synopsis hi fell in love with your portrayal of dr. robby is it okay for me to request for dr. robby’s attending! wife and the early signs of pregnancy before she decided to take a test? (like falling asleep while doing charts or over a casual conversation hehe) request!
authornote this was a request that I loved writing so much but nobody needs to know the work that went into publishing it, that stays between me and @expreissionism who requested, thanks so much again!
My Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
Robby left exam room four and- like always- he found you first.
He smiled. The kind that took over his whole face, that crinkled his eyes and caused his cheeks to hurt. The sort people didn't see often in the deep hells of the Pitt unless he was looking at you. Or talking about you. Or thinking about you. Basically, if he smiled like that it was you.
But his smile faded quick when he took note of you.
“Hey?”
You jerked up, looking at him.
Robby leant over the counter, sliding on his glasses and looked closer.
He was too close to you to be studying you like a patient, but just close enough for his wife.
“You eat anything today?” he asked.
You squinted at him. “We literally got breakfast this morning.”
“Okay, okay.”
There were darkening circles under your eyes and your lips were chapped which was his first sign something was wrong: you treated moisturising your lips like some do religion. Other than that your body was slumped over a computer. You were far more active than this.
“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.
You smirked. “Well no, not really, someone kept me up.”
Robby smirked right back, leaning back just enough to give you space. “Are you complaining?”
“No.”
Flashbacks of last night came to mind in searing heat. The sweat of your bodies, the grip he held on your hand as he fucked you into the mattress like he did most nights.
They said your libido goes down the older you get but Robby was going through another one. His box of blue pills sat abandoned in his bedside draw- thank god.
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
“But that saying,” you continued, swivelling in your chair to face him. Still, he didn't move. He could smell the shampoo you'd bathed yourself in this morning and his mouth salivated like a dog with his favourite treat. “Four rounds?”
Robby took a quick sweep of the area, making sure nobody was missing him and his wife as they flirted shamelessly. “You asked for it.”
You frowned. “Did I?”
“Hey!” called Dana. “Mr and Mrs Adams, we could use your help here!”
You playfully rolled your eyes and Robby backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. He watched Dana turn to at least give them a second to finish up their flirting before digging into his pocket.
“Here- for your lips.”
A small, practically un-used tube of chap-stick fell from the palm of his hand to yours. He carried it for you, always. If you'd asked you'd know he carried an extra pack of nuts and hand cream too.
He'd been doing so secretly since your first dates years ago.
Of course the supplies were different but the sentiment the same.
You blushed, a bright smile coming to your face. “You are so adorable.”
Robby shook off the word like it was splash of cold water. “Yeah, don't let onto anyone, okay? Got a cold exterior to keep up.”
“Oh- of course.”
He could have stood there and watched you all day but he already felt Dana's gaze, un-wavering. He squeezed your shoulders and pressed a kiss on your forehead before slipping away with a quiet promise to himself that he'd get his hands on you later.
“You don't look so well, you know,” said Dana once the coast was clear of Robby.
“Don't you start,” you said. “I've had enough of this the last couple days from Robby.”
“Oh yeah, you got something?” Dana's hand was gentle on your back. If you weren't careful she'd push you onto a bed, have you in a gown with a chart written up herself. She'd mother you; smother you in her care even if she wasn't a doctor. Even if you were the attending around the place.
You shook your head and flashed her a un-convincing smile.
You were sure it was a bug, or burn out.
You'd caught burn out like some do colds or flus. As the second attending it was your job- with Robby's- to make sure everyone was taught, that patients were satisfied (you found you were doing that part for your husband as well) and you were saving as many lives as you could.
The careful art of delegation and avoidance was lost on you. You threw yourself into traumas like you were still a med student with something to prove.
“Okay, if you say so,” said Dana with a purse of her lips.
“I do say so.”
“If you need anything.”
“Am I married to you or Robinavitch?” you teased, tugging on gloves and readying yourself for a room of hustle.
Dana chuckled, backing away slowly to her station. “You should be so lucky, Robinavitch.”
Using the weight of your back you pushed into trauma two.
“Okay, kids- what have we got?”
“Fetal heart rate one-two-eight.”
Whitaker was at your side in an instant, handing you the chart. “Woman in her late twenties, came in complaining of cramping and migraines, twenty-nine weeks along.”
