Before anyone could recover, Santos and Whitaker appeared in the doorway—both freshly off shift, still carrying that exhausted end-of-day energy. Whitaker pointed into the room before she even stepped inside.

"Absolutely not. Why are half of the ED staff in pediatrics for one four-year-old?"

Jack, from the chair:

"Because she's important."

Frank raised a hand.

"And because she's funny."

Whitaker narrowed her eyes.

"This is how hospitals collapse."

Santos walked in behind her, smiling softly at Rosie.

"I was trying to leave like a responsible adult, but apparently that wasn't allowed."

Rosie sat up a little.

"Auntie Santos!"

"There she is."

Santos leaned down, squeezing her hand gently.

"How're you feeling?"

Rosie held up the stuffed giraffe.

"Got giraffe."

Whitaker nodded seriously.

"Excellent. Medically necessary."

Javadi appeared last, quieter than the rest, carrying a coloring book someone had clearly forced into his hands. He looked at the room, then at the sheer number of people gathered around one tiny hospital bed. Then deadpan:

"I leave for ten minutes and the entire emergency department relocates."

Even Robby laughed at that. A real one. Small. Tired. But real. Princess crossed her arms.

"Well obviously. She's our favorite patient."

Frank looked offended.

"She is not a patient. She is management."

"Worse," Mel said.

Rosie, entirely pleased with herself, sat surrounded by stuffed animals, snacks, and what was quickly becoming an illegal number of visitors. You stood there for a moment just taking it in. The noise. The teasing. The ridiculous amount of people who loved your daughter enough to show up. Who stayed. Who made hospitals feel less like hospitals. Robby came back from the nurses' station and stopped in the doorway, taking in the crowd with one long look. Then:

"Why are there somehow more of you?"

Princess smiled sweetly.

"Support."

Whitaker added,

"Surveillance."

Perlah:

"Snacks."

Jack:

"Vibes."

Frank:

"Justice."

Javadi:

"Poor boundaries."

That one made everyone laugh. Even Mel. Especially Mel. Rosie looked up at Robby.

"Daddy, they stay."

He looked at the room full of people who had absolutely no intention of leaving. Then at his daughter. Then sighed. Defeated.

"Yeah, bug. I gathered that."

She smiled, deeply pleased with herself. Then, sleepier now, she reached for both of you.

"Mommy stay. Daddy stay."

You sat beside her immediately.

"We're staying."

She nodded. Satisfied. Then, after a long pause:

"Uncle Jawk stay too."

Jack looked deeply honored. Frank made another offended noise.

"This favoritism is getting ridiculous."

Rosie pointed at him with sleepy authority.

"Uncle Fwank go home."

The room dissolved. Even Whitaker laughed. Frank clutched his chest.

"I have been exiled from my own found family."

Samira patted his shoulder.

"Gracefully accept defeat."

He sighed dramatically.

"For her, I shall endure."

Rosie was already drifting back to sleep again, smiling against your shoulder. Safe. Warm. Here. And surrounded by entirely too many aunties and uncles—it somehow felt exactly right.

The room was quiet again by the time visiting hours had become more of a suggestion than a rule.

Eventually, everyone had been bullied into leaving. Frank had gone last, dramatically announcing that Rosie would "never financially recover" from missing him, while Mel stood beside him looking deeply unimpressed. At one point, as he kept talking, he reached for her hand without even thinking, his other hand briefly resting against her stomach like second nature before she rolled her eyes and told him to stop being dramatic. He did not. Naturally. Jack had promised to come back in the morning with better coffee and worse opinions, and while he was talking, Samira stood beside him with that familiar patient look, their hands linked together like it was the most natural thing in the world. She apologized for him without sounding even slightly sincere. Princess and Perlah had kissed Rosie goodnight like honorary aunties with full legal rights. Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi had finally been chased home after lingering far longer than necessary. Dana had texted three separate warnings that said essentially the same thing.

Go home. Eat something. Stop being insane. Robby was ignoring that too. Naturally.

Now it was just the three of you. Rosie asleep in the hospital bed, one arm around Mr. Bunny, the giraffe tucked beside her like backup security. The soft glow of the hallway lights spilled into the room. The monitors beeped quietly. Steady. Safe. The best sound in the world. You sat in the chair beside her bed, your hand resting lightly over the blanket near her foot. Robby sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched, both of you too tired to pretend otherwise. For a while, neither of you said anything. Just watched her breathe. Just existed in the relief of it. Finally, quietly, Robby said,

"They'll monitor her overnight. Keep an eye on the fever, make sure there's no more seizure activity."

You nodded. You already knew, but hearing him say it still helped. Made it feel real. Manageable.

"If her fever stays under control and she keeps drinking fluids, they'll discharge her tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Such a small word. Such a huge relief. You let out a breath you felt like you'd been holding since noon.

"Tomorrow sounds nice."

"Tomorrow sounds perfect."

Silence again. Softer this time. You looked over at him. His hair was a mess. His scrubs were wrinkled. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than being tired. But he was here. Still here. Still holding it together. Barely. You reached for his hand. He took yours immediately, like instinct. And before you could stop yourself—

"I should've brought her in sooner."

The words came out quiet. Too honest. Robby frowned immediately.

"What?"

"I thought it was just the flu. I kept thinking if I got fluids into her, if I got her fever down, if I just—"

Your voice caught.

"I kept telling myself not to panic. And what if I waited too long?"

There it was. Your guilt. The awful, ugly what if. Because mothers carried those too. He turned fully toward you.

"No."

You looked away.

"What if I missed something?"

"You didn't."

"I should've known sooner."

His hand tightened around yours.

"Hey."

That voice. The one that made you look at him. The one that meant listen.

"You got her here. You knew when it mattered. You trusted your gut and you brought her in."

His eyes were steady. Certain.

"You did exactly what she needed."

Your throat tightened. Because part of you still didn't believe it. Because fear liked to rewrite things after the fact. He softened.

"She's upstairs because of you. She's sleeping because of you. She's okay because you moved when it counted."

That hit. Hard. You looked over at Rosie. Sleeping. Safe. Still here. And suddenly your eyes burned all over again.

"I was so scared."

Your voice was barely there. Robby nodded.

"I know."

Not fixing it. Not dismissing it. Just knowing. And somehow that made it worse. You leaned closer, your shoulder pressing into his.

"I thought if something happened to her, I'd never forgive myself."

His arm came around you immediately. Instinct. Like breathing.

"Nothing happened."

"But it almost did."

Quiet. Honest. True. He rested his cheek briefly against your hair.

"Yeah."

And for a second, neither of you said anything. Because sometimes there wasn't a better answer than the truth. Finally, you whispered,

"She asked you to fix it."

His hand moved over yours. Slow.

"She asked for both of us."

That broke something open. Because she had. Daddy. Mommy. Both. Not one carrying it alone. Never one carrying it alone. You looked up at him. Small. Tired. Certain.

"I love you," he said.

Simple. Quiet. Like truth. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just real. The kind of words said after surviving something. Your eyes stung instantly. Good. Excellent. Love that. You smiled anyway.

"I love you too."

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. Slow. Familiar. Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said everything words didn't. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm here. We're okay. You closed your eyes for a second and let yourself breathe. Really breathe. For the first time all day. When you opened them again, Rosie shifted softly in her sleep but didn't wake. Still safe. Still okay. You leaned into Robby then, letting your head rest on his shoulder. His arm tightened around you automatically. Like home. Like the only place in the world that made sense. Together, you sat there in the dim hospital room, watching your daughter sleep. Listening to the steady beep of the monitors. Holding hands. Breathing. Tomorrow would come. The fever would break. Rosie would go home. Life would keep moving. But for now—for this quiet little moment in the middle of the storm—this was enough.

[thatfanficstuff]

Grounded! - Jack Abbot

Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

synopsis: Jack gets in trouble

warnings/notes: Tenth entry in the widow!jack ficlet series (yes, I am aware that jack would be a widower. no, i do not care). Thanks to @tanely as always. do not ask where this falls in the timeline. i have no idea. yes, that is a Teenwolf reference

wc: 800

Previous Series Masterlist

You and Jack were two hours past the end of your shift with no indication you were any closer to going home. Several patients from a multi-vehicle collision came in just before 0700 and two residents had called out. You felt Jack’s gaze trailing you as you crossed the floor to lean against the counter beside Robby.

He reached over and grabbed a coffee cup from behind the counter and passed it to you. “Had your favorite delivered.”

You grinned and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Mikey. You’re the best.”

Jack frowned. He waited for your attention to shift elsewhere before approaching Robby. “Hey, Mikey—”

“No,” Robby cut him off.

“No what? You don’t even know what I was going to say.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at his friend.

Robby mirrored his position. “No to the name. Don’t call me Mikey.”

“She calls you Mikey,” Jack said gesturing to you as you turned your focus back to the two of them.

The older man glanced between the two of you. “Yes. That’s her. You’re you.”

Jack scowled. “That’s sexist.”

You huffed a laugh. “Baby, that’s not sexist.”

“Well, it’s prejudice of some kind.”

Robby blinked. “Prejudice against you, maybe.”

Jack nodded his head once as if he’d just had something confirmed he’d been suspecting for some time. “I knew it. It’s Jackism.”

“I…Baby, no.”

He turned to fully face you and pointed at you. “It’s Jackist!”

You pressed your lips together as you staved off a laugh or a scream. It was a toss up at this point. “Jack, I need you to never say that again.”

“No. You all think you can be prejudiced against me, and I won’t stand for it. I will call out every incidence of Jackism I see.”

Usually, the ED continued to function without paying much attention to the two of you. This time you were attracting a bit of a crowd. Jack’s vehemence apparently being something they couldn’t overlook.

“That’s it. You’re grounded,” you announced.

Robby nearly spit out a mouthful of coffee. You patted his back as he coughed.

Jack scoffed. “You can’t ground me.”

“Sure, I can. No TV.”

He shrugged. “I’ll read a book.”

“No SWAT.”

“I’ve been thinking of cutting back anyway.”

You leaned forward and dropped your voice to a hiss. “No sex.”

