Lovely Things @skymoosworld - Tumblr Blog

Missed Cues

Masterlist

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x F!Nurse!Reader

Summary:

You have been flirting with him for months.

Coffee. Compliments. Lingering touches. Lines so obvious they may as well come with annotations.

Unfortunately, Robby appears to believe this is simply excellent nursing care.

Dana finds this deeply entertaining.

Five times he doesn’t notice.

One time you finally make him.

Word Count: 11,5K

Rating: general

Tags/Content warnings: workplace romance, flirting, Robby is completely oblivious, humor, mostly fluff, soft moments, idiots in love, confessions, first kiss, happy ending, second person POV, no use of Y/N

AN: you cannot convince me this man wouldn't be oblivious to flirting. I think he wouldn't even think someone would want to flirt with him. Anyway—enjoy 🤎

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Your crush on Dr. Michael Robinavitch has been an open secret to everyone except the man himself.

Which feels statistically improbable, given the number of people involved, but here you are.

You try subtle.

Very subtle.

Subtle in the way a moth is subtle when it keeps reappearing near the same porch light.

You find reasons to be within arm’s reach when he dictates orders—close enough to hear the quiet rasp at the back of his voice when he’s been awake too long, close enough to smell antiseptic and coffee and whatever soap he uses that smells aggressively utilitarian.

You pass him instruments before he asks. You’re already holding the chart when he turns. You anticipate him the way nurses do when they’ve worked with someone for a decade—or the way someone does when they’ve been paying far too much attention and need to maybe go outside and touch grass.

You tell yourself it’s professional. You tell yourself you’re just good at your job. You tell yourself a lot of things, actually. You’re very articulate in your own head.

In your head, you’re devastatingly charming.

Out loud, you mostly nod.

The ER hums the way it always does: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to everything.

You lean in as Robby dictates discharge instructions, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that makes him look perpetually one bad cup of coffee away from homicide.

You hand him the pen before he asks.

He doesn’t even look at you. Just takes it, continues talking.

Which is fine. Totally fine. This is how professionals behave. This is normal.

Dana watches you clock out at the end of the shift, arms crossed, expression sharp with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing too much.

“You keep orbiting him like that,” she says mildly, “someone’s going to start calling it gravitational.”

You pause mid-bag-shoulder-sling. “I’m being subtle.”

Dana snorts. It’s inelegant. It’s devastating. “You’re being invisible.”

Rude. Accurate. But rude.

So you decide to take matters into your own hands.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You start with caffeine, because caffeine is universal. Reliable. Non-threatening. Also, if nothing else, it will keep him alive long enough to notice you, which feels like a reasonable goal to set for yourself. Manageable. Achievable. Low emotional risk.

You learn his coffee order by observation alone. A little milk. No sugar. Strong enough to raise the dead. You learn this the way one learns all dangerous things: quietly, carefully, without admitting to anyone—including yourself—that you’re doing it.

You begin making sure it appears on his desk during shifts.

Not announced. Not labeled. Just there. Steam curling faintly in the air. A benevolent force of nature. Like weather. Or fate. Or a very tired nurse with poor impulse control.

The first few times, he doesn’t comment. He just drinks it. Which feels… promising? Maybe? You try not to read into it. You read into it anyway. You read into everything.

One night, on a whim—on a deeply questionable whim—you write his name on the cup.

You stare at the blank cardboard for a full thirty seconds, marker hovering. You weigh the pros and cons. The pros: he might notice you. The cons: you might die from embarrassment.

You add a tiny smiley face.

You immediately regret it. You commit anyway.

You set the cup down and walk away like nothing in your life has ever mattered less.

He picks it up without comment.

You pretend to reorganize a drawer you reorganized an hour ago. You are very busy. Extremely focused. A paragon of productivity.

“Who made this?” he asks the room.

Your heart does something profoundly unprofessional.

“I did,” you say, leaning against the counter, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near strained confidence. You meet his eyes. You give him a look you are certain could crack glass, or at least communicate hello, I exist, please acknowledge this fact.

He studies the cup. The name. The smiley face. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.

“Good call,” he says. “Saved my life.”

And then he turns back to his computer.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No lingering glance. No dawning realization that you are, in fact, a person with a face and a personality and a truly alarming amount of affection for him.

You wait.

You linger.

You give him another look, this one sharper, more deliberate, the kind that has historically been effective on bartenders and one regrettable ex.

He doesn’t get it.

He never gets it.

You sigh internally, telling yourself—again—that this is fine. That this is just a crush. That you are a grown adult with a job and a life and absolutely no business falling for a man who doesn’t notice smiley faces on his coffee cups.

Later, you overhear him tell an intern:

“The nurses here really look out for you.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand wrapped around a stack of IV kits, the other hovering uselessly in the air like you’ve forgotten what hands are for.

Really look out for you.

Nurses.

You stare at the supply room door in front of you, the beige paint chipped from years of gurneys clipping the frame, and seriously consider screaming directly into it. Not a polite scream. Not a dignified one. A feral, banshee-level howl that might echo all the way down to radiology.

You don’t. You are, tragically, an adult.

Inside your head, however, you are already screaming.

Nurses. As if the coffee just materialized out of thin air. As if caffeine itself clocked in for the shift and decided he looked especially exhausted. As if a disembodied union of scrubs and competence collectively decided to adopt him.

You picture the smiley face on the cup. The tiny one. The one you debated like it was a life-altering moral decision.

Apparently, it died for nothing.

You retreat to the nurses’ station, jaw tight, brain buzzing with the static of unspent emotion and overthinking. Dana clocks you instantly, because of course she does. She’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. She can smell romantic distress the way some people smell rain.

She leans back in her chair, arms folded, eyes bright with restrained amusement.

“Oh no,” she says. “You heard it.”

“He thinks I’m a collective,” you say flatly. “I’ve been absorbed into the nursing hive mind.”

Dana snorts. “At least he appreciates the hive.”

You drop into the chair beside her, spin it once, stop abruptly. Your leg bounces. You cannot stop it.

“I wrote his name on the cup,” you say quietly. “There was a smiley face.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb. “Bold.”

“I lingered,” you continue. “I linger. I make eye contact that should legally require a warning label.”

“And yet,” Dana says gently, “here we are.”

You scrub a hand down your face. The ER hums around you—monitors chiming, a trauma bay curtain snapping shut, someone arguing in triage. The world continues on, indifferent to your suffering.

“He’s not being dense on purpose,” Dana says, still watching you spiral. “He’s just… like that.”

You glance at her. “Like what?”

She tilts her head, considers. “Oblivious to romance. Exceptionally competent about everything else.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the worst possible combination.”

“Tell me about it,” Dana says. “Brilliant hands. Terrible radar.”

You glance down the hallway where he’s standing now, shoulders hunched slightly as he listens to the intern, nodding along, offering calm, precise advice like the very embodiment of competence and control. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Something in your chest softens despite yourself.

“That man could diagnose a patient through a wall,” you mutter, “but can’t recognize a crush if it hands him coffee with a smiley face.”

Dana hums. “To be fair, you’re very subtle.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m being strategic,” you say. “This is a slow burn.”