“BP is one-seventy, over one-nineteen.”
The woman was on her side, a whole score of nurses and doctors around her. It was always double the team for pregnant ladies. When there were two patients to care for in a package of one.
“Six grams of magnesium going in.”
You floated around the room, Whitaker following you like some guard dog. You took in everything going on, reading stats and taking in numbers everyone gave to you. “Okay, ma'am, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robin. It seems you have a medical condition called preeclamsia.”
The woman's eyes were teary and dark as they looked up to you in fear. “Wh-what?”
“Preeclampsia. Now that we know what it is we can help you.”
“But it was- it was just a headache,” she cried, hand cradling her stomach on instinct. “Is my baby going to be okay?”
“We are doing everything to make sure you and the baby do just fine,” you assured her, speaking a language you'd become fluent in. Diagnosis and comfort. Sometimes, when the job got tough, you wondered if you even really believed the words you were saying. They just floated from your tongue typically.
“The thing is with your condition we have to take you up to OB and deliver this baby,” you told her.
“OB's been paged,” Santos informed you.
“But it's too early,” the woman sobbed, clutching at her rounded stomach like she could keep the baby there.
“I know but the baby's pulse is strong which is good,” you told her. “And if we want to keep the ball rolling in the right direction we have to got to get to it now, okay?”
“Doctor Robin,” said Whitaker. “Labs are back in.”
“Read them to me.” You were still holding the lady's hand over her stomach, trying to comfort her.
“Don't hold out on us Huckleberry, what's going on?” asked Santos.
“They're high- real high-”
“Which can mean?” you ask out to the room, remembering the hundreds of times Gloria reminded you off your status as a 'teaching hospital,'.
“HELLP syndrome,” said Denis.
“Point to you.”
Under your hand the patient began to tremble. A quick glance at the monitor showed her blood pressure rising. Panic, most likely, something else it could have been entirely.
“Hey, boy or a girl?” you asked, watching her eyes flicker. “Do you know what you're having?”
She blinked slow. “Boy.”
“Any name ideas?”
Her mouth had opened to say something but instead of a name vomit spewed, rolling down the gurney and splashing your scrubs- the one time you didn't put on a gown.
“Oh shit- she's seizing!”
Everyone and you reacted quickly in holding her, trying to calm her shakes.
It had never happened before, you'd never had so many senses tuning it an once but the smell of her breakfast wafted up to your nose. An un-familiar roll in your stomach curdled and you pursed your lips shut, turning away and burying your nose into the still fresh part of your scrubs.
“Fifteen litres on by mask!” Whitaker yelled. “Intubation?”
He was looking to you.
You shook your head, unable to speak with half your focus going on calming the insides of your stomach.
“With all the seizing we can't get a read on the baby's status,” said Santos.
Fuck- you'd have to say something. You couldn't leave a fresh doctor and student into clampsia blind. “Ultrasound,” you breathed out, still unable to face where the sick started to soak into your scrubs. “Check on baby!”
If Santos and Whitaker thought it was strange they said nothing, following you orders and relaying what they found.
“Doctor Robin- do we intubate?”
Another set of hands came up to help steady her and you could back away.
Even your shoes hadn't been spared the mercy of the vomit.
“Not yet, push keppra, four grams.”
Grabbing clothes cutters you quickly sliced at your scrub top, thankful you were wearing something long sleeved and covering more of you then a simple vest.
With the top in shreds you could finally breath but your stomach didn't get the memo.
“Pulse Ox eighty-eight!”
Groaning, you pulled the tray out for intubation, handing it to Santos.
She glanced at you. “Hey, you look a bit-”
“- don't say sick or I'll throw up on you,” you warned, following her around like she was your new human shield. You wondered if she'd be flattered or pissed if you admitted she was. “Push probofal.”
“Pushing.”
Eventually the seizing stopped with everything you pushed to get her stable and you moved quick. It was like putting everything else on aeroplane mode, shutting off your own systems to get hers stable.
“Intubate, get an EEG to check her brain levels. She's paralysed now but her brain could still be seizing.”
You slipped in sick, grabbing yourself on the nearest doctor and thanking them. You stayed for the intubation only then knew you couldn't hack it anymore.
You fled the room, bumping into Samira on your way out.