He leaned into your space. “As if you would do that to yourself. Besides, I have two hands.”

Robby groaned. “Brother, you better shut up while you’re ahead.”

You looked from Jack to Robby and back. “Fine. No Robby.”

“No Robby?!” the men said in unison.

“No Robby.” And with that you strode away to see a patient.

“She can’t do that, can she?” Robby asked.

“Don’t talk to me, man. You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Jack said before hurrying away.

You were working on your charting a couple of hours later when Robby approached. Jack edged closer from where he’d been pretending not to pay attention to you.

“Hey, so I know you said no Robby, but Jack was supposed to come over to watch the game tonight. I hate watching alone and you don’t like baseball so could he maybe come over?” Robby asked.

You chuckled under your breath. As if you’d actually ground your husband. As if you needed to.

“You’re only asking her if I can come over because she hates baseball?” Jack huffed. “That’s Jack—”

You snapped around to face him, one brow lifted.

He grumbled under his breath but didn’t finish his sentence.

“Fine. One beer and home straight after the game.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Robby said with a wide smile.

“Anything for you, Mikey.”

Jack stomped off again and you and Robby laughed softly as you watched him go. “He is aware that you would have no way of knowing if he had more than one beer, right?”

“Mike there is something you should know about my husband, he’s a ‘wife guy’ through and through. I don’t have to know anything because he tells on himself. Of course, I don’t care if he watches the game with you but when you asked if he was coming over, he told you he needed permission, didn’t he?”

Robby nodded.

You shrugged. “He’s a grown ass man. I can’t ground him nor would I want to. He does it to himself.”

“Okay,” Robby said, stretching out the word. “So, you won’t be mad when I get him to drink more than one beer tonight?”

You rolled your eyes. “As if I care. But he won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

The two of you discussed terms and shook on it. When Robby saw you at the next handoff, he handed over your winnings with a shake of his head.

[serafinacross]

Jack 'wife guy' Abbot is the absolute best. Even if he is a menace. Wonder what he would have done if he was grounded from the hospital.

Love these little stories!

[porchlightfairy]

A Great Soul Never Dies (masterlist)(completed)

"a great soul serves everyone all the time. a great soul never dies. it brings us together again and again" -Maya Angelou

michael robinavitch x adamson!reader

tags: rivals to lovers, prob a mischaracterization of montgomery adamson, slow burn, potential smut, angst, suicidal ideation from both characters, takes place outside of canon timeline, grief, loss,

summary: you and robby put aside your differences to come together and go to Hawaii to spread your father's ashes. you grow closer and open yourselves to one another.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12(end!)

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

[harryscherriess]

Staying

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Doctor! Reader

CW: hospital/emergency stress, grief, divorce angst, medical-adjacent language, reconciliation, miscarriage, lots of emotional tension. Jack and the reader are terrible at being a divorced couple

Summary: You and Jack are divorced. When a family emergency brings you back together, you’re forced to admit the marriage ended, but the relationship never really did. 

WC: 9.2k (I think) A/N Here is part three 2.0 to this fic, here is part two, and here is part three! I hope you enjoy, and sorry im yapper and they had to be split up!!! But I hope you enjoy! part four and five are coming!

You woke up at three in the morning, and for a few seconds, you didn’t know where you were.

Dark ceiling. Jack’s dresser. Your suitcase open near the chair. A box labeled WINTER CLOTHES by the closet.

Jack asleep beside you, one arm heavy around your waist. Home. 

The word came so quickly that panic followed it. Your heart starting beating out of your chest. 

The room was too familiar. Too close to before.

For one dizzy second, it was eighteen months ago, and you were waking up beside a man who loved you but did not know how to reach you. The nursery door was closed down the hall. The house felt like grief wearing wallpaper.

You slipped carefully out from under Jack’s arm. You padded into the hallway.  The floor creaked under your feet. You stopped outside the nursery.

The door was closed. Your hand hovered over the knob. You didn’t know why you opened it.

Maybe because you needed to know you could.

The room was dim in the moonlight, furniture shapes softened into shadows. The crib pieces still leaned against the wall. The rocking chair sat in the corner. A cardboard box of baby clothes rested near the window.

You stepped inside. The air smelled faintly dusty. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“I came back,” you whispered. Your eyes burned. “I don’t know if that’s okay.”

Behind you, Jack’s voice came softly.

“I think it is.”

You turned. 

He stood in the doorway, hair messy, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes heavy with sleep and concern.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You weren’t there.” 

Your throat tightened.

Jack stepped into the room slowly. “Do you want me to leave?”

You shook your head.

He came to stand beside you. 

“I feel guilty,” you admitted.

Jack’s gaze stayed forward. “For moving back?”

“For being happy here.”

His breath moved out slowly. “Yeah.”

You looked at him. “You too?”

He nodded. “Sometimes.”

You stared at the rocking chair.

“I keep thinking happiness means I’m moving on from her.” 

Jack’s voice was rough.

“I know.”

You reached for his hand. He took it immediately.

“But maybe…” You swallowed. “Maybe staying miserable doesn’t prove we loved her.”

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours.

“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t.”

You turned toward him. “She existed,” you said.

He nodded, eyes wet.

“She mattered.”

“Yes.”

“And this house holds that.”

“Yes.”

“But it can hold other things too.”

Jack looked at you then. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It can.”

You looked around the room again.

For the first time, you did not see only what had been lost.

You saw grief, but you also saw possibility.

A room that did not have to stay frozen to stay sacred. “I think I want to change it,” you whispered.

Jack went very still. “Okay.”

“Not tonight.”

“No.”

“Not tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“But someday.”

He swallowed. “Someday.”

You looked at him. “Would that hurt you?”

“Yes,” he said honestly.

Your chest tightened.

Then he added, “And I think it might help me too.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “What would we make it?”

 “I don’t know.” Jack looked around.

“A reading room, maybe.”

His mouth softened. “You’d like that.”

“You could put your ugly medical journals in here.”

“They’re not ugly.”

“They are spiritually beige.”

He almost smiled. “I could build shelves.”

“You are not allowed to build anything unsupervised.”

“I built the chair.”

“The chair has a limp.”

“It has character.”

You laughed softly.

Jack’s eyes closed for a second, like the sound hurt in a good way.

He pulled you gently into his arms. You stood together in the room that had once broken you.

After a while, you whispered, “Can we sleep with the door open?”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Yeah.”

So you left the nursery door open.

Just a few inches.

Morning came quietly.

Jack was already awake when you opened your eyes, lying on his side, watching you with soft concern.

“Creepy,” you mumbled.

“Good morning to you, too.” His mouth twitched. 

“You watched me sleep?”

“I watched you wake up.”

“Still creepy.”

“Noted.”

You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “I’m still here,” you said

Jack’s expression softened. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t run.”

“No.”

“I thought I might.”

His hand moved to your cheek. “You can be scared and still stay.”

You closed your eyes. “That sounds like something my therapist would say.”

“I have been paying attention.”

“Show-off.”

He smiled faintly. You opened your eyes and looked at him.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes,” he said. “Very.”

Your heart warmed.

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“Guilty?”

“Sometimes.”

“Still?”

“Still.”

“Okay.”

His brows pulled together. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Me too.”

“We’ll keep talking?” He brushed his thumb over your cheek.

“We’ll keep talking.”

“Even when it’s ugly?”

“Especially then.”

Jack leaned in and kissed you softly.

It was not the kiss of people beginning again for the first time. You had already done that.

The kiss of people choosing again in the morning.

Again, after fear and coming home and reeling home, shadows, more importantly, after grief.

When you pulled back, Jack whispered, “Welcome home.”

Your eyes burned.. “Don’t make it weird.”

His mouth curved.

“I would never.”

“You always do.”

“Yes.” 

You laughed, and this time, it did not echo strangely in the bedroom.

It belonged there.

Your phone buzzed. Then Jack’s. Then yours again.

You groaned. “If that’s Dana—”

Jack reached for his phone, squinted at it, and sighed. “It’s your dad.”

“What does he want?”

Jack read the text aloud. “‘Tell my daughter if she moved back in and didn’t have breakfast, she’s being foolish. Also, don’t let Jack make eggs. He overcooks them.’”

You stared at him.

Jack looked offended. “I do not overcook eggs.”

“You do.”

“I make safe eggs.”

“You make rubber.”

“My eggs have never killed anyone.”

“That’s not the standard.”

Your phone buzzed again. Your mother.

Mom: Proud of you. Let yourself be happy. Also, your father wants pictures of the kitchen because he says Jack needs supervision.

You smiled down at the screen.

Jack watched you.

“What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“Face.”

“Good face.”

He relaxed a little.

You reached for his hand under the blanket. “I want pancakes.”

Jack blinked. “You hate pancakes.”

“I want moving-back-in pancakes.”

“That’s not a type.”

“It is now.”

He studied you with grave seriousness.

“I can make pancakes.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

“I can read.”

“Cooking is not just reading.”

“It is mostly reading.”

“This confidence is exactly why Dana worries.”

He sat up, offended and determined. “I’m making pancakes.”

You laughed and followed him downstairs. The kitchen was a disaster.

Boxes stacked by the pantry. Plates still wrapped in newspaper. Dana’s casserole dish soaking in the sink. Your chipped blue mug on the counter, waiting to be washed and put away.

Jack opened three wrong boxes before finding a mixing bowl. You found the pan. He tried to measure flour like he was dosing medication. You told him to stop being clinical with breakfast.

He kissed you against the counter, tasting like sleep and home and something you did not have to lose just because you were afraid of it.

Halfway through breakfast, the smoke alarm went off.

You stood under it, waving a dish towel while Jack tried to salvage a pancake that looked like it had survived a structural fire.

You coughed through laughter.

“Love louder than the smoke alarm,” you said.

The cookbook, the inscription from your aunt's wedding gift. 

You took the ruined pan from his hand and set it aside. You wrapped your arms around his waist.

He held you there while the smoke alarm finally stopped screaming.

Sunlight came through the kitchen window, catching dust in the air, glinting off the chipped blue mug, warming the blue walls you had painted years ago because beige made you spiritually unwell.