“Sure,” she says. “Just know you might have to light the match.”

You don’t respond right away. You watch him laugh at something the intern says, just a brief huff of sound, gone almost as soon as it appears. It does something deeply inconvenient to your internal organs.

You sigh.

“Next time,” you say, resigned, “I’m drawing a heart.”

Dana grins.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You abandon subtlety.

Not dramatically—no grand declaration, no sudden hand on his chest in the middle of the trauma bay. Just the quiet, weary realization that implication is a language he does not speak. Or if he does, it’s one he refuses to acknowledge out of stubbornness, self-preservation, or a tragic devotion to professional boundaries that borders on ascetic.

Fine. Words it is.

The ER hums around you in its usual state of controlled chaos: monitors chirping like anxious birds, the low murmur of nurses exchanging vitals, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant clinging to everything, including your clothes. You’re leaning against the counter near the charting station, arms folded loosely, watching him finish dictating notes from the last trauma.

He’s still riding the aftershock of it—adrenaline not quite spent, shoulders tight beneath his scrubs, hair a little mussed in that irritating way that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine titled Overworked But Competent. Blood stains have been scrubbed from his forearms, but you can still see faint water marks where he rushed through it.

You clear your throat.

“You were incredible in that trauma,” you say, tone deliberately even, like this is a completely normal thing colleagues say to each other all the time and you’re not testing a hypothesis.

He looks up, startled just enough to notice. His expression softens into something easy, open.

“Thanks,” he says. “Good teamwork.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to point out that teamwork does not usually involve him giving orders with surgical precision while you anticipate them half a second before he speaks. Teamwork does not usually make your pulse jump when he looks at you like that—focused, trusting, utterly unaware of the effect.

“Right,” you say instead. “Teamwork.”

He’s already turned back to the computer, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Compliment absorbed, neutralized, filed away under Professional Affirmation. You feel a strange mix of irritation and grudging fondness. Mostly irritation.

Fine.

You try again later.

Different shift. Different light. Same him.

It’s quieter—one of those rare lulls that feel like borrowed time. The overhead lights have been dimmed slightly, casting everything in a flatter, softer glow. He’s standing near the med room, sipping vending machine coffee like it’s a necessary evil rather than a beverage, shoulders slumped in the particular way of someone who has been awake too long but refuses to admit it.

You approach with intent.

“You look good today,” you say, deliberately casual, as if you’re commenting on the weather or the state of the supply room. You don’t smile. You don’t soften it. You just let the words sit there between you, unadorned.

He blinks.

Once. Twice.

“Oh. Uh.” He glances down at himself, like the answer might be written somewhere on his scrubs. “Long shift,” he says. “Probably just the lighting.”

You stare at him.

Not glaring—no, this is worse. This is the slow, incredulous stare of someone watching a grown man walk directly into a glass door and then apologize to it. You feel deeply, personally offended. By his humility. By his complete inability to parse meaning. By the fact that you have now complimented him twice and he has somehow managed to dodge both like they were incoming projectiles.

The lighting.

Right.

“Sure,” you say. “The lighting that makes you look… competent.”

He frowns, confused. “Is that—”

“It’s a compliment,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. You can feel heat creeping up your neck, annoyance prickling under your skin. You’re not embarrassed—no, that would imply regret. This is more like being thwarted by an unexpectedly dense puzzle.

“Oh.” He smiles then, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

There it is again. That smile. The one that makes you forget, briefly, why you’re annoyed at all. It’s open and unguarded, like he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone would look at him and see something worth commenting on.

Which is absurd. Objectively.

You turn away before you do something reckless, like point out the exact list of reasons he looks good today—broad shoulders filling out those scrubs, the silver streak in his beard and on his temples, the way his voice drops when he’s tired.

Still, you don’t stop.

If anything, you escalate.

You start finding reasons to be near him—charting beside him, handing him supplies he didn’t ask for, lingering just long enough to say things like, “Nice call back there,” or “You’re really good with patients,” or, once, when he manages to de-escalate a particularly hostile family member, “You have a calming presence. It’s annoying.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” he says, amused.

“It is,” you reply. “I’m just mad about it.”

He laughs at that—actually laughs—and for a moment you feel like you’ve cracked something. Like maybe, finally, he’s seeing it. The intent beneath the words. The way you’re watching him, not just as a colleague, but as someone who is increasingly, inconveniently important.

Then he says, “You’re good too, you know. Really sharp. Patients trust you.”

And just like that, it slides back into safe territory.

Professional. Neutral. Mutually assured restraint.

You smile, because you’re not cruel. Because you do like him. Because part of you suspects that if you pushed any harder, he’d retreat entirely, and you’re not ready for that yet.

But as you walk away, you can’t help thinking:

This shouldn’t be this hard.

You’ve stopped hinting. You’re using words now. Clear ones.

If he still doesn’t catch on?

Well.

You’ll figure out something else.

You escalate further.

Not recklessly—no, this is a calculated escalation. A measured one. You’ve ruled out subtlety, exhausted compliments, survived the humiliation of watching him interpret flirtation as atmospheric lighting. This is the next logical step: honesty, softened just enough to be deniable if it goes poorly.

It’s late. Of course it is. The kind of hour where the ER finally exhales after hours of holding its breath. The trauma bays are quiet, the monitors mercifully steady, the fluorescent lights humming with that faint electrical buzz that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Your feet ache in a deep, structural way. Your coffee has gone cold twice.

He’s at the counter across from you, sleeves pushed up, reviewing labs with the concentration of someone who refuses to half-do anything. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear. You notice it. You always notice stupid things like that.

You hover. Casual. Definitely casual.

“You know, I like working with you,” you say.

Your voice comes out softer than intended. Less banter, more… something else. You hate that you can hear it. You hate more that he can too.

He looks up immediately. That part is promising. His expression warms, easy and genuine, like you’ve just handed him something uncomplicated.

“Likewise,” he says without hesitation. “You’re one of our strongest nurses.”

There it is.

You feel something inside you shrivel politely and die.

Strongest nurse.

Not favorite person to share a shift with. Not I feel steadier when you’re here. Not even I like you too in the dangerous, human way. No—this is a performance review. This is the sentence that gets written in emails to administration.

You blink once. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you move too fast, you might scream.

“Wow,” you say, because silence would be suspicious. “High praise.”

He smiles, entirely sincere, entirely oblivious. “I mean it. You anticipate needs, you keep your head under pressure. Patients respond to you. Makes a difference on shifts like this.”

You nod, because that is objectively nice. Because he is being kind. Because it is not his fault that every word he says lands half an inch to the left of where you need it.

Inside your head, you are already standing on a bridge.

The Allegheny is cold, you think distantly. Efficient. A little dramatic, but honestly? Fitting.

“Yeah,” you say aloud. “Teamwork.”

Again with the teamwork. You are haunted by this word.

He glances at you, brow furrowing just slightly. “You okay? You look… tired.”

That does it. That’s the final insult. You have bared your soul—with softened honesty—and he has diagnosed you with fatigue.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. “Just contemplating my life choices.”