Dana jolted up. “Hey, what're you-”
“-get Robby in trauma one.”
You found the nearest bathroom, locked it and threw up everything. You hugged the toilet like it was your anchor, your body curling into the movements. Time escaped you, it could have been minutes it could have been hours but finally you fell back and flushed, wiping away everything.
You were young, you weren't as old as your husband. You'd had less experience in traumas all together, however you were a good doctor, capable enough to be a fellow attending.
Several substances had been chucked over you in your time. Blood, vomit, piss- some you didn't even know the name off.
Why had today been any different?
Clearing yourself up: re-tying your hair, washing out your mouth and applying Chapstick, cleaning your shoes and wiping tears from under your eyes, you blamed it on the bagels you'd had that morning.
It was the only logical explanation.
Leaving the bathroom you felt momentary guilt and fleeing but spotted Robby already taking your place in the trauma.
“Hey, hun,” Dana was at your side quick, gentle and peering at you closely. “What was that about? You doin alright?”
“Yeah,” you hummed.
“You throw up? You sick?”
“No, I-” you thought of every other time you'd lied to Dana and how it never went well. “Yes but it's probably just food poisoning. Don't tell Robby.”
If Robby knew you were sick- after already having been worried this morning- you'd be driven home in twenty minutes flat.
“Robby always finds out,” said Dana.
You ignored her and pushed open the door to the lounge. She didn't follow and you were left with spare seconds to yourself.
Your hands shook slightly as you fetched a glass to fill with water. To cool yourself down you ran your hands under, splashing the back of your neck with some. You gargled water and spit it back, ready to drain the glass and wet your sudden parched mouth when Langdon appeared in the door.
“Hey, I've got a head lac I need you to take a look at.”
Because you were an attending. Because of the kind of person you are you put down the glass and followed him.
“She just ran out?”
There was the all too familiar buzz of the sanitiser dispenser as Robby helped himself to a generous blob before rubbing it into his hands. A beat behind, Denis did the same, following in his footsteps- literally.
“Er-yeah,” he said, working fast to absorb every bit of hand sanitiser. “She ordered the EEG and bolted.”
Robby nodded, taking it all in clinically. “You said she looked pale?”
“Yeah but, she had just been thrown up on.”
Being thrown up on wasn't a pleasant experience but he hadn't known you to run from bodily fluids.
“Where is she now?” Robby asked, as if Denis was the soul person to look out for you. Well, Robby trusted Denis, a gift he didn't bestow on many so he did expect Denis to keep an eye on you at all times.
“She went to the bathroom but I don't know now.”
Robby checked the bathrooms, finding you void of those spaces. He checked the lounge where nothing but a deserted glass of water sat.
He was almost panicking when he saw the back of you and Frank in a room.
He paused.
You were sat next to a young girl, holding her hand. Although he couldn't hear you he imagined the softness of your voice as it always became when dealing with a pedes case. You'd always joked that if the ED wasn't so in need of two attendings at a time you'd have left his ass for pedes upstairs at once.
Robby didn't think so. For one, you'd miss his face, for the second thing- you liked bouncing from one emergency to another, switching off and relying only on your skills.
You hadn't been bouncing around as quick as usual the last couple days. He realised it only in that moment.
Frank was standing with his arms folded over his chest, pitching in every now and then and also getting the girl to smile.
He didn't want to go in, break the concentration and trust you'd formed with the small child. He'd find you later.
Whatever was going on, the two of you clearly had it handled.
Your dreams came to you in fades.
There was first an annoyingly weird dream about a animal circus finding it's home in the Pitt. They said work followed you home, but it even followed you into dreams which seemed just un-fair. Then there was a stork on an elephants back. How would an elephant even get in to the place?
They turned to some much more enjoyable memories that had your body warming un-consciously.
Robby's weight pressed down into yours on the couch in your living room. You'd begged him to put everything on you, to not hold himself up and with-hold his moans.
And because you'd asked, he did.
Robby wasn't a light guy and you liked him like that. The weight of him crushing you, his spit swapped with yours, sweat of his body being shared and the fingerprints you could feel at your hips.
“Oh fuck sweetheart, oh fuck!” he'd groaned out loud.