Jack rested his chin on your hair.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

For once, the word did not scare you. Home.

You lifted your head and looked at him.

“I’m glad I came back.”

Jack’s eyes glistened, and because he was Jack and could not let a moment become too cinematic without panicking, he said, “The pancake is probably still edible.”

You looked at the blackened thing in the pan. “Jack.”

“What?”

“That pancake is a crime scene.”

He sighed. “I’ll order breakfast.”

“Good choice.”

You sat together on the kitchen floor while waiting for delivery, because the chairs were covered in boxes and neither of you felt like moving them. Your head rested on his shoulder. His hand rested over yours. The nursery door upstairs was open.

Your suitcase was unpacked. Your books were on the shelf. Your chipped mug was in the cabinet.

The house that had once held the end of you and Jack was beginning, carefully, stubbornly, to hold the rest.

Six weeks after moving back into the house, you found Jack standing in the kitchen at seven in the morning, still in pajama pants and a wrinkled old army shirt, staring down at his phone like it had personally offended him.

You were at the counter, trying to convince yourself that coffee counted as breakfast if you added enough cream.

“What?” you asked.

Jack did not look up. “Your father sent me a link.”

“To what?”

“A YouTube tutorial.”

“On?”

“How to properly repair a porch railing.”

You lowered your mug.

He added, and I quote, ‘No offense, Jackie, but I’ve seen your work.’”

You stared at him for two seconds, then you started laughing.

“It is offensive.”Jack looked wounded. 

“It’s a little offensive.”

“He said no offense.”

“That’s how you know he meant offense.”

Jack turned the phone toward you. Sure enough, your father had sent a twelve-minute video titled: How to Fix a Wobbly Porch Railing Like a Pro.

Underneath it, he had texted:

Watch twice. Measure once. Don’t get cocky.

You laughed harder. Jack sighed and slid the phone into his pocket. “I’m blocking him.”

“You are not blocking my father.”

“He has abused the privilege.”

“He loves you.”

“He has a hostile communication style.”

You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind.

Jack stopped grumbling immediately.

That was one of your favorite discoveries since moving back into the house: Jack could be disarmed by affection faster than by logic, apology, or argument. If you touched him gently enough, he lost entire trains of thought.

You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“You’re very sensitive before coffee.”

His hand came over yours. “I have had coffee.”

“You’re very sensitive after coffee, too.”

“That may be true.”

You smiled into his shirt. The kitchen was warm, a little messy, full of evidence that you lived there again.

Your blue mug sat beside Jack’s ugly brown one, which he insisted on keeping despite your ongoing campaign against it. Your work bag was slumped by the door. His reading glasses were on top of a stack of trauma journals.

There was a grocery list on the fridge in your handwriting and his, though his half contained only practical items like eggs, paper towels, and dish soap, while yours included strawberries, cinnamon rolls, and “something that feels fun.”

Jack had written beside that: What does this mean? You had replied underneath: You’ll know it when you see it.

He had brought home two pints of ice cream and a candle.

Close enough.

You squeezed him tighter. “What time is your dad coming over?” Jack asked.

“Six.”

“He’s inspecting the railing, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Jack muttered something under his breath. You kissed his shoulder.

“He’s also bringing my mom’s peach cobbler.”

Jack went still.

“Fine,” he said. “He can come.”

You laughed.

He turned in your arms, looking down at you with that sleepy, soft morning expression you were still getting used to having again.

It was different this time.

Before, when you were married, mornings had often felt rushed. Coffee swallowed too hot, scrubs pulled from the dryer, Jack checking his pager, you searching for your keys while swearing you had just had them. Domestic, yes, but strained by the pace of two people trying to outrun their own exhaustion.

Now, mornings moved slower when they could.

The Pitt still owned both of you more than either of you liked to admit. Some days started at four-thirty, some ended after midnight, and some were consumed by emergencies that made breakfast feel like a fictional concept.

But when the house gave you a soft morning, you took it.

Jack’s hands settled at your waist.

“You have a meeting at nine,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’re still in my sweatshirt.”

“I know.”

“You said you wanted to leave by eight.”

“I said a lot of ambitious things last night.”

His mouth twitched.

“You also said you were going to organize the pantry.”

“That was a cry for help.”

He smiled.

You lifted your chin. “Don’t judge me. You alphabetized the spices.”

“That was useful.”

“You put salt under S.”

He blinked. “Yes?”

“It should be near the stove.”

“It is near the stove.”

“It should be spiritually near the stove.”

Jack stared at you.

“I’m not engaging with that sentence.”

“You never respect my kitchen philosophy.”

“You have a kitchen philosophy?”

“Yes. Vibes first.”

“That explains the pantry.”

You gasped and shoved his chest lightly.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles.

And just like that, the teasing went soft.

It happened often now. A joke would become a look. A look would become a hand held a little too long. The house would go quiet around you, remembering the bad years but not surrendering to them.

Jack’s thumb brushed over your ring finger.

Neither of you talked about that directly.

Not because it was forbidden. Because other conversations were standing closer to the front of the line.

The yellow room. The baby…Trying again.

The thought moved through you so suddenly that your breath quickened.

His expression changed. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly.

He studied you.

“You did the fast nod.”

“I’m fine.”

“And the fine.”

“Jack.”

He did not push. That was new too. He just waited, his hands warm at your waist, his eyes steady on your face. You looked toward the hallway.

Upstairs, the yellow room door was open, not wide open.

Just enough. It had stayed that way for weeks now.

Sometimes you passed it without stopping. Sometimes you glanced in and felt only a dull ache. Sometimes you had to sit on the stairs and breathe for a minute before continuing to the bedroom.

Healing was rude like that. Inconsistent.

You looked back at Jack. “I had a thought,” you said.

His face softened, but his body went alert in that way it did when he knew the conversation mattered.

“Okay.”

“I don’t know if it’s a today thought.”

“That’s fine.”

“It might be a later thought.”

“We can do later.”

You nodded. Because you had learned that later could become never if you let fear drive, you said it anyway.

“I was thinking about the room.”

“The yellow room?” Jack asked, tracing small circles on your waist 

“Yeah.”

His voice was careful. “What about it?”

You swallowed. Your eyes dropped to the front of his shirt.

“I don’t think I want to turn it into a reading room anymore.”

Jack went quiet. His face was unreadable for half a second, and the old panic sparked in you before you could stop it.

“Say something.”

He blinked, then nodded quickly. “Sorry. I’m here.”

“Where did you go?”

His eyes softened with guilt. “Nowhere bad. Just…” He exhaled slowly. “I was trying not to assume what you meant.”

That was fair. You appreciated it. You also hated it.

“I don’t fully know what I mean,” you admitted.

Jack nodded.

Your voice got smaller. “I just know that when I walk past it now, sometimes I don’t only think about what we lost.” You kept going before you lost your nerve. “Sometimes I think about what it could still be.”

You watched him carefully.

“You don’t have to say the perfect thing,” you whispered.

“Good. Because I don’t have it.” His mouth pulled tight.

“That’s okay.”

“I’m scared.”

Your throat tightened. “Me too.”

“I want to be careful.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want careful to become avoidance.”

You almost smiled. “Therapy Jack is very articulate.”

“He’s expensive.”

You laughed softly, and his face eased at the sound.

Jack touched your cheek. “You’re talking about trying again,” he said.

You nodded. “I think so.”

Jack closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he said.

Your breath caught. “You have?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A lot.”

“Jack.”

His thumb moved over your cheek. “I didn’t want to bring it up first.”

“Why?”

“Because I was afraid it would feel like pressure. Or like I wanted to fix the room by filling it.”

He understood. God, he understood now.

You leaned into his hand.

“I was afraid of that, too.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want another baby because we lost her.”

“No.”

“I want…” You swallowed. “I want a life with you that keeps growing.”

“I want that too,” he whispered.

After a minute, Jack said, “We should talk to your doctor.”

You laughed through the tears in your throat. “Of course, that’s your first thought.”

“It is a reasonable first thought.”

“It is very you.”

“I am trying not to apologize for being medically responsible.”

“You don’t have to.”

He pulled back enough to look at you. “And we should talk to someone together. Before. During. Whatever we need.”

“Our therapist?”

“Yes.”

“You want to make a baby with a care plan.”

Jack considered this.

“Yes.”

You laughed again, fuller this time.

He looked defensive.

“I don’t see the problem.”

“There isn’t one.” You touched his face. “It’s annoyingly sweet.”

His expression softened. “We don’t have to decide anything today.”

“I know.”

“But we can start talking.”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you whispered. “We can start talking.”

Jack kissed you then.

The Pitt noticed before you told anyone. The Pitt noticed everything.

It noticed the way Jack brought you coffee without asking. It noticed the way you adjusted his badge before rounds because he had put it on crooked after changing in a hurry. It noticed the way he carried granola bars in his pocket now and handed them to you mid-shift like silent medication.

It noticed the way you and Jack had stopped behaving like people trying not to be seen.

The first time he kissed your forehead at the nurses’ station, the entire department went briefly, violently silent.

In Jack’s defense, he had not meant to do it.

Probably, but knowing him? He probably did mean it

You had been standing at the board beside Dana, hair pulled back, pen between your teeth, trying to work through a throughput issue that involved two delayed transfers, one missing transport tech, and a patient who kept trying to leave AMA despite being attached to multiple lines.

Jack came up beside you with a chart. “You need trauma two for the incoming MVC?”

“Yes,” you said, distracted. “But only if CT actually takes bed eight, and CT is pretending they don’t know us.”

Jack looked over the board. “Move bed eight to hallway three for ten minutes, put MVC in two, and tell CT Robby is coming up personally if they don’t take the patient.”

“Robby is not going up personally.”

“No, but CT doesn’t know that.”

You turned to him. “That’s manipulative.”

“That’s operational efficiency.”

Dana pointed at Jack. “He’s not wrong.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

Jack handed you the chart. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just hungry.”

Without looking away from the board, he pulled a granola bar from his pocket and handed it to you.

Dana watched this happen.

You took it, equally distracted. “Thanks.”