He chuckles, assuming this is a joke. You let him. It’s easier.

“Join the club,” he says. “I’ve been doing that since med school.”

You imagine explaining it to him. Laying it all out. When I say I like working with you, I mean I like the way you look at me when we’re in sync. I mean I trust you with my back and my heart, apparently. I mean I’m flirting so hard I should get written up.

Instead, you straighten, plaster on a professional smile, and push off the counter.

“Well,” you say, already retreating, “thanks for the feedback. I’ll add it to my annual self-worth assessment.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You pause mid-step, glance back at him.

“You have no idea,” you say.

He watches you go, still smiling, still clueless.

You walk toward the supply room, toward the locker area, toward literally anywhere that is not within conversational distance of him. Your chest feels tight—not painfully, just enough to register as something you’ll unpack later, preferably with snacks.

Strongest nurse, you think.

Fantastic.

At this rate, you’ll confess your feelings outright and he’ll hand you a commendation certificate and ask if you’d like to precept next semester.

The Allegheny River continues to call to you.

Later, Dana finds you aggressively restocking gloves.

Not restocking in the calm, methodical sense. This is personal. Boxes are being yanked open with more force than necessary, gloves shoved into dispensers until they bulge slightly, like they’re being punished for something they personally did to you. The nitrile snaps sharply every time you pull a pair free, a sound that feels far too satisfying.

You’re on your third dispenser when Dana leans against the supply room doorframe, arms crossed, eyes bright with the particular interest of someone who has clocked everything.

“You know,” she says mildly, “those gloves are innocent.”

You don’t look at her. “They know what they did.”

She hums, watching you for a moment longer than strictly polite. The supply room smells like cardboard and antiseptic. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Of course it does. Even the building is tired.

“I’ve known him fifteen years,” Dana says finally. “You could flirt by skywriting and he’d ask about air traffic regulations.”

That gets you.

You stop mid-shove, one glove dangling uselessly from your hand. You turn slowly, staring at her like she’s just delivered a formal diagnosis.

“…That’s the most upsetting thing anyone has said to me tonight,” you reply.

She grins. “Accurate, though.”

You exhale, dropping the glove back into the box with a defeated little flick of your wrist. “I told him I like working with him.”

Dana winces in sympathy. “Oof.”

“And he said I’m one of the strongest nurses,” you continue flatly. “Strongest, Dana. Like I’m a structural beam.”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “you are load-bearing.”

You glare at her. She holds up her hands. “Hey. Compliment. Sort of.”

You lean back against the shelf, arms crossing tight over your chest. The irritation is still there, buzzing under your skin, but now it’s mixed with something else—relief, maybe. Validation. The comforting knowledge that you are not, in fact, losing your mind.

“So it’s not me,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Dana replies. “He’s just… like that. Emotionally illiterate unless feelings arrive with a consent form and a peer-reviewed study.”

You snort despite yourself. “That tracks.”

She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now. “You’re actually trying, though.”

You hesitate. Just a fraction. Enough.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Apparently that was my first mistake.”

Dana’s expression softens—not pitying, but kind. She pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, lowering her voice even though no one else is around.

“He notices things,” she says. “Just not the things people usually mean.”

You pick at the edge of a cardboard box. “Great. So I need to flirt in bullet points.”

“Clear objectives,” she agrees. “Minimal subtext.”

You consider this. The idea of looking him dead in the eye and saying I am attracted to you and this is not about teamwork makes your stomach do something unpleasant and acrobatic.

“Or,” Dana adds, smirking, “you could just keep escalating until he accidentally figures it out.”

You laugh, short and breathy. “At this rate, I’ll propose marriage and he’ll ask if this is about shift coverage.”

She laughs with you, the sound easy and familiar. Then she glances back toward the hallway, where voices echo faintly—his voice among them.

“You okay?” she asks more quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Dana bumps her shoulder lightly against yours as she passes. “Good. Because watching you flirt with him is the most entertainment I get on days like this.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now.

When she leaves, you finish restocking the gloves—this time with less hostility. Your pulse has steadied. The sting has dulled into something manageable. Almost fond.

You straighten the last box and take a breath.

Skywriting, you think. Air traffic regulations.

Fine.

If implication won’t work, and escalation keeps getting rerouted into professionalism, then eventually there will only be one option left.

You grab a pair of gloves and snap them on, resolve settling in your chest.

Next time, you won’t let him miss it.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You decide—foolishly—that if directness failed yesterday, then banter will surely succeed today.

Because banter is safe. Banter is deniable. Banter lets you pretend you’re not standing one ill-timed heartbeat away from emotional free fall.

The ER hums around you, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything like a second skin. It’s late enough that the adrenaline has softened into something duller, heavier. The kind of hour where everyone’s shoulders slope forward and voices drop without anyone consciously deciding it.

He’s standing at the counter, reviewing labs on the computer, brows knit in concentration. One hand braces against the laminate, the other scrolls absently, as if his body knows this ritual so well it no longer requires supervision. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms. You notice this. You always notice this. You tell yourself it’s purely observational. Anatomical. Clinical.

Liar.

You approach under the pretense of dropping off a coffee and a protein bar—again. This has become a pattern. You tell yourself it’s because he forgets to eat. Which is true. You also forget to eat, yet somehow no one is shepherding you with snacks like a feral cat.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice. Casual. Easy. Playful.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head just enough to suggest mischief, “if I keep saving you coffee and snacks, people might start thinking I like you.”

There. Light. Teasing. A line with plausible deniability baked right in.

You wait.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just hums thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the screen.

Then he snorts.

Actually snorts.

“They should,” he says easily. “You’re excellent at your job.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalls like a car refusing to turn over in winter.

“…That’s not what I meant,” you say, because apparently today you’re choosing honesty in the most pathetic increments possible.

He finally glances at you then. Just briefly. A faint smile tugs at his mouth—not smug, not teasing. Earnest. The kind of smile that suggests he truly believes what he’s saying.

“Still true,” he says, then turns back to the screen as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.

Ah.

Yes.

Of course.

Naturally.

You stand there for a half second too long, holding a coffee you suddenly resent deeply. Your internal monologue is a mess of static and profanity and the slow, dawning realization that you have once again underestimated just how profoundly literal this man is.

You wanted subtext.

He handed you a performance review.

You force a smile that probably looks more like mild indigestion and slide the coffee toward him.

“Well,” you say, voice pitched professionally neutral now, “drink that before it turns into a science experiment.”

“Already halfway there,” he replies absently.

You pivot on your heel and walk away before your soul physically exits your body.

As you pass the nurses’ station, you can feel your face burning. Not a cute flush. A full-body betrayal. Your brain helpfully replays the exchange on a loop, annotating it with commentary like bold of you to assume.

You duck into an empty supply alcove and lean back against the cool metal shelving, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Great. Fantastic. You tried flirting and somehow managed to sound like an HR email.

The worst part—the truly unforgivable part—is that he meant it. He wasn’t dodging you. He wasn’t deflecting. He just… answered the question he thought you asked.

And some traitorous, inconvenient part of your chest tightens at that. Because sincerity like that is dangerous. It doesn’t bounce off you cleanly. It lodges.