You felt parts of him deep in you you didn't know you could feel and still you wanted more. Your locked your ankles around his backside, keeping him into you in short and sweet thrusts.
“Oh, you like that? Jesus Christ,” he grunted into your neck, unable to hold himself up even if he wanted to. “So greedy. Fuckin' so greedy!”
“Please, Robby, please!”
Steady hands were sudden at your shoulders and a body pressed up to yours, decidedly unlike how one did in the dream.
“Go home,” said Robby.
You picked yourself up from where you'd dozed off, your head in your arms folded over on the counter. In front of you, the computer was blank. “Hm?”
Robby's eyes bored into yours. “Go home, you're sick.”
“It's only twelve. I'm not sick- I'm fine,” you said, waving off his hand as it came up to test your temperature in the very medical practise of hand on forehead.
Robby shook his head. “You were dozing this morning, you're asleep now, you threw up-”
“Dana, I told her not to say anything!” You cursed under your breath.
“Not Dana, Whitaker,” said Robby, looking at you with brows draw in, somewhere between anger (or as angry as he could get at you) and concern. “Did you tell Dana not to tell me?”
“Because you worry.” You used your secret trick of overwhelming affection to try to starve off Robby. Your hands were clammy as they held his cheeks, fingertips grazing over his beard just how he liked. He was kneeling at your side, melting into your touch. “I'm fine.”
For extra measures you pressed a kiss to his forehead and walked away.
There was a split second of head spinning blur. The sort that had you reaching out to balance yourself. It lasted maybe two seconds but enough to worry you.
If you hadn't taken such care in tending to Robby's own distraction he'd have clocked it and dragged you home himself.
You maybe weren't so fine. It wasn't every day you felt as tired as you did now, and however good the night before had been Robby had given you more. Plenty. You'd surpassed twenty-fours working in the ED with no sleep so nothing could phase you.
But being phased you were.
The lack of sleep.... the throwing up... maybe you were coming down with something.
You'd thrown up last week too, so it couldn't be food poisoning like you were trying to convince yourself it was.
Robby hurried after you, the jingle of his keys and ID card and such jangling. “I'm keeping my eyes on you.”
“Sexy.”
In trauma one the two of you worked together with a score of doctors and nurses. Mrs Albany- the pregnant lady with clampsia- demanded attention. Perhaps it was a waste of two attendings working on the same patient.
The emergency c-section you had to perform made the one patient two and as Robby worked to keep the mother alive you worked on the child, stimulating the baby boy till he breathed, wiping off the fluids and bloods and sighing when he cried out.
Under the gown and mask you could see Robby's own dimples at you as you both saved lives.
But the tang of iron from the uterus and child filled your nostrils and upset you close enough to tears. You were glad Esme had cleaned up the sick from early and equally as glad you had the chance to throw up your breakfast so you couldn't do it again.
“Holy shit!” Santos celebrated, yanking off her gown and gloves next to you as you did the same, “That was crazy!”
The baby was pushed by you, heading up to the NICU, the mother following, a pulse low but steady, heading up to the OR.
You ducked away from Robby as he followed the pair out. You took Santos with you, a pushing hand on her back. “Yeah, it was- listen I've got a patient that needs blood results quick, you think if I get it you can rush it up to labs, on an ASAP basis.”
Santos frowned. You knew what she was thinking before she even had to say it. It was a boring job, her skills were better off etc.
“Please?” you asked.
It took a roll of her eyes but she agreed to.
Five minutes later you had a vial of your own blood handed to her.
An hour later Santos found you, Ipad in hand.
“Hey, got the results for your patient,” she said. “Where are they? What room? I couldn't see them on the board?”
Dana would have had something to say about taking your own blood and getting it to labs without telling anyone. Robby too. As attending you should have been chastising yourself but there was no time for that. No need, either.
Doctors made the worst sort of patients, especially when they felt they didn't need to be one.
“Er, she left, discharged herself,” you lied quickly, trying to get a gage on the results that were cradled in your arm.
“Bummer. I wanted to give her good news. Or bad.”
“What?”
“She's pregnant.”
You stopped in you tracks.
It took Trinity at least four more paces before she realised you had.
The blood works showed just that. High HCG levels, you red blood cell count was high. Along with the nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells it made sense.
You were pregnant.