Jack glanced at you, then at the board again. “You’ve had coffee and half a banana today.”

“I’m aware.”

“That’s not food.”

“I said I’m aware.”

“You get mean.”

Dana’s head turned like a security camera.

Jack realized, too late, that he had said the quiet part in public. You lowered the pen from your mouth. “Excuse me?”

His face shifted into the grave expression of a man facing consequences. “I said you get mean.”

Dana made a tiny sound. 

You turned fully toward him. Jack held your gaze. Then, because he had apparently chosen bravery over survival, he added, “When you don’t eat.”

Dana covered her mouth.

You narrowed your eyes. “Dr. Abbot.”

“Oh, she used the title,” Dana murmured. “Bad sign.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. He leaned in, kissed your forehead quickly, and said, “Eat the granola bar.”

Then he walked away, like he hadn’t just committed an act of public tenderness in the middle of the emergency department.

You stood there, stunned. The nurses’ station was silent. Trinity appeared from behind a computer.

“I’m sorry, are we all pretending we didn’t just see that?”

Dana dropped her hand from her mouth.

“No,” she said. “We are absolutely seeing it.”

You pointed the granola bar at both of them.

“Back to work.”

She grinned. “Yes, Mrs. Abbot.” 

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Dana’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” she said softly. “Interesting.”

Your face went hot. “I am not—”

“You didn’t correct it fast enough,” Dana said.

“I was eating.”

“You had not opened the granola bar yet.”

“Dana.” She smiled in a way that made you deeply uneasy.

“I’m just observing.”

“Observe a bed assignment.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Across the department, Jack looked over. You glared at him. He gave you the smallest shrug, then mouthed, Sorry.

He did not look sorry.

At home, it became a joke. Sort of.

“You kissed me in front of Dana,” you said that night, standing in the bedroom while changing into comfy clothes. 

Jack was sitting on the bed, reading an article on his tablet. “I did.”

“You never do that.”

“I kiss you.”

“At home.”

“And in the car.”

“When no one can see.”

“And the porch.”

“Jack.”

He looked up then, eyes innocent. “You told me not to act like loving you was classified information.”

You paused. That was true. You had said that.

Not recently. Months ago, during one of the hard conversations after moving back. You had told him you didn’t need him to perform affection for the department, but you also didn’t want to feel like a secret in the place where both of you worked.

Jack had listened. Apparently, too well.

“You remembered that?”

“Yes.”

You turned back to the mirror, trying not to smile.

“So your solution was forehead kissing next to the trauma board?”

“It seemed efficient.”

You laughed.

Jack set the tablet aside. “Was it too much?”

You looked at him in the mirror.

His face was open now. A little cautious.

“No,” you said. “It wasn’t too much.”

You turned around and leaned back against the dresser. “Trinity called me Mrs. Abbot.”

His expression changed so quickly it would have been funny if it hadn’t sent warmth through your chest.

“She did?”

“Don’t look pleased.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m neutral.”

“You look like my dad when the Steelers score.”

He looked down.

You saw it immediately.

The soft flicker of something emotional.

Your dad was fine.

Alive and opinionated and currently banned from unsupervised ladder use.

But after everything he’d survived, even casual mentions of him carried a little ache now. A reminder that you had almost lost him. A reminder that time was not guaranteed. A reminder that sometimes life gives you another chance, and you were supposed to be awake enough to take it.

Jack looked back up. “He texted me again.”

You smiled. “About the railing?”

“No. About dinner.”

“What did he say?”

Jack reached for his phone and read, “‘Tell my daughter if you two are living in sin again, the least you can do is invite us over Sunday.’”

You burst out laughing. “Living in sin again?”

Jack looked pained. “Again is doing a lot of work there.”

“My dad is ridiculous.”

“He also asked if I was planning to marry you again or if I was ‘waiting for divine intervention.’”

Your laughter faltered.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.

You looked down at your hands.

“That’s very Dad.”

Jack set his phone aside.

“I didn’t answer that part.”

“Probably smart.”

“I wanted to.”

Your eyes snapped up. Jack stood slowly.

He crossed the room, stopping a few feet from you.

“Not tonight,” he said.

Your heart started beating harder. “Jack.”

“I’m not proposing in the bedroom while quoting your father’s emotionally aggressive text message.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I just want you to know…” He exhaled. “I think about it.”

Your throat tightened. “Getting married again?”

“Yes.”

You looked at him.

There had been a time when the word marriage felt like a bruise. Even after you came back. Even after the house became yours again. Even after you slept beside him every night and woke up to his hand searching for you under the covers.

You whispered, “I think about it too.”

Jack’s expression softened so deeply it made you ache. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His hands settled at your waist. “One terrifying life decision at a time?” he asked.

You laughed softly.

“You mean the baby conversation?”

“I do.”

You nodded. “One terrifying life decision at a time.”

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

When he pulled back, you said, “But for the record, if you ever do propose in a hospital or anywhere near Dana, I will say no on principle.”

“Noted.”

“And not during a family dinner.”

“Understood.”

“And don’t put the ring in food.”

He looked offended. “I’m a physician.”

“You overcook eggs. I don’t trust your culinary judgment.”

His mouth twitched. “You are very difficult.”

“You want to marry me again.”

“I do.”

The words slipped out.

Both of you went still.

I do.

Jack swallowed.

You stared at him. Then, because the only alternative was crying, you said, “That was accidental foreshadowing.”

He laughed, breathless and a little wrecked.

You pulled him down by the front of his shirt and kissed him until both of you forgot to be afraid for a minute.

You had the first real baby conversation in the yellow room.

It was Jack’s idea, which surprised you.

You were folding laundry in the bedroom two nights after the forehead kiss incident when he leaned in the doorway and said, “I think we should talk upstairs.”

You looked at him.

“We are upstairs.”

“In the room.”

Your hands stilled on a towel. “Oh.”

Jack watched your face. “We don’t have to.”

You looked toward the hall. The yellow room door was open.

A lamp was on inside because Jack had replaced the old broken one with a soft white floor lamp you had picked out from Target after standing in the aisle for twenty minutes, insisting you were “just browsing.”

He had assembled it while you read the instructions aloud badly on purpose.

The room looked different now

The crib pieces were still there, but boxed neatly. The baby clothes were in sealed containers in the closet. The rocking chair remained in the corner with the notebook beside it, the one where you and Jack had written memories of the daughter you lost, the names you had considered, the feelings you could finally say out loud.

There were books now too. A small shelf. A soft rug.

One plant Santos had brought over and called “emotionally resilient,” which Jack had immediately looked up care instructions for.

You wiped your hands on your jeans. “Okay.”

Jack held out his hand.

You took it. Together, you walked into the room.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You sat on the rug with your back against the wall.

Jack sat beside you, one knee bent, his arm resting loosely over it.

The silence was not empty. It was full of everything you were about to say.

Finally, you whispered, “I’m scared I’ll resent being pregnant.”

Jack looked at you.

You kept your eyes on the rocking chair. “Not because I wouldn’t want it. I would. I do. But I’m scared I’ll spend the whole time waiting for something bad to happen.”

Jack nodded slowly. “I think that’s likely.”

“I don’t mean forever,” he said. “But at first? Yeah. I think you’ll be scared.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.”

“Try again.” 

His mouth softened. “I think you’ll be scared, and I think we’ll plan for that. Doctor. Therapist. Support. Appointments where I come with you unless you don’t want me there. No pretending everything is normal if it doesn’t feel normal.”

You swallowed. “I’m scared of appointments.”

“I know.”

“The ultrasound room.”

His hand found yours. “I know.”

“I’m scared if there’s no heartbeat again, I’ll die.”

Jack’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, they were wet. “You won’t,” he said, voice rough. “But it will feel like it.”

You nodded as tears slipped down your cheeks. “I’m scared you’ll go quiet again.”

He looked down at your joined hands. “I’m scared of that too.”

The honesty hurt, but it helped more than anything

“I don’t want to,” he said. “I need you to know that. I don’t want ever to be that man again.”

“You’re not.”

“I could be if I stop paying attention.”

That was also new. Old Jack would have insisted he had changed and left it there. This Jack knew love was not proof against relapse. Grief could make anyone return to old survival habits.

“What will you do?” you asked.

“If I feel myself shutting down?”

You nodded.

“I’ll tell you.”

“Before or after I have to drag it out of you?”

His mouth twitched sadly. “Before.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll try before,” he amended.

“Better.”

“And I’ll call Dr. Gentry.”

Your couples therapist.

“You would call her yourself?”

“Yes.”

You squeezed his hand. “Okay.”

“What will you do?” he asked gently.

You took a breath. “If I feel myself spiraling?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m scared instead of pretending I’m mad about dishes.”

“That would help.”

“I will probably still be mad about dishes sometimes.”

“That seems fair.”

“And if I want to run, I’ll say that instead of packing a bag in my head.” 

Jack’s hand tightened. You looked at him.

“I won’t leave without telling you I’m scared,” you said.

“Okay.”

“And if this doesn’t happen?”

His brow furrowed. “If what doesn’t?”

“If we try, and it doesn’t happen. Or if it takes a long time. Or if there are complications. Or if we change our minds.” Your voice trembled. “Are we still enough?”

Jack turned fully toward you. “You and me?”

You nodded.

His expression went so soft it nearly broke you. “Yes,” he said. “We are enough.”

“Listen to me.” His voice was low, steady. “I want this with you. I want a baby with you. I want a loud house and tiny socks in the laundry and your father giving me terrifying advice and Dana pretending she doesn’t want pictures.”

You laughed through tears.

“I want all of it,” Jack said. “But not because you and I are missing something. Not because we need a baby to make this real. This is real already.”

You leaned into him.

He wrapped his arm around you. “If it’s just us,” he whispered, “I still choose us.”

You cried then. Not because you were sad. Because you believed him. 

You rested your head against his shoulder.

“I want to try,” you whispered.

Jack turned his face into your hair. “Me too.”

“Not like a project.”

His mouth brushed your temple. “No charts?”

“You can have one chart.”

He laughed softly. “One?”

“Maybe two.”

“I can work with two.”