You straighten, roll your shoulders, and plaster professionalism back into place. You’ve survived worse than this. You will survive a man who cannot, under any circumstances, read a room.

Still, as you step back into the noise and motion of the department, you can’t help thinking—

Next time, you’re bringing diagrams.

You make the executive decision—questionable, but bold—that the previous disaster was a fluke.

Everyone deserves a second attempt. Possibly a third. Science demands replication.

The day has settled into that strange ER lull where chaos hasn’t stopped, exactly, but it has learned to whisper. Monitors beep softly. The overhead lights feel harsher when you’re tired enough to notice them.

He’s at the charting station again—of course he is—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw set, glasses pushed higher on his nose than necessary. He looks… focused. Grounded. Annoyingly competent.

You approach with the confidence of someone who has not yet learned.

He’s typing when you stop beside him. You lean your hip against the counter, deliberately invading the edge of his personal space. Not aggressively. Just enough to be noticeable. You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head.

“So,” you say lightly, “do you always look this intense while charting, or is this a special occasion just for me?”

This time, he does look up.

Progress.

He studies your face for a beat, expression thoughtful. Analytical. As if he’s running differentials on your sentence.

Then he nods.

“Usually worse,” he says. “Tonight’s actually been decent.”

You stare at him.

He goes back to typing.

You wait.

Nothing. Incredible. Truly. A masterclass in missing the point.

You try again. Because you are nothing if not persistent.

“Well,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “I was hoping I was at least partially distracting.”

He pauses mid-keystroke.

Looks up again.

Brows furrowed.

“Oh,” he says. “No, you’re fine. You’re not distracting at all.”

You feel something in your chest give a little cough and die.

“Great,” you say weakly. “That’s… reassuring.”

“I mean that positively,” he adds, earnest to the core. “You’re very focused. It’s good in a high-acuity environment.”

You nod slowly, the way one does when absorbing devastating news.

“Right. Yes. God forbid I interfere with the sanctity of the high-acuity environment.”

He blinks.

“You okay?”

You smile. Bright. Artificial. The kind of smile you could hang on a wall and call decor.

“Never better.”

A nurse passes behind you and gives you a look. Not subtle. A look that says girl, I saw that and wow, he’s dense in equal measure. You pointedly ignore her.

You straighten, tapping the counter once.

“Well,” you say, regrouping, “if you ever need a distraction, I take requests.”

He nods seriously, filing this away like a note for future reference.

“Good to know,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind if we have a mass casualty.”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

Decide against speaking for the good of everyone involved.

“Fantastic,” you mutter. “I’ll bring juggling pins.”

He hums, already back in his chart.

“That’d probably violate policy.”

You walk away.

Again.

Your footsteps echo louder than necessary as you retreat, dignity fraying at the edges. You pass the supply room, the trauma bay, the break room where someone has abandoned a half-eaten sandwich like a cry for help.

You stop near the medication fridge and lean your forehead briefly against the cool glass.

Okay, you think. New hypothesis: he is either completely oblivious or clinically immune to flirtation.

Possibly both.

And the truly infuriating part—the part that makes this worse instead of easier—is that none of it feels intentional. He isn’t deflecting you. He isn’t uncomfortable. He’s just… honest. Straightforward. Utterly unguarded in a way that makes your carefully calibrated attempts at subtlety bounce right off him like rubber bullets.

You exhale, lifting your head.

Fine.

You can play the long game.

Or—alternatively—you can accept that if you want him to understand what you’re doing, you might eventually have to use actual words.

You grimace.

God help you both.

The breakroom hums softly, a refrigerator rattling in protest, fluorescent lights flickering just enough to make you vaguely homicidal. Someone has burned popcorn at some point in the recent past, and the smell has settled into the walls like a warning.

You’re sitting at the small table, elbows braced, staring at the far wall with the intensity of someone hoping it might blink first.

It does not.

Your coffee has gone cold. Again. You don’t drink it. It feels symbolic now.

Your brain replays the night in unwanted highlight reels—every missed cue, every earnest response that landed like a perfectly executed dodge.

You’re contemplating whether you could feasibly fake a page to Radiology just to escape your own thoughts when Dana appears in your peripheral vision, plastic-wrapped sandwich in hand, eyes sharp with recognition.

She takes one look at you and snorts.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s the stare.”

You don’t respond. You don’t blink. You might be dissociating slightly.

She drops into the chair across from you and leans back, studying you like a fascinating case study.

“At this point,” she says, peeling open her sandwich, “you could flirt by interpretive dance.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And he’d ask if I needed an ortho consult,” you mutter.

Dana chokes on a laugh.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You’re not wrong.”

You finally look away from the wall, rubbing a hand over your face. Your palm comes away faintly smelling like antiseptic.

“I tried,” you say. “I really tried. Banter. Tone. Proximity. I leaned. I lowered my voice, Dana.”

She winces sympathetically. “Damn. You lowered the voice?”

“I lowered the voice.”

“That’s serious.”

“I told him people might think I like him.”

“And?”

“And he told me I’m excellent at my job.”

Dana slaps her sandwich down on the table.

“No.”

“Yes.”

She stares at you, appalled.

You sink back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling now, because the wall has judged you enough for one night.

“I swear,” you say, “if I straight-up said, ‘I’m flirting with you,’ he’d nod and ask if I wanted feedback.”

Dana is fully cackling now, shoulders shaking.

“He’d be like, ‘Noted. Thank you for the clarification.’”

You close your eyes.

“Kill me.”

“No,” she says cheerfully. “This is too entertaining.”

You open one eye, glaring at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she says. “But also—this is incredible. You’re watching a masterclass in emotional obliviousness in real time.”

You sigh, long and theatrical.

“The worst part,” you admit quietly, “is that he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just… sincere.”

Dana softens a little at that. She tilts her head.

“Yeah,” she says. “That tracks.”

You drum your fingers against the table, frustration buzzing under your skin. “I don’t know how to flirt with someone who treats everything like a chart note.”

She considers this.

“You could be direct.”

You recoil. Physically.

“No.”

“Blunt,” she corrects. “Clear. Use words.”

“I am using words.”

“You’re using riddles,” she says. “Sexy riddles.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands.

Dana grins. “Hey. Look on the bright side.”

You peek up at her.

“What bright side?”

“If he ever does figure it out,” she says, “you know he’ll mean it. No games. No bullshit.”

You lean back again, chewing on that despite yourself.

Great. Fantastic. Even your consolation prize is emotionally sound.

From somewhere down the hall, you hear his voice—calm, steady, calling out an order. Your stomach does an unhelpful little flip.

Dana watches your face with interest.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “You’re screwed.”

You close your eyes.

“Interpretive dance it is,” you mutter.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You escalate to touch.

Not inappropriate. Not anything anyone could point to in a deposition or whisper about over bad coffee. Just… intentional. Precise.

The ER hums the way it always does. You move through it on muscle memory and caffeine, your body already angled toward the next task before your brain finishes naming it.