Inside the stomach that had been churning all day sat a life fully depending on you to take care of it. Suddenly none of your med school training mattered. Nothing you'd ever down before mattered. Looking after patients was one thing. You didn't have to go home with them, check they drank enough or ate enough, didn't have to check in with their boss they were taking it easy.
You struggled to look after yourself.
Throw a baby in the mix and you were doomed.
Chuck in Robby and you were-
Robby.
Jesus Fuck. You'd never spoken about kids. You'd only been married a year and were still in what some considered the 'honeymoon' phase.
“Everything okay?” asked Santos. “Did I miss something in the results?”
You cleared your throat. “No. No, that all... looks good. I'm just gonna take a small break. Quick one. Thanks.”
“Hey, Robby!” Denis called as he walked out from the ambulance bay. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks, Whitaker.”
It took Robby seconds to pause and think. What was he being congratulated for? The fact he went outside for some air? It wasn't impressive. Was it the quick life saving procedures they'd made on mother and son that sent them both upstairs alive? That was over an hour ago and Denis had been in the room.
Robby back tracked to Whitaker. “What am I being congratulated on, exactly?” he asked.
Whitaker looked at him like he was crazy. “The good news.”
Good news? The last good news he had was marrying you a year ago, and Whitaker had been at the damn wedding crying more than his own grandmother.
Robby shook his head.
“The good news, you'll be a great dad.”
Robby chocked on his breath, leaning on the counter. “Wh-what?” he chuckled in a breath.
“You're pregnant? I mean, not you, obviously, I-I know how it works. But you're having a baby, that's-that's what they say and I just wanted to say well done. Or not well done! No, that came out wrong, jus-”
Robby had let him stumble on his words as he tried to figure out what he was saying. The baby? What baby? “Denis, what are you talking about?”
He looked around quickly for you but couldn't see you.
“Oh my god, you didn't know, you didn't know did you?” Whitaker's face paled, his entire body sinking. “Santos told me, she told me not to tell anyone but I-I figured I could tell you! I guessed- oh god, did I just tell you your wife is pregnant?”
His wife...
Pregnant...
And Robby was finding out from Huckleberry!
Robby took a step around the counter and Denis stumbled back into his chair. “Are you telling me she's...”
Whitaker nodded when the words failed him.
Robby thought back to the sickness you thought he'd missed last week, the way you fell asleep at the computer earlier and the general exhaustion. He tried to think back to what night could have been 'the one' but somewhere along the line you'd both stopped being careful. Condoms were abandoned in draws and your pack of contraceptive pills were still full.
“Doctor- Doctor Robby? Do you need to sit down?” Denis asked.
Robby waved him off and gave himself one minute to compose himself. He knew panic, it was an old friend he'd lost contact with over the years, yet it returned to him then.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“Oh, I don't- I don't-”
“Huckleberry!” he tried not to expose his fondness of the nickname Santos had given him but it slipped out in the most desperate of times.
Denis gulped, knowing this. “Exam room three.”
Robby nodded and made a be-line, Casey was asking him a question as he passed but he held up a hand, ignoring her.
Santos stepped out the room, closing the door and stopping when Robby almost collided with her. “You can't go in there.”
Robby inhaled a deep breath. It was one thing having Whitaker be the one to tell him you were pregnant. It was another to have Santos blocking him from seeing you. “Doctor Santos if you don't let me through you will miss every trauma that comes through those doors.”
Luckily, he knew how to work Santos.
Her arms budged over her chest. “For how long?”
Whatever you had promised her to keep him out must have been just as grand a prize. “Till I see fit now let me in.”
It was like a western stand off for longer than Robby would have liked. Every second he spent out of your room was longer you were spending alone.
Eventually, Trinity sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine, whatever, but she promised me first dibs at a REBOA for doing this. I expect that to still stand.”
Robby pushed through the room and snapped back the curtains finding you at the edge of a bed, the wand of an ultrasound hidden under your top and the grey scale picture of a baby on the monitor.
To your credit you didn't flinch or move as he stood there.
“Lets be real this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.”
In five minutes Robby had wiped down your stomach of the gel, had helped pull your top down and sat with you on the edge of the patient bed, the curtain back to being pulled over and hiding the two of you from traumas and agitated patients and doctors alike.
“How long have you known?” asked Robby.