“And no calling it conception planning.”

He sighed. “There goes my folder title.”

You laughed for real.

Jack smiled against your hair.

The yellow room, for once, felt almost light.

Trying, at first, was mostly talking.

Some part of you expected the decision to feel cinematic. Like the second you both agreed, the universe would shift. Music would swell. The yellow room would become brighter. Jack would sweep you into his arms with some dramatic declaration about the future.

Instead, life continued.

The Pitt still needed both of you.

Your father still sent Jack threatening home improvement videos.

Your mother still came over on Sunday with food and pretended not to inspect your face for signs of emotional distress.

Dana still yelled. Santos still gossiped. Robby still knew more than he said.  And you and Jack talked.

In the car. In bed.In the kitchen while loading the dishwasher. On the porch, while Jack tried, under intense remote supervision from your father, to fix the railing properly.

“Your dad says I’m holding the drill wrong,” Jack said one afternoon, phone propped against a flowerpot on FaceTime.

Your father’s voice came through the speaker.

“You are.”

“I’m a trauma attending.”

“You’re not attending to that drill correctly.”

You sat on the porch steps, eating grapes from a bowl, laughing. Jack pointed the drill at the phone. “This is harassment.”

Your father replied, “This is mentorship.”

Your mother’s voice sounded in the background. “Ben, leave that man alone.”

“He needs me.”

“I do not,” Jack said.

Your father squinted through the screen. “My daughter looks tired. Did she eat lunch?”

You groaned. “Dad.”

Jack answered before you could. “She had soup and half a sandwich.”

“Half?”

“She said the bread was weird.”

“It was weird,” you called.

Your father looked at Jack. “You’re letting her get away with bread commentary?”

Jack looked at you, then back at the phone. “I pick my battles.”

Your father nodded. “Good. You’re learning.”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the bowl. Jack’s expression softened when he looked at you.

Your father noticed.

“Oh, here we go,” he said. “You two being mushy?”

You leaned toward the phone. “Goodbye, Dad.”

“Wait, did he fix the railing?”

Jack ended the call.

You stared at him. “He was mid-sentence.”

“He’ll call back.”

“He absolutely will.”

Jack set the drill down and came to sit beside you on the steps.

The railing, to his credit, did look better.

He took a grape from your bowl. You slapped his hand. “Excuse you.”

“You weren’t eating them.”

“I was actively eating them.”

“You were laughing.”

“I can multitask.”

He stole another.

You let him.

For a while, you sat shoulder to shoulder in the late afternoon light.

Then Jack said, “I talked to my doctor.”

You looked over. “Your doctor?”

“My primary. About age. Trying. Risks.”

Your heart tugged.

“Oh.”

“I figured you shouldn’t be the only one having uncomfortable medical conversations.”

You stared at him.

He glanced at you and looked almost embarrassed. “What?”

“You did that without me asking.”

“Yes.”

“That’s really…”

“Responsible?”

“Hot.” 

Jack blinked. You grinned.

He looked away, but you could see the flush creeping up his neck.

“I was trying for responsible.”

“You landed on both.”

He shook his head. “You are impossible.”

“You want a baby with me.”

“I do.”

The words were easier now. You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“What did your doctor say?”

“That I’m healthy. Annoyingly, he told me to reduce stress.”

You lifted your head and stared. “Did you laugh in his face?”

“I did not.”

“Proud of you.”

“He also suggested sleep.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Yes. I hated him.”

You laughed.

Jack took your hand. “He said there are risks. Some age-related. Some general. But nothing that makes trying unreasonable.”

You nodded slowly. “How do you feel?”

He was quiet. Then, “Old.”

You softened. “Jack.”

“I know. I’m not ancient.”

“You’re not.”

“But I think about it.” He looked down at your hands. “Being an older father. Whether it’s fair. Whether I’ll have enough time.”

Your chest ached. You shifted toward him. “Do you want the honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“It scares me too sometimes.”

He nodded, accepting it. “But I don’t think love is less worth choosing because we can’t guarantee time,” you said.

His eyes lifted. “If my dad taught me anything recently, it’s that stubborn people can survive terrifying things and still annoy everyone for years.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“And you,” you added, squeezing his hand, “are extremely stubborn.”

“That is true.”

“You’d be a good dad.”

His face went still. You had said versions of it before. But not like that.

Not sitting on the porch, talking about his age and fear and the possibility of a child who might inherit your dramatic tendencies and his terrible sleep schedule.

Jack looked down. “I want to be.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be distant.”

“You won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” you said. “But I know you now. And I know you’re doing the work before anyone even exists to need it.”

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Your father called back fourteen seconds later.

Jack closed his eyes. You laughed and answered.

“Did he hang up on me?” your father demanded.

“Yes.”

Jack leaned toward the phone. “And I’ll do it again.”

The porch felt like home.

At work, things got worse. Not bad, worse. Embarrassingly worse.

The more domestic you and Jack became, the less either of you seemed able to hide it. Not that you wanted to hide it per se, but to keep your work life and private life separate. 

One morning, Trinity caught you adjusting Jack’s badge clip (again)  because it had twisted around his pocket.

She stopped dead in the hallway. You looked at her. She looked at your hand on Jack’s chest.

Jack looked tired already.

“Don’t,” he said.

She held up both hands. “I said nothing.”

“You inhaled judgmentally.”

“I inhaled romantically.” 

You dropped your hand and walked away. She followed you naturally. 

“So are we calling this a hard launch or soft launch?”

“We are calling this workplace harassment.”

“Emotionally, it feels like a hard launch.”

“Trinity.”

“I just need to know because Dana said if I ask directly about remarriage, she’ll make me clean the break room fridge.”

“Dana is wise.”

She lowered her voice. “Are you?”

You stopped. She nearly ran into you.

“Are we what?”

She looked nervous suddenly, like she had wandered too close to a real thing by accident. “You know. Like… happy?”

The question disarmed you.

Behind Trinity’s chaos was sincerity. Curiosity, yes. Gossip, absolutely. But also something soft. You glanced across the ED.

Jack was at the computer station with Robby, both of them looking at scans. He had one hand in his pocket, glasses low on his nose, brows drawn in concentration. As if he sensed your gaze, he looked over.

His expression softened immediately.

You looked back at her. “Yeah,” you said. “We’re happy.”

Her face lit up. Then she tried to control it and failed.

“That’s disgusting,” she said.

You laughed. “Go check on bed twelve.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Later that day, Dana caught you eating an actual lunch.

At a table. Sitting down. She stopped in the break room doorway like she had seen a ghost.

You looked up from your salad.

“What?”

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “You eating voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

“Did Jack threaten you?”

“No.”

“Did Robby?”

“No.”

“Did your father?”

You pointed your fork at her. “I am capable of feeding myself.”

 Dana walked in slowly and sat across from you. “This feels suspicious.”

“It’s lunch, Dana.”

“You make everything weird.”

She studied you. “You look better.”

You swallowed. “I feel better.”

“Good.”

“Still scared.”

“That too.”

You looked down at your food. Dana leaned back. “You two talking about kids?”

Your head snapped up. “Dana.”

She shrugged.

“I’m old, not blind.”

You stared at her. “Does everyone know everything?”

“In this department? Yes.”

You rubbed at your forehead. “We’re talking,” you said carefully.

Dana nodded. “That’s good.”

Dana reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “You don’t owe anyone being fearless about it.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m very much not fearless.”

“I know.”

“I want it.”

“I know.”

“I’m terrified.”

Dana’s grip tightened. “That makes sense, honey.”

You blinked fast.

Dana released your hand and stood before you could start crying into your salad.

Then she pointed at the container.

“Finish that.”

You laughed wetly. “Yes, Dana.”

As she left, she passed Jack in the doorway.

He looked at you, then at Dana. “What happened?”

Dana said, “She’s eating lunch. Try not to ruin it.”

Jack frowned. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Men always think that.”

He came in, confused, and sat across from you. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Dana looked like I did something.”

“Dana always looks like you did something.”

“That’s true.”

He glanced at your salad. “You’re eating.”

You stabbed a cucumber with your fork. “If you praise me for eating lunch, I’ll throw this at you.”

His mouth closed. Then, carefully, “That salad looks structurally sound.”

You burst out laughing.

Jack smiled. 

From the hallway, Dana yelled, “I heard that!”

The doctor’s appointment was on a Thursday morning. You asked Jack to come. 

He said yes before you finished the sentence. Then spent the entire drive trying not to look nervous, which resulted in him looking extremely nervous.

You sat in the passenger seat, watching him grip the steering wheel. “Jack.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re doing the jaw thing.”

He loosened his jaw immediately. “Better?”

“No, now you look like you’re defusing a bomb.”

He exhaled. “I don’t like being on this side.”

“The patient side?”

“The family side.”

You looked out the window.

“Yeah.”

He reached over and took your hand. “I’m not going to make it harder.”

“You’re not.”

“I might over-ask questions.”

“You definitely will.”

“I’ll try to limit it.”

“You get five.”

He glanced at you. “Five questions?”

“Five doctor questions. Unlimited partner questions.”

His face softened. “What’s the difference?”

“Doctor questions sound like you’re trying to manage risk.”

“And partner questions?”

“They sound like you’re trying to understand me.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

At the appointment, Jack kept his promise.

Mostly.

Your OB was kind, direct, and completely unbothered by the way Jack had clearly prepared mentally for a medical conference.

She reviewed your history, talked through timing, risk, prenatal vitamins, cycle tracking, emotional considerations after loss, and what early pregnancy monitoring could look like if and when it happened.

You held Jack’s hand the entire time.

When she mentioned early ultrasounds, your grip tightened. Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles.

The doctor noticed but did not overdo the sympathy.

You appreciated that.

“We can build in support around those visits,” she said. “Some patients find extra monitoring reassuring. Others find it increases anxiety. There’s no wrong response. We adjust to what you need.”

You looked at Jack. He was watching you, not the doctor. “What?” you whispered.

His voice was soft. “Partner question.”

The doctor smiled faintly and looked down at her notes to give you the illusion of privacy.

Jack leaned closer. “What do you think you’d need?”