He’s at Trauma Two, shoulders hunched slightly as he leans over the gurney, hands moving fast and steady. There’s blood on his gloves, a smear on the cuff of his scrub top. Someone’s yelling out vitals. Someone else is fumbling with suction. It’s loud, it’s tight, it’s controlled chaos.

You step in close—closer than necessary—and reach for the collar of his gown.

“Hold still,” you murmur, already doing it.

Your fingers catch the edge of the fabric, tugging it back where it’s twisted awkwardly against his neck. It’s nothing. It’s practical. Except you let your hand linger just a beat too long, knuckles brushing warm skin at the base of his throat. You feel the heat of him there, solid and alive beneath your touch.

He doesn’t react. Not even a flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

You withdraw your hand like you meant to all along, turn smoothly to grab another pair of gloves. Your heart is doing something stupid and unprofessional in your chest, but your face stays neutral. Calm. Competent.

Congratulations, you think dryly. You’ve officially flirted with a man mid-code.

Later, the hallway outside triage is too narrow, bodies passing in both directions like blood cells through a clogged artery. You spot him coming toward you, tablet in hand, brow furrowed in that way that means he’s already thinking three steps ahead.

You don’t sidestep.

You brush past him instead, shoulder to chest, close enough that you feel the solid press of him through scrubs. No apology. No “sorry—excuse me.” Just the brief, undeniable contact of two people occupying the same impossible amount of space.

“Hey,” he says automatically, half-turning as if to check whether he’s collided with equipment instead of a person.

You keep walking. You don’t look back.

Your mouth twitches despite yourself.

That one might’ve been a little obvious, you think. If he were anyone else.

But he isn’t. He’s still standing there, already absorbed. l

The blood draw is quieter. Routine. The patient is anxious, veins skittish and hiding deep. He’s focused, eyes narrowed slightly as he palpates, searching.

“Here,” you say softly, stepping in.

You place your thumb gently against the inside of his wrist, just below the glove line, steadying his hand. Your thumb rests right over his pulse, warm and unmistakable. You feel it there—strong, regular, a living metronome beneath your skin.

It’s intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip. You’re acutely aware of how close you are now, how your arm brushes his, how the space between you has vanished entirely.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice low, pitched for him alone.

He glances at you, surprised, then gives a small, almost sheepish huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Why?”

Because I’m touching you like this on purpose, you think. Because I noticed your hands are warmer than mine. Because I wanted to see if you’d notice.

Out loud, you just smile.

“Just checking,” you say, and release him once the needle’s in, smooth and clean.

The rest of the shift passes in fragments—rooms, patients, clipped exchanges—but you’re hyper-aware now. Of proximity. Of angles. Of how easily your hand finds his arm when you pass something over, how naturally you stand just a little too close when you talk.

None of it draws comment. None of it earns even a flicker of suspicion.

That should be comforting.

It isn’t.

Later—much later—the department finally exhales. The noise drops a register. The adrenaline fades into bone-deep fatigue. You’re both charting at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, the glow of computer screens painting everything in tired blue light.

He stretches, rolling his neck once before glancing your way.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For?” you ask, already bracing yourself.

He smiles, sincere and unguarded in a way that feels almost cruel.

“You’re very attentive,” he says. “Makes a difference.”

There it is. The gentle praise. The professional gratitude.

You stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, then nod.

“Part of the job,” you reply lightly.

Inside, something collapses with horrifying clarity.

He thinks this is excellent nursing.

Not flirting. Not tension. Not you very deliberately closing the distance inch by inch like you’re testing a weak point in a wall.

Just competence. Just teamwork.

You swallow a laugh that borders on hysterical and go back to typing, your fingers flying with unnecessary force.

Okay, you think. New plan.

You’re going to have to try harder.

Or accept that this man could be hit over the head with a metaphorical brick labeled as and ask if he needed an ice pack.

You keep going.

Carefully. Methodically. Like everything else you do.

The trick, you discover, is making every touch defensible. Plausible. Something you could justify to yourself in a court of law—or at least to a charge nurse with a raised eyebrow.

You hand him things directly instead of setting them down. Syringes placed into his palm instead of the tray. Your fingers brush his—accidentally, obviously—and linger just long enough to register heat before pulling away.

Nothing. Not a flicker.

Incredible, you think. Truly. A marvel of selective perception.

The department is crowded again, bodies stacked too close, sound bouncing off tile and glass. You stand beside him at the central station, reviewing labs. He leans in to look at your screen without asking, shoulder nearly touching yours.

You don’t move away.

Instead, you shift closer under the pretense of making room for someone else. Your arm presses lightly against his, the contact steady, unbroken. You can feel the solid warmth of him through thin fabric, the subtle tension in his muscles as he focuses.

He squints at the numbers.

“Creatinine’s climbing,” he says. “We should—”

Your hand comes up without conscious permission, resting briefly against his forearm as you interrupt.

“—switch fluids,” you finish. “Already paged nephro.”

Your thumb presses, just slightly. Not a stroke. Not a caress. Just… contact.

“Oh. Good catch,” he says, nodding.

You drop your hand like you never meant to put it there in the first place.

Inside, you are screaming quietly.

Later, a patient’s IV pump alarms—shrill, insistent. You step in before he can, silencing it with practiced ease.

“You’re hovering,” you tell him mildly.

“Am I?” He leans back, giving you space. “Sorry.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling faintly, relaxed. Comfortable. Entirely unbothered by the fact that you are very deliberately standing close enough that your hip brushes his thigh when you turn.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I like hovering.”

That earns a short laugh.

“Good,” he says. “Because I do it constantly.”

We are not talking about the same thing, you think.

You start finding excuses.

You smooth wrinkles from his sleeve when he rolls it up hastily. You reach past him to grab supplies instead of asking him to move, your chest brushing his arm, your breath briefly catching against his shoulder.

Once, when he startles slightly at a sudden alarm, you steady him with a hand to his back—broad, warm, undeniably there.

“Sorry,” you say reflexively.

He shakes his head. “All good.”

No comment. No pause. No awareness that your hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary before you pull away.

I could probably hold his hand for a full minute, you think, deadpan, and he’d thank me for emotional support.

The most egregious one happens near the end of the shift.

He’s tired. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way he rubs at his neck absently while reading a chart. You step behind him, ostensibly to look at the screen over his shoulder.

Your fingers lift, then settle at the base of his neck, just where tension knots.

“You’re carrying this up here,” you say quietly.

Before he can respond, you press your thumb in gently, circling once. It’s not a massage. Not really. Just pressure. Helpful. Kind.

He exhales.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. That’s—thanks.”

You keep your hand there for another heartbeat. Then another.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t comment. Just keeps reading, calmer now, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You withdraw slowly, heart pounding.

He glances at you afterward, smiling faintly.

“You’re very good at that,” he says. “You should teach residents stress management.”

You stare at him.

“I’m managing something,” you reply, because if you don’t make a joke you might actually combust.

He laughs, already moving on.

When he finally leaves for the night, you watch him go with a mix of fondness and disbelief.

You have brushed, steadied, lingered, hovered, pressed, leaned, and touched him in every socially acceptable way short of writing THIS IS FLIRTING on your forehead.