Your throat tightened. You squeezed his hand.

“I think I’d need you there.”

His eyes softened. “Done.”

“And I’d need you to not go quiet if it’s scary.”

“I won’t.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll try not to,” he corrected. “And if I do, I’ll say I’m scared.”

You nodded.

The doctor looked up, gently. “That’s a good plan.”

Jack had questions. Exactly five. You counted. He looked personally pained, stopping at five, but he did it.

In the parking lot afterward, you sat in the car and didn’t move. Jack didn’t start the engine. You stared down at the folder in your lap.

Prenatal vitamins. Lab order. General guidance.

Nothing dramatic. Everything enormous.

“I thought I’d feel different,” you said. 

Jack looked over. “How do you feel?”

“Normal.”

“That’s bad?”

“No. Just weird.”

He nodded.

“I expected thunder,” you said.

“Thunder?”

“Or some big emotional breakdown.”

“We can schedule one.” You laughed. He smiled softly. 

Then you looked down at the folder again. “I feel hopeful.”

Jack’s expression changed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He reached for your hand. “I do too.”

Your father found out because he was nosy. You had not planned to tell your parents yet.

There was technically nothing to tell beyond we talked to the doctor and we’re going to try, which felt private and tender and still too new to expose to parental commentary.

But your father had the investigative instincts of a retired coach with too much free time.

He came over Sunday with your mother and a bag of groceries because he had decided your fridge “looked like two overworked doctors and a raccoon were sharing custody of it.”

Everything was fine until your mother opened the cabinet to find tea, and a bottle of prenatal vitamins fell out. It hit the counter with a soft plastic sound.

Everyone froze. Jack closed his eyes.

You stared at the bottle. Your mother stared at the bottle.

Your father looked from the bottle, to you, to Jack, then back to the bottle.

“Oh,” your mother whispered.

“Mom.”

Her eyes filled immediately.

“Mom, don’t.”

“I’m not.”

“You are actively about to.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“With tears.”

“I have allergies.”

“You do not have allergies.”

Your father picked up the bottle and squinted at it. 

You snatched it from his hand. “Personal.”

He lifted both hands. “I can read, kiddo.”

Jack looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. 

Your father looked at him. “You responsible for this?”

“Dad!”

Jack’s face went red.

Your mother slapped your father’s arm. “Ben.”

“What? I’m asking.”

“You are not asking that.”

“I know how babies happen.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you muttered.

Jack coughed into his fist.

Your father pointed at him. “Don’t laugh, Jackie. You’re on thin ice.”

Jack immediately stopped laughing.

Your mother came closer, voice soft.

“Are you trying?”

You looked at Jack. He looked back.

You exhaled.

“We’re talking about it,” you said.

Your father raised an eyebrow. “With vitamins?”

You shot him a look.

“We’re going to try,” you admitted.

Your mother’s restraint completely broke “Oh, baby.”

“Please don’t make it a whole thing.”

“It is a whole thing.”

“Mom.”

She came to you and wrapped you in a hug.

You stiffened for half a second, then softened. “I’m scared,” you whispered.

Her arms tightened. “I know.”

Your father was quiet.

That was rare enough that you pulled back and looked at him.

His expression had softened. “You don’t have to be brave every second,” he said.

Your mother wiped at her eyes.

Your father cleared his throat, apparently uncomfortable with the sincerity he had created.

“But if you do have a baby, I’m not being called Grandpa Ben. Sounds like a guy who owns a bait shop.”

You laughed wetly. “What do you want to be called?”

“Coach.”

You stared. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“My child is not calling you Coach.”

Jack, traitor that he was, looked amused. Your father looked at him. “You agree, right?”

Jack held up both hands. “I am not entering this.”

“Smart,” your mother said.

Your father pointed at him. “You’re learning.”

Dinner that night was softer.

Your mother hugged you too often. Your father only made one more inappropriate comment before your mother threatened to make him wait in the car.

Jack sat beside you at the table, his knee brushing yours. Underneath the table, he took your hand.

You squeezed back.

Later, after your parents left, your father sent Jack a text.

Jack read it at the kitchen counter and went quiet.

“What?”

He handed you the phone.

Ben: I’m happy for you two. Scared too. Don’t let her carry it alone. And don’t carry yours alone either. Ben: Also if the baby calls me Coach, I’ll pay for college.

You laughed and cried at the same time.

Jack wrapped his arms around you from behind. “Coach is not happening,” you said.

“No.”

“College is expensive,” Jack murmured.

You turned in his arms and gasped. “Jack Abbot.”

“I’m just saying.”

You laughed into his chest.

The sound filled the kitchen.

The house kept it.

[serafinacross]

I absolutely adore these two!

[multipotentialitepisces]

Friends of Mine - Jack Abbot x Reader

Read me on AO3!

Synopsis: When Jack finds out you’ve been moved to day shift for the weekend, he’s upset you’ve abandoned him. What he doesn’t expect is to see you hours after you left while he’s on shift. Reader’s best friend’s bachelorette night out, and you end up back in the ER with a member of the bridal party when she slips in the bar and wounds her head, and Jack can’t stop staring at you in your going out outfit ;)))

disclaimer: i know nothing about medicine, and this is wildly and dangerously inaccurate! ❤️

2.5k words

embarrassed to say i listened to this on repeat and (for all of my Rivals RCB and Declan O’Hara dilf enthusiasts) it reminds me of sexy old men okay!

You were sat in the desk chair that now felt like concrete, eyes blearily roving over one of your last charts of the shift, when you saw a hulking figure place their weight on the desk in front of you.

‘Since when did you move to the dark side, sweetheart?’

Jack Abbot. The older man you’d had a crush on since you started as a senior resident at the Pitt months ago.

In your defence, your age gap wasn’t as egregious as what the two of you talked in hushed tones about whatever Robby and Whitaker had going on.

He was in his signature tight black tee, stretched taut across his broad chest and shoulders, showing off his well-trained biceps, skimming across his belly into his baggy camo trousers. You could take the boy out of the army, but you couldn’t take the army out of the boy.

You dragged your eyes from what had become a mere scrawl of type in front of you, squinting as you adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lights of the ER, and greeted Abbot.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. ’Since my idiot best friend decided to get married.’

He gave a knowing chuckle, ‘he a nice guy?’

‘Annoyingly nice.’

‘I must say, I don’t follow what he has to do with you abandoning me.’

‘Its her stupid bachelorette weekend, so I had to take the day shift today so we can go out tonight.’ You smirked, looking up at him properly now, meeting his eyes sparkling with humour and curiosity. ‘And then I have the weekend off.’

Abbot dropped his jaw in false upset, but he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss his favourite senior resident over the next few days.

‘You lucky thing. Where you off to tonight, then?’ He raised a brow and swivelled his head like an owl, following you with his eyes as you stood from your chair and rounded the desk to stand beside him, stopping to stretch.

‘Uhhh, I think that bar downtown that does really cheap cocktails.’ You stood facing him, hip pressed against the back wall of the desk, watching as he shifted his weight away from his prosthetic leg.

His eyes widened with sarcasm as he replied. ‘You sound excited,’ referencing your less than interested tone.

‘I’m not much of a drinker, and honestly I don’t know many of the other girls. There’s three of us who went to school together and a bunch of her work friends, and some of her fiancé’s side, but I haven’t met most of them.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, you’re great at this sort of stuff.’ He placed a warm, calming hand on your shoulder, squeezing to ground you. It made you tingle all over.

‘Yeah,’ you laughed, ‘when I’m talking to an elderly man who fell off a ladder into a rosebush, Jack, not fifteen drunk thirty-somethings.’

Now he was laughing, his head tipped back revealing the thick, freckled column of his throat. You were enchanted watching his Adam’s apple bob back and forth.

‘Hey, it’ll be fun not to just be drinking beers in the park after a shift with me and Ellis.’

‘I love drinking in the park with you and Ellis, this is a different ballpark.’

‘Since when were you such a Debbie downer? Go on, get out of here and have some fun, kid!’ He mimed brushing you away, pushing you out of the door.

You laughed, ‘Okay, okay, but I look forward to being back on the night shift!’ Shouting as you exited through the double doors into the setting July sun, getting a last glimpse of Jack’s salute and tight smile.

Two hours later you had had far too much to drink, maybe more than you’d ever drank. But you had a cute outfit on, and had actually done your hair and makeup, rather than raking it into a ponytail and giving a half-assed attempt at concealing your dark circles, only to destroy your work when you fought your scrubs on over your head. For once, you were wearing heels, a mini skirt, and a black cami, with your hair cascading over your shoulders, a glossy lip and sparkly eye to make it feel done-up enough to celebrate a bachelorette.

You were, truthfully, having a fantastic time. All the girls were super friendly, and seemed fascinated with your job. They asked about your love life, where you lived, where you got your top, what you were drinking, if you wanted to take selfies in the bathroom, and why you hadn’t met before. It restored your faith in your life outside of the Pitt, and that the upcoming wedding events weren’t something to be dreaded. After all, you were celebrating your best friend. The only thing that made you feel bad was the spinning in your head, both from copious drinking and severe lack of sleep from switching to the dayshift. You needed it so the next two days of beach activities and day drinking could be accounted for, but god you wished you’d had a nap.

Unfortunately, you got your wish, when the other girl you’d gone to high school with slipped on a spilled drink and hit her head on the bartop. You’d never been more sober in your life, kicking into action and controlling the situation. Demanding people passed you wet towels and spare pieces of clothing so her hair didn’t mat with blood, sooner than you realised you were in the ambulance on the way back to the Pitt, a mere four hours after you’d left.

As the ambulance pulled into the bay and you hopped out, the double doors parted for you, and helping to push the gurney, and shouted for Jack.

He was at your side immediately, taking in your debrief, and what you thought the course of action should be, but he was only half listening.

He’d never seen you like this before. Sure, you’d been on staff nights out before, like for Javadi’s 21st, but never had he seen you so dressed up. If he was in public, staring at you with his mouth agape, someone would probably have socked him in the jaw for being a creep. He realised he’d never seen such beautiful legs before, and in such high heels? Your skin looked almost glossy, shimmering in the harsh lighting as you walked. Your chest, shoulders and arms definitely shimmered, covered in a misting of body glitter and the way your hair obscured your eyes as you looked down to check on your friend made him want to tuck it behind your ears and kiss you.

Jack shook himself out of his trance and forced you to sit in the comfy chair beside your friend’s bed, only looking at you once in a while as he stitched up the gash in your friend’s head. He figured out her name was Sarah, and he could see the two of you being peas in a pod. He yearned to hear her stories of you in high school, and see you in a different context to the ER, with the people you held closest.

Eventually, with the alcohol, adrenaline, and pain meds being pumped through her system, Sarah fell asleep. You let go of her hand and gently opened and closed the curtain, looking for Jack who was long gone at this point, knowing you could take care of her yourself.

However, Shen found you first. As you walked up to the desk to ask Lena where Jack was, Shen gave a low whistle from behind you.

You spun slowly on your impressive heels, giving him a sly and embarrassed smirk, saying nothing as he came to join you at the desk.

‘I bet Abbot nearly fell over when he saw you.’ Shen’s shit-eating grin did not fill you with confidence.

‘What? Why?’

Lena, always one for a commotion, chimed in, making the three of you burst out in laughter, slicing the quiet of the late-night ER in half. ‘Because you look sexy as hell, girl.’

You give a coy look to both of them. ‘Thanks, guys. I feel like shit.’

They give a sympathetic, tight-pressed smile in return, understanding exactly what you meant. Almost everyone, especially the nightshift lot, had dealt with dragging their loved one through the doors during their time off due to drunken falls or exhausted knocks on the head. It was, after all, a revolving door.

Lena’s sympathetic smile broke into a beaming one, cracked across her face like sunlight through the curtains which she tried, failed, to suppress as she saw Jack emerge from a room directly across from her, clock you stood at the desk in your beautiful outfit, and scrub a calloused hand over his face.

You had your ass sticking out, leaning on your elbows across from Lena, displaying your long legs almost up to the crease where hamstring met buttcheek, mini skirt shifting upwards. Usually you’d be insecure about being so sober and so naked, but the people you worked with had seen you covered in every single bodily fluid multiple times, and Lena had even bathed you when you came down with food poisoning on shift and had the cold sweats. You had nothing to hide.

As you and Shen noticed her eyeline, you both followed it, and Jack was there, swaggering over to you, almost stopped in his tracks as you gave a beaming smile over your shoulder, flicking your hair back.

‘Just the man I was looking for!’ You trotted over to Jack, making sure he didn’t need to walk for further than he had to, and changed his path towards Sarah’s room.

Once you made it to her room, you flopped down on the chair, letting out a huge sigh. Jack stood in front of you, arms crossed over his chest. ‘You okay, sweetheart?’

He was looking down at you with such earnestness, another tight smile directed your way, and at his genuine care for you, you snuck a look at Sarah making sure she was still out cold and jumped out of your seat into his arms.

Against his chest you sobbed, and as he realised what was happening, he moved his arms around you, one around your waist and the other stroking your hair gently. He cooed in your ear, and recognised the classic symptoms of adrenaline wearing off. All of the emotions you’d really been feeling had been pushed down by having to jump into action, and when you were finally not needed, you cracked.

The warm bulk of Jack’s embrace calmed you, and, still in his grip, you leaned back and chuckled, rubbing one hand underneath your eyes to dry your tears, and looked up at Jack.

‘I got glitter on your shirt.’ You say, swatting away the sparkly particles on his t-shirt.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ His lack of matching your jokey post-cry embarrassment caught you off guard, forcing you to meet his eyes. ’As long as you’re okay.’ He moved his hand from the back of your head to sweep some glitter from your cheek that had cascaded down with the flood of tears, and shifted some hair behind your ear. He looked at your lips, once, twice, almost thrice, but you beat him to it, craning your head up less than you would ever have to, your heels bridging the gap, and pressed your lips to his.

You felt him smile, as you were too scared to move, and he pecked you back, feeling his stubble against your face, then moving away as he stroked your hair again.

‘You know how long I been waiting to do that, pretty girl? Can’t believe you beat me to it.’

‘Seriously? I’ve had a crush on you since the day I got here!’

The two of you laughed again, and jack let the rough pad of his thumb rove across your face, feeling your damp cheeks and still-glossy lips, a feeling he’d yearned for for ages, wondering how soft your skin would feel in his touch, your face in his hands.

You were pleased he hadn’t deepened the kiss, not wanting anything to escalate on such a terrible night as tonight, wanting to discuss your feelings more. But Sarah broke the sweet, intimate moment of you two looking deeply at each other without insecurity, as she woke from her stupor.

‘Is that your hot boss you keep telling us about?’

Your jaw dropped as you went bright red, words failing you, wanting the ground to swallow you up. Pretending you simply did not exist, you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling heat continue to flood your face. Sarah’s eyes were merely cracked open, and her voice was rough and ragged; you felt Jack jolt next to you, not expecting her to speak.

‘He’s hotter than you said.’

All you could do was groan.

Jack moved to her bedside, unperturbed as ever, and took some vitals as you sat down in the chair and used a piece of dampened tissue to clean your face. He decided she needed some more pain meds and more hydration, and told her to get some more sleep as he left to get a nurse for the order. At his absence, you sat on the side of Sarah’s bed, covering your eyes and laughing self-deprecatingly at her catching you in the act, then made sure she was okay and told her she was in good hands, soothing her off to sleep.

When Jack returned, he cleared his throat quietly as to not scare you, and watched as you hypnotically palmed across Sarah’s sweaty forehead. She only had a surface wound, but the combination of the amount of blood in the bar and alcohol you’d consumed made you prepare for the worst.

He sat down in the chair you’d occupied all night and shimmied it closer to where you were sitting on her bed. Your feet were dangling off the side, and he couldn’t watch you wear what looked like a medieval torture device for much longer, despite how good you looked in them.

‘I don’t know how you’re still wearing those things,’ he croaked in a hushed voice, nodding to your shoes at your furrowed brows.

‘Oh, I didn’t really think about it.’

‘C’mere.’ He held a hand out, and you reluctantly placed your feet in his lap, relaxing as he unbuckled each shoe with great care and placed them beside his own shoes.

‘Better?’

‘Much.’

The two of you fell into comfortable silence, just the beeping of the monitor beside Sarah and the infrequent commotion outside the curtain as background noise.

‘So, you’ve told your friends you think I’m hot?’

[belleeebelleee]

Jack Abbot (The Pitt) x fem!reader

You're a little chaos gremlin. Jack Abbot thinks its adorable. Not that he'd ever tell you that.

The first time Jack Abbot met you, you were sitting cross-legged on the ambulance bay concrete at three in the morning, eating vending machine chips with blood on your scrub pants and a stolen traffic cone balanced on your head like a crown.

Not your blood.

Important distinction.

Jack stopped dead halfway through the bay doors, coffee in hand, exhaustion dragging at his shoulders after fourteen straight hours in the emergency department.

You looked up at him with complete seriousness.

“Do you think orange is my color?”

He stared.

You lifted the cone slightly. “Be honest.”

One of the paramedics nearby snorted so hard he nearly inhaled his cigarette.

Jack blinked once. Slowly.

“You got blood on your face.”

You wiped at your cheek absentmindedly, smearing it worse. “Occupational hazard.”

“You sittin’ on the ground for a reason?”

“Emotionally? Yes. Physically? I’m waiting for my fries.”

“You ordered fries?”

“No. But Tina from nights loves me, and she said she’d steal some from pediatrics.”

Jack should have walked away.

Instead, against all common sense, he asked, “Why’s there a traffic cone on your head?”

You looked offended. “Safety.”

That was the moment Jack knew two things with absolute certainty.

One: you were a menace.

Two: he was in serious fucking trouble.

You worked in the Pitt’s emergency department like chaos itself had clocked in for a twelve-hour shift.

Not incompetent chaos.

Never that.

You were terrifyingly good at your job.

Fast hands. Sharp instincts. Calm under pressure.

You could start difficult IVs in one try, talk down panicking family members, and verbally shred arrogant residents without even raising your voice.

But you were also the kind of person who:

accidentally started a hospital-wide argument over whether soup counted as a beverage.

kept tiny plastic dinosaurs in your scrub pockets and secretly left them at nurses’ stations.

climbed onto counters instead of using stools.

routinely forgot where you put your stethoscope despite it hanging around your neck.

once smuggled an entire espresso machine into the staff lounge “for morale.”

Jack had no idea how you still had a job.

The fact that everyone adored you certainly helped.

“You encourage her,” Dana accused one afternoon while Jack leaned against the desk watching you attempt to teach Whitaker how to moonwalk in compression socks.

“I ain’t encouragin’ shit.”

Dana gave him a look.

Across the station, you lost your balance mid-moonwalk and slammed into a supply cart.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered automatically, already moving.

You popped up immediately. “I’m fine.”

“You hit your head?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“I saw God for a second, but he said I still had charting left, so unfortunately I survived.”

Whitaker wheezed laughing.

Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

You caught it anyway.

Your eyes narrowed triumphantly.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That little smile.”

“Not smilin’.”

“Liar.”

Jack walked away before you could see the heat climbing up his neck.

Everyone in the department knew Jack liked you before Jack admitted it to himself.

Mostly because Jack was obvious in the deeply repressed, emotionally constipated way only he could manage.

He always noticed where you were.

Always listened for your voice in the chaos.

Always appeared whenever you got yourself into trouble—which was often.

Especially often because you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

“Get down from there.”

You looked down from the top shelf in the supply closet where you were balancing precariously on one foot.

“I almost have it.”

“You’re gonna crack your skull open.”

“I’m literally so graceful.”

The shelf wobbled ominously.

Jack stepped forward instantly, hands already reaching.

You grabbed the box triumphantly just as your foot slipped.

“Shit—”

Jack caught you against his chest before you hit the floor.

The impact knocked the air from both of you.

For one suspended second, everything stopped.

Your body pressed against his.

His hands firm on your waist.

Your breath warm against his throat.