And he remains serenely, profoundly unaware.

You rest your head briefly against the cool counter and close your eyes.

Fine, you think. If subtlety isn’t working, that’s on him.

Then you straighten, pick up your tablet, and follow—already planning the next escalation.

Dana finds you in the supply room.

Of course she does. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and Dana is apparently its chosen instrument.

You’re standing in front of an open cabinet, staring at a row of saline bags like they personally betrayed you. One hand is braced on the shelf, the other rubbing at your forehead as if you might physically knead the frustration out through bone.

Behind you, the door swings shut with a soft click.

You don’t turn around. You already know.

“So,” Dana says pleasantly, far too pleasantly, “how's it going with Robby?”

You exhale through your nose. Slowly. Carefully. Like a person trying not to commit a felony.

“If you say one more word,” you tell the saline bags, “I’m going to fake my own death and transfer to dermatology.”

Dana hums, delighted.

“That bad, huh?”

You finally turn. She’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, expression bright with the kind of interest people usually reserve for reality television or particularly messy breakups. Her badge swings slightly as she shifts her weight, catching the fluorescent light.

“He thanked me,” you say flatly.

“Ouch.”

“For being attentive.”

“Ouch,” she repeats, stronger this time.

You drop your head back against the cabinet with a dull thunk.

“I adjusted his collar. Dana. During a code. I brushed his wrist. I held his pulse. I practically massaged his neck.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb higher with every itemized sin.

“And?”

“And he suggested I teach a seminar on stress management.”

She bursts out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained snort. A full-bodied, hand-to-mouth, shoulders-shaking laugh that echoes off the shelves.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Oh my god.”

You glare at her. “I’m glad my emotional ruin is entertaining.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just—wow. I mean. Wow.”

You cross your arms, suddenly aware of how keyed-up you feel, how your skin still remembers every accidental-on-purpose point of contact.

“I am being obvious,” you insist. “I am flirting like a human woman with intent.”

Dana wipes at her eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

“Then why—” You gesture vaguely toward the rest of the ER. Toward him. Toward the problem. “—is he still acting like I’m just exceptionally good at my job?”

Dana straightens a little, studying you now with something like fondness layered over her amusement.

“Because,” she says gently, “he is spectacularly oblivious.”

You groan.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Oh, I’m not done.”

She pushes off the counter and steps closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Everyone knows.”

You blink. “Everyone what.”

“Everyone,” she repeats, smiling. “That you’re into him.”

Your stomach drops.

“…Everyone?”

Dana nods. “Nurses. Residents. I’m pretty sure at least one paramedic has money riding on it.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am not.” She tilts her head. “You literally orbit him.”

“I work with him.”

“You glow,” she says. “Like. Physically. It’s unsettling.”

You press your lips together, processing this. Replaying the last several shifts in your head through a new, horrifying lens.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “But surely he—”

Dana’s smile turns sharp. Victorious.

“Except Robby.”

Of course.

You sink down onto a stool, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.

“I hate this,” you mutter.

Dana perches on the counter across from you, swinging one leg.

“He genuinely thinks you’re just very competent and kind,” she says. “Which, to be fair, you are.”

“That’s not the goal.”

“I know.” She pauses. “Have you considered words?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at her.

“I have used words.”

“You’ve used adjacent words.”

“I complimented him.”

“You complimented his teamwork.”

“That was vulnerable!”

Dana snorts. “That was a performance review.”

You slump again.

“He’s not doing this on purpose,” Dana adds, softer now. “He’s just… wired wrong. Or very carefully wired.”

You think of the way he moves through the department. Focused. Earnest. Entirely present with patients. How he accepts touch as support, not signal. How safe he seems inside his own assumptions.

Your frustration dulls, replaced by something warmer. More complicated.

“That almost makes it worse,” you admit.

Dana studies you for a moment, then smiles—less teasing now, more knowing.

“Look,” she says. “You’re not subtle anymore. You’re just… quiet about it. And when it finally clicks for him?”

She grins.

“It’s going to hit like a truck.”

You huff a weak laugh despite yourself.

“Great,” you say. “I’ll make sure to stand clear.”

Dana hops down, squeezing your shoulder as she passes.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds, “this is the most entertained I’ve been in months.”

She leaves you there with the saline bags and your spiraling thoughts.

You sit for a moment longer, breathing in antiseptic air, heart still stupidly hopeful.

Okay, you think. If everyone knows…

You stand, straighten your scrubs, and head back out.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

Late shift has a way of stretching time until it feels elastic, thin as pulled sugar.

Rain taps steadily against the ambulance bay doors—soft at first, then harder, a persistent percussion that seeps into the bones of the building. The ER is quiet in a way that makes your shoulders tense instead of relax. Not asleep. Just… waiting.

This is the hour where everything feels too intimate.

You sit at the nurses’ station beside Robby, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. Paperwork sprawls between you in a messy truce: charts, lab printouts, half-scribbled notes. Someone’s abandoned a pen with bite marks near the cap. Probably not a patient. You try not to think about it.

He slides half a granola bar toward you without looking up.

No comment. No eye contact. Just the soft scrape of wrapper against laminate.

You blink at it.

Domestic, your brain supplies immediately. Suspiciously so.

You eye the bar like it might explode. Or confess something.

“You’re aware,” you say, dryly, “that sharing food is how relationships start in prison movies.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. More like a concession.

“Eat it or don’t,” he says. “I’m not proposing.”

Shame, you think, and tear the wrapper open anyway. The bar is slightly stale, aggressively oat-forward, and somehow still comforting. You chew, glancing sideways at him.

Robby is hunched over a chart, glasses perched low on his nose, dark circles carved beneath his eyes like they’ve been earned through long, grueling labor—which, to be fair, they have. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms corded and pale under fluorescent light, a faint smear of ink near his wrist. You wonder, not for the first time, if he ever sleeps long enough to fully wash the hospital off himself.

The quiet presses in. You can hear rain hitting metal, distant thunder grumbling like an old man with complaints. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps once and stops. No one runs.

Rare. Dangerous.

You decide to poke the bear.

“So,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless, “do you ever do anything outside this place?”

He doesn’t look up.

“Sleep,” he says.

You wait. He keeps reading.

“…That’s it?” you prompt.

A beat.

“Sometimes read.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Thrilling. You must be a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

That earns him a small smile, the corner of your mouth ticking up before you can stop it. You scribble a note on the margin of a chart just to have something to do with your hands.

“What do you read?” you ask.

“Whatever’s around.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re not trying to impress anyone.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Bold assumption. Maybe I’m deeply invested in your inner life.”

This time, he does look at you.

Just briefly. Assessing. Sharp eyes that miss very little. You feel that look like a fingertip pressed to your sternum—light, but intentional.

“Why?” he asks.

There it is. Not why are you asking, but why do you care. Subtle difference. Annoying man.

You shrug, deliberately loose. “Because we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder sharing granola bars while the rain stages a dramatic monologue outside, and it feels rude not to.”

He snorts despite himself, then goes back to the chart.

“History,” he says after a moment. “Biographies. Medical journals. Sometimes fiction if I’m too tired to think.”