You looked up at him with wide eyes.

Jack suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of contact.

“…Hi,” you said softly.

Jack swallowed hard.

“You’re a damn disaster.”

“But you caught me.”

His grip tightened involuntarily.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

The supply closet suddenly felt too small.

Too warm.

Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth.

Jack’s heartbeat turned uneven.

Then someone outside yelled for trauma support, and the moment shattered instantly.

You stepped back first.

“Right,” you said, voice a little breathless. “Saving lives.”

Jack cleared his throat roughly. “Yeah.”

But the look you gave him before leaving stayed with him for the rest of the shift.

Jack tried not to think about you outside work.

He failed spectacularly.

Because somehow you had worked your way under his skin without permission.

He’d catch himself wondering if you’d eaten that day.

If you got home safe.

If your shoulder still hurt after wrestling a combative patient last week.

It irritated him.

Then it terrified him.

Because wanting people was dangerous.

Wanting meant losing.

And Jack had already lost enough.

So he kept you at arm’s length.

Which might have worked if you weren’t determined to crawl directly past every wall he built.

“You know,” you announced one night, dropping into the chair beside him in the break room, “for a guy who looks perpetually haunted, you give excellent piggyback rides.”

Jack nearly choked on his coffee.

“That was one time.”

“One beautiful, magical time.”

“You twisted your ankle.”

“And you carried me.”

“You couldn’t walk.”

“You could’ve wheeled me.”

“You were complainin’ the wheelchair squeaked.”

“It sounded haunted.”

Jack shook his head.

“You’re impossible.”

You grinned at him over your coffee cup.

“And yet you keep hanging around me.”

That shut him up.

Because you were right.

You leaned back in your chair, watching him carefully now.

Your expression softened slightly.

“You know you don’t always have to look at me like I’m about to get hit by a bus.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Jack frowned down at his coffee.

You continued gently, “I’m not made of glass, Abbot.”

“It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because the truth sat ugly and heavy in his chest.

It was this unbearable instinct to protect you.

Not because you were weak.

But because somewhere along the line, you had become important enough to scare him.

And Jack Abbot didn’t know what to do with fear that looked like affection.

The thing about being the funny one—the chaos gremlin, as you lovingly called yourself—was that people rarely noticed when you stopped joking.

Jack noticed immediately.

You were quieter halfway through your shift.

Still smiling.

Still competent.

But something felt off.

Your energy dimmed around the edges.

You winced once while reaching for supplies.

Then quickly hid it.

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“You hurt?”

“Nope.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m literally thriving.”

“You look pale.”

“I always look pale. I work in a hospital.”

Jack stepped closer.

“What happened?”

You hesitated just long enough to confirm his suspicion.

“Got clipped driving in this morning.”

His entire posture changed instantly.

“What?”

“It was minor.”

“You got in a car accident?”

“It sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”

Jack stared at you incredulously.

“And you still came to work?”

You shrugged one shoulder.

“We were short staffed.”

Jack looked genuinely angry now.

Not at you.

At himself for not noticing sooner.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

He looked at you sharply.

“I’m okay.”

“You should've gone home.”

“And left you people unsupervised? Absolutely not.”

That earned the smallest reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You stepped closer before you could overthink it.

“Jack.”

The sound of his first name from your mouth always affected him strangely.

His gaze locked onto yours.

“I'm okay, promise,” you murmured.

Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it.

You didn’t.

And suddenly you understood.

Jack loved through actions because words had failed him too many times.

The constant checking on you.

The hovering.

The coffee silently left beside your charts.

The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.

You saw all of it.

His eyes searched yours carefully, almost cautiously.

Like he was waiting for you to laugh.

Instead, your expression softened.

And for the first time in a long time, Jack looked at someone and felt seen.

Really seen.

It scared the hell out of him.

The kiss happened because you had terrible impulse control.

In your defense, Jack looked unfairly attractive covered in rain.

The shift had been catastrophic.

Overcrowding. Short staffing. Two critical traumas back-to-back.

Everyone was exhausted.

You and Jack finally escaped outside after midnight while rain hammered against the ambulance bay.

You stood beneath the awning beside him, sharing exhausted silence.

Then you glanced over.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

His hair was damp from the weather.

Sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Tired eyes.

Scruff shadowing his jaw.

You stared a second too long.

Jack noticed immediately.

“What?”

“You’re annoyingly pretty.”

He barked out a startled laugh.

Actually laughed.

The sound hit you straight in the chest.

“There it is,” you whispered.

“There what?”

“That laugh.”

Jack shook his head, looking down briefly.

When he looked back up, something had shifted between you.

The air suddenly felt thicker.

Closer.

Rain thundered around you.

Your heart pounded.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

You should’ve thought this through.

Instead you stepped forward, grabbed his jacket, and kissed him.

Jack froze.

For one horrible second, you thought you’d made a catastrophic mistake.

Then his hand slid into your hair and he kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You stumbled against him with a startled sound.

Jack made a rough noise deep in his throat and pulled you closer.

The kiss was messy and desperate and months of tension finally snapping.

You could feel how restrained he usually was by how intensely he kissed when he finally let go.

Like he’d been starving.

Your hands curled into his soaked shirt.

Jack’s thumb brushed your jaw almost reverently.

Then suddenly he pulled back.

Breathing hard.

Eyes wide like he’d just realized what he’d done.

“Jack—”

“This is a bad idea.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

He stepped back immediately.

Rain blew cold between you now.

“You deserve better than this.”

Anger sparked instantly.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide what I deserve for me.”

Jack looked stricken.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

“I’m asking for you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” you snapped, hurt bleeding through now, “because unfortunately I didn’t ask your permission before falling in love with you.”

Silence.

Jack looked like you’d hit him.

You realized what you’d admitted exactly half a second too late.

“…Cool,” you muttered weakly. “So that’s out there now.”

Jack stared at you in stunned silence while rain crashed around the bay.

Then your pager went off.

Of course it did.

You laughed once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Right. Trauma never sleeps.”

You turned before he could answer.

And Jack stood there soaked to the bone, watching you walk away with his heart somewhere in your hands.

After that, things got messy.

Because Jack avoided you.

Not completely.

Never fully.

He still checked on you constantly.

Still hovered nearby during difficult cases.

Still looked at you like you mattered too much.

But he stopped lingering.

Stopped letting himself get close.

It hurt more than you expected.

“You gonna talk to him?” Dana asked bluntly.

“Nope.”

“You’re both miserable.”

“Builds character.”

“You’re flirting with burnout and emotional repression.”

“Sounds exactly like emergency medicine.”

Dana rolled her eyes.

“You know he’s scared, right?”

You looked away.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And I can’t make that choice for him.”

Because loving Jack was easy.

Waiting for him to believe he deserved it was the hard part.

Three weeks later, everything finally broke.

A multi-car pileup flooded the Pitt with critical patients.

The ER dissolved into controlled chaos.

Hours blurred together.

Blood. Noise. Shouting.

You were moving too fast, stretching too thin, adrenaline carrying you through exhaustion.

Then a patient crashed unexpectedly.

Everyone surged into motion.

And in the chaos, you got hurt.

Not badly.

But enough.

A violent swing from a disoriented patient caught you hard across the face and sent you slamming into equipment.

The room erupted instantly.

Jack reached you first.

“Hey—hey, look at me.”

Your vision swam.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled automatically.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Even dazed, you still joked.

Jack looked furious and terrified all at once.

His hands were gentle against your face as he checked your pupils.

“Stay still.”

“You’re very bossy for a man who won’t go on a date with me.”

Several staff members nearby snorted despite the situation.

Jack ignored them completely.

His eyes stayed locked on yours.

And suddenly you realized his hands were shaking.

Not from anger.

Fear.

Real fear.

Your chest ached.

“Jack—”

“I thought—” He stopped abruptly.

You stared at him.

His jaw tightened hard.

For a second he looked emotionally cornered.

Then something in him finally gave way.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered roughly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend I don’t love you.”

The entire room went suspiciously quiet.

You blinked.

“…Oh.”

One nurse immediately grabbed another and whispered, “Holy shit.”

Jack didn’t even notice.

His entire focus stayed on you.

“You drive me fuckin’ insane,” he said, voice uneven. “You climb things you shouldn’t climb, you joke when you’re hurt, you run yourself into the ground, and every damn day I’m terrified somethin’s gonna happen to you.”

Emotion clogged your throat.

Jack stepped closer.

“But I love you anyway.” His voice cracked slightly. “Probably because of it.”

You stared at him for one stunned heartbeat.

Then:

“You finally admitted it.”

Jack looked offended.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“You love me.”

“You got a concussion?”

“You love me.”

A helpless laugh broke out of him suddenly.

And there it was again—that rare, beautiful laugh.

You grabbed his scrub top and kissed him before he could say another word.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Dana yelled, “ABOUT TIME.”

Neither of you cared.

Jack kissed you like a man finally allowing himself something he’d wanted for a very long time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re still getting checked out,” he muttered.

“Boyfriend behavior.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess it is.”

Dating Jack Abbot turned out to be surprisingly easy.

Not because he became less gruff.

He didn’t.

But because once he loved someone openly, he loved them completely.

Steady.

Quiet.

Certain.

He learned all your chaos instead of fighting it.

He carried spare hair ties because you constantly lost yours.

He automatically grabbed your wrist whenever you tried climbing counters.

He kept extra snacks in his locker because you forgot to eat.

And somehow, impossibly, his life became lighter around you.

Not easier.

Just brighter.

One night months later, you found him sitting alone outside after a brutal shift.

You dropped into the chair beside him.

“Tough day?”

Jack nodded once.

You bumped your shoulder gently against his.

After a moment, he reached for your hand automatically.

There was still sadness in him.

Old grief. Old wounds.

Maybe there always would be.

But now there was you too.

Loud and ridiculous and hopelessly in love with him.

You squeezed his hand.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “if we got matching swords, people would respect us more.”

Jack stared at you.

Then he laughed quietly under his breath and pulled you closer against his side.

“Chaos gremlin.”

You grinned.

“Your chaos gremlin.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Mine.”