“What kind of fiction?”

He hesitates. Barely perceptible. You catch it anyway.

“Does it matter?”

You glance at him. “No. But I’m curious.”

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever’s already on the shelf.”

You grin. “You’re allergic to specificity.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re evasive.”

“That too.”

The rain intensifies, drumming louder against the bay doors. A gust of wind rattles them slightly, and you both glance up out of instinct. Old habits. The kind that never really leave.

You finish the granola bar and brush crumbs from your scrub pants. Your shoulder bumps his—light, accidental, but you don’t move away immediately. Neither does he.

You become acutely aware of the warmth there. The solid presence of another person in the quiet. It’s… unsettling. And, annoyingly, a little grounding.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “What about me?”

“Outside this place.”

Ah.

You lean back in your chair, considering the ceiling tiles like they might offer a safer answer.

“Sleep,” you echo.

He arches a brow

“Sometimes draw,” you add. “Occasionally forget to eat. Once tried pottery. It was a disaster.”

“I can imagine.”

“Rude.”

He shrugs. “Accurate.”

You laugh quietly, surprised by it. The sound feels too loud in the hush, so you rein it in, pressing your lips together. Something in your chest loosens anyway.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less sharp. More… companionable. You return to your paperwork, pen scratching softly. He flips a page. The rain keeps time.

You glance at him once more, unguarded this time.

He’s still here. Still steady. Still offering half his granola bar without ceremony.

And for reasons you don’t entirely trust, that feels like something worth noticing.

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound vibrating somewhere in the back of your throat.

It’s a stall tactic and you know it. Your brain is rifling through safer topics—weather, lab values, literally anything that won’t get you emotionally maimed at the nurses’—but your mouth has already decided it’s feeling brave.

Or stupid.

Possibly both.

“You should let someone take you out sometime,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless optimism. “Dinner. Drinks. Sunlight. Normal human things.”

The words hang there, fragile as blown glass.

For half a second, nothing happens. Then he looks at you.

Really looks.

Not the quick clinical glance he gives patients or the sharp evaluative scan he uses on interns. This is slower. Focused. His eyes lift fully from the chart and settle on your face like he’s actually taking inventory—expression, tone, intent.

Your heart trips over itself.

Full-on stumbles. Misses a step. Does that awful little flutter that feels suspiciously like hope and dread shaking hands.

You keep your face neutral through sheer force of will, like this isn’t the emotional equivalent of standing in the middle of traffic and daring the cars to stop.

“That’s good advice,” he says.

Earnestly.

No teasing. No deflection. Just calm, thoughtful agreement.

“Burnout sneaks up on you.”

And just like that, he looks back down at the chart and keeps writing.

Pen moving. Page flipping. Crisis averted. Life goes on.

You stare at him.

Actually stare.

Your mind scrambles, skids, tries to regain traction. That was not—not—the response you were braced for. You’d prepared yourself for a brush-off, maybe a sarcastic quip, possibly even gentle discomfort. You had not prepared for him to accept your suggestion like a continuing medical education module.

You blink once.

Twice.

Right. Of course. He thought you were talking about self-care.

You feel something inside you deflate with a quiet, undignified wheeze.

“Yeah,” you say, because silence would be suspicious and screaming would be frowned upon. “Very… sneaky. Burnout.”

He nods, still focused on the chart. “People don’t notice until they’re already exhausted. Or angry. Or making bad calls.”

You tilt your head, watching him. The way his jaw tightens just slightly. The faint crease between his brows that never quite leaves anymore.

“And you?” you ask lightly. “You noticing anything?”

He pauses, pen hovering.

For a moment—just a moment—you think he might actually answer honestly. That he might look up again, say something real. Something unguarded.

Instead, he shrugs.

“I’m fine.”

Ah. There it is. The universal lie of overworked physicians everywhere.

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Compelling. I’ll write it in your chart.”

He glances up again, this time with the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Very professional.”

“I contain multitudes.”

He hums in acknowledgment and goes back to writing.

You turn back to your own paperwork, pen dragging a little slower now. Your pulse is still loud in your ears, refusing to calm down, like it’s offended by the misunderstanding.

You told him to let someone take him out.

You had meant—well.

You sigh softly through your nose, shaking your head at yourself.

Of course he didn’t hear it that way. Of course he didn’t. This is a man who can triage three traumas at once and still miss a blatant invitation sitting three feet away sharing his granola bar.

You glance at him again, irritated and fond in equal measure.

“Burnout,” you think dryly. “Right. That’s definitely what I was diagnosing.”

The rain keeps tapping against the ambulance bay doors. The ER remains suspended in that quiet, intimate lull. He charts. You chart.

And you sit there, shoulder to shoulder, wondering how someone can look straight at you and still not see a thing.

Later, the lull breaks.

Not with sirens or shouting or a trauma rolling in at full speed, but with the soft return of movement—phones ringing, footsteps quickening, the ER shaking itself awake like a dog coming out of water. The rain outside eases into a steady drizzle, less dramatic now, like it’s gotten whatever it wanted out of the night.

Robby disappears down the hall with a tablet tucked under his arm, already halfway back inside his own head. You watch him go for half a second longer than strictly professional, then turn back to the nurses’ station and pretend your notes suddenly require your full, undivided attention.

They don’t.

Dana materializes beside you the way she always does—silent, efficient, terrifyingly perceptive. She’s got a coffee in one hand and a look on her face that says she’s been waiting patiently for this moment.

She doesn’t even try to be subtle.

“You practically handed him an invitation,” she says, voice pitched low but delighted.

You don’t look up. You highlight a line on the chart you’ve already highlighted once.

“I opened the door,” you reply calmly. “He walked into a wall.”

Dana snorts. “A wall?”

“A very sturdy one,” you say. “Possibly load-bearing.”

She leans an elbow on the counter, watching you with open amusement. “You told him to let someone take him out.”

“I did.”

“And he gave you a lecture on burnout.”

“He did that too.”

Dana takes a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving you. “You know he’s not dense about most things.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you mutter. “That’s what makes this so impressive.”

You finally glance up at her. She’s grinning now, the kind of grin that says she has Opinions and none of them are kind.

“You okay?” she asks, tone softer beneath the teasing.

You consider that. The question lands heavier than expected.

You roll your shoulders once, loosening tension you hadn’t realized was there. “Yeah. I mean—yes. It’s fine. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” Dana agrees. “He just completely missed you flirting with him like it was a pop quiz he didn’t study for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s generous. I think he thought I was offering a continuing education course.”

Dana chuckles, shaking her head. “I’ve worked with him a long time.”

“Congratulations,” you say. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“High, but manageable,” she replies cheerfully. Then, more seriously, “He doesn’t clock that kind of thing easily. Especially when it’s aimed at him.”

You angle your body slightly away from the station, lowering your voice. “So you’re saying this is a known… condition?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dana says. “Man can diagnose a ruptured spleen from across the room. Romance? Entirely different department.”

That shouldn’t make you feel better.

Annoyingly, it kind of does.

You glance down the hallway again without meaning to. Robby’s nowhere in sight now—swallowed up by exam rooms and corridors and responsibility.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

Dana raises an eyebrow. “No. You were brave.”

You make a face. “Don’t rebrand it. I’m trying to be embarrassed in peace.”

She laughs softly. “Look, if it helps—he did look at you. Really look. I saw it.”

Your heart does that stupid little stumble again.

You shoot her a look. “You’re not allowed to say things like that without evidence.”

She shrugs. “I’ve got eyes. And decades of experience watching idiots fall in love at work.”

“Comforting,” you deadpan.

Dana straightens as a call light flicks on down the hall. “Give it time,” she adds lightly. “Eventually, it’ll click.”

“Or,” you say, “I’ll die of secondhand humiliation.”

“Also possible.”

She squeezes your shoulder once—warm, grounding—before heading off toward the noise.

You’re left at the station again, the hum of the ER settling around you. You exhale slowly, tapping your pen against the counter.

You hadn’t planned on wanting anything from him. Certainly not this. Not the way your chest tightens when he looks at you, or the way you replay his earnest tone in your head like it’s evidence in a case you can’t stop building.

Burnout sneaks up on you.

You shake your head, a rueful smile tugging at your mouth.

“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself. “Apparently so does obliviousness.”

You pick up your chart, square your shoulders, and step back into the noise—already bracing yourself to try again, someday, when you’re feeling just reckless enough.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

The breakroom smells like coffee and antiseptic and someone's reheated dinner.

Someone has left a protein bar wrapper on the counter like a crime scene marker. The microwave hums ominously, as if it, too, is judging your life choices. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead with the enthusiasm of a dying insect.

Robby stands at the counter, pouring coffee he absolutely does not need into a mug that reads WORLD’S OKAYEST DOCTOR. You bought it as a joke. He uses it earnestly. This alone should have tipped you off months ago.

You lean back against the table, hip pressed to the edge, arms crossed loosely—not defensively, just… strategically. Your badge swings forward, taps lightly against your sternum. You don’t move it out of the way. You absolutely notice.

“So,” you say, casually. Too casually. “You ever notice how we’re always alone in here together?”

He doesn’t look up. “Statistically unlikely,” he replies. “Breakroom traffic peaks around twenty past the hour.”

You blink.

Of course he’s done the math.

You try again.

You step closer—inside his personal space now, deliberately so. Your arm brushes his when you reach past him for the sugar packets you do not need. Your fingers linger against his wrist for half a beat too long. Pulse. Warm. There.

He glances at you. Smiles, faint and distracted.

“You want the last creamer?” he asks.

You stare at him.

“I want you,” you think.

You say, “No, I’m good.”

You watch him stir his coffee. You watch the tendons in his forearm shift. You have watched those tendons save lives. You have also imagined biting them, which feels like something a better-adjusted person would unpack in therapy.

You sigh.

“Robby,” you say, lightly, “if I leaned any closer, HR would materialize out of the vents.”

“Hm?” He takes a sip. Grimaces. “God, this is awful. Did they switch brands?”

You close your eyes.

Count to three.

This is not happening—

You snap them open.

That’s it.

You straighten, heart kicking hard enough to be rude.

“Robby,” you say, and this time your voice is steady only because sheer force of will is doing most of the work, “I’ve been trying to flirt with you for months.”

Silence.

Actual, physical silence. The microwave clicks off somewhere behind you like punctuation.

He freezes.

Mid-motion. Mug halfway to his mouth. Eyes flicking to you like his brain is trying to reorient gravity.

You don’t soften it. You refuse. You’ve earned this moment.

“The coffee,” you continue, ticking it off with your fingers. “The compliments. The touching. The lingering. All of it.”

His mouth opens slightly.

Closes.

You can practically see the internal slideshow start playing. Frames flashing past his eyes: you leaning in too close, your hand on his arm, your voice going softer when you say his name, the way you always find him during shifts like it’s coincidence and not muscle memory.

Understanding crashes into him all at once.

“…Oh,” he says.

Stunned. Genuinely. Like someone who has just realized they’ve been standing in the rain for an hour.

You exhale, sharp and humorless.

“Yes. Oh.”

He sets the mug down slowly, like sudden movements might break something fragile and expensive between you.

“You were—” He stops. Tries again. “You were flirting.”

You tilt your head. “Gold star.”

“I thought you were just… friendly.”

Your laugh comes out before you can stop it. Dry. Almost hysterical.

“Robby, I don’t touch friends like that.”

His ears turn red.

Actually red.

He rubs the back of his neck, a habit you know too well. His eyes don’t quite meet yours yet.

“I—” he starts, then stops. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“That’s admirable,” you say. “In theory.”

“In practice,” he says quietly, “I might be an idiot.”

You consider this.

“Debatable,” you say. “But not because of this.”

There’s a beat. Another. The air feels thicker now—charged, buzzing, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “If I made you feel—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in. Softer now, despite yourself. “You just… didn’t see it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not distracted, not half-thinking about labs or consults or the next disaster waiting to happen.

You feel suddenly exposed. Like you’ve taken off armor you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“I see it now,” he says.

Your pulse stutters.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “you’re… very good at it.”

He’s still looking at you like the room has tilted and he’s trying to stay upright.

Something in you snaps—not angrily. Not dramatically. Just… decisively.

You step closer.

Not rushed. Not reckless. One measured step that puts you well inside his space, close enough that you can smell the coffee on his breath, feel the warmth coming off him like a steady current.

He goes very still.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You rise just enough onto the balls of your feet and kiss him.

It’s brief. Controlled. No teeth, no urgency—just your mouth fitting to his with unmistakable intent. Your lips are soft but deliberate, pressing once, twice, as if punctuation matters.

For half a second, he doesn’t move.

Then his breath catches—audibly, embarrassingly—and he kisses you back.

Not clumsy. Not hesitant. Just… surprised into honesty.

His hand comes up, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, fingers warm and sure against your jaw, thumb resting just below your ear. He pulls you a fraction closer, enough that your chest brushes his, enough that your carefully maintained composure dissolves into something warmer and far less clever.

You melt.

Annoyingly. Completely.

The kiss deepens—not longer, just fuller—his mouth moving with yours like he’s finally caught the rhythm you’ve been offering him for months. There’s no rush, no hunger yet, just confirmation. Yes. This. You weren’t imagining it.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

Your forehead nearly touches his. Your pulse is loud in your ears, traitorous.

“That,” you say, voice steady despite everything, “was me asking you out.”

For once, there’s no confusion on his face. No mental math. No missed subtext.

His breath stutters.

“Oh,” he says again—but this time it’s different. Softer. Warmer.

Then he smiles. Small. Genuine.

“I’d like that,” he says quietly. “Very much.”

Something settles in your chest. Not fireworks—something better. Something solid.

You step back before either of you does something that will absolutely require paperwork.

Later—much later—Dana catches your eye from across the ER. She doesn’t say a word. Just gives you a slow, deeply satisfied nod, like someone watching a long-running bet finally pay out.

You smile to yourself, turning back to your chart.

Some people, you think, really do need things spelled out.

Clearly.

Directly.

And preferably with mouth contact.

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