There was no anger, no mean undertones. It was frightening rather blank, the way he spoke. You'd always prided yourself on knowing how to tell when he was in a good mood or bad from the smallest of tics he had.
He'd trained them out of himself apparently.
Yet- he'd given you his hand and you'd pulled it into your lap, holding it and trailing your own fingers over his.
“The time's now-” you peeked over him at the clock over the door. “- about an hour and thirteen minutes.”
He shook his head, scoffing out a smile that pronounced his wrinkles. “Why didn't you come to me?”
You sighed, shrugging your shoulders. “I thought I was just sick, you know? So I thought I'd get some bloods and see.”
“Did you do the bloods yourself?”
You looked at him and that was telling enough. With the hand that wasn't with yours he rubbed at his temple in aggravation. So far there'd been little to no talk about the baby growing in your stomach but more concern about how you'd gone to finding out.
“You should've got me,” he said.
“Well if I thought I was pregnant I probably would have.” You tried to joke but it fell flat.
“Probably?” he repeated quietly.
Silence went by with only the ticking of the clock as company.
You held onto his hand, readying yourself for the question yet to be asked. “Are you mad at me?”
Robby shook his head but didn't look at you.
“Annnnd are you mad at...” you couldn't say baby yet. Didn't know if giving the clump of cells in your stomach a name would scare him off.
With the hand in your lap his fingers entwined with yours and clutched tight.
“I know we never talked about kids and this wasn't planned in the slightest,” you said even if you knew Robby had stopped pulling out months ago, favouring the way you felt when your walls swallowed him up. “You can be angry.”
“You keep asking if I'm angry, do you want me to be?” he asked, finally a touch of emotion in his voice as it rose an octave. “Are you mad?”
That was the question. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwanted. You couldn't say that seeing the way mothers caressed their stomachs when they came in with spotting or concerns didn't have you thinking of your own child one day. That talking to that little girl with the head lac earlier with Frank didn't cause a pang of longing in your heart.
You'd never tried to pretend you didn't want everything with Robby. Even if you've never discussed what everything was to each other.
“When I was in med school I thought I'd have it all worked out long before now,” said Robby. “Marriage and kids. Maybe on my second marriage by now.”
You dug your elbow into his ribs, rewarded with a quick, breathless laugh.
His eyes creased as his face scrunched up. “Didn't work out. Guess I... gave up thinking it could.”
“Then you met me, right?”
Robby looked at you. His eyes were like glass as he looked you over, his lips titled, cheeks red under his beard. He looked- if you didn't mind saying so- like a man mesmerised. He nodded.
“I thought you didn't want kids,” you said.
“Do you?” he asked, eyes boring into yours.
“Do you?” you threw back to him.
He squeezed your hand and gave you a look.
“I think I do,” you admitted, quietly, as if you could take it back if it displeased him. “I don't know if I'll be good at it. I hardly have time to look after myself, let alone a baby. And I don't want to be one of those people that gives up work for kids cause I love my job but... I think I could love a kid, too.”
Robby nodded along with what you were saying, a smile brightening everything you thought looked dark in him.
“Do you want kids?” you asked.
“Oh, kids?” he teased. “You're so sure its twins already?”
You rolled your eyes as he nudged his shoulder with yours, rocking the both of your bodies.
“I want everything with you, I said so much in my vows, didn't I? You thought I was lying, Doctor Robin?”
You couldn't help but smile at the nickname he gave you and was proud to call you. After all, calling out for two Robinavitch's in an emergency proved difficult quickly. “I don't believe your vows included, I want to fuck you so hard and deep you get pregnant within the first year of marriage.' ”
“Dirty mouth, cussing like that,” said Robby, his eyes drifting down your lips as he bit down on his own. “Have to sort that out before the baby gets here.”
“Lucky we have eight months to train it out of me.”
Robby's nose had just brushed yours before he was pulling back, studying you again. His gaze drifted to your stomach, wondering if the manifestation of your nights had started to show. “You're a month along, already?”
You clocked your head side to side. “Give or take a week or two.”
“Eight months it is.”
Robby kissed you, licking into your mouth and breathing you in with deep breaths. His large hands held your cheeks and kept you in, all but drowning you in lips and touch and love. He tilted his head aside, kissing you deeper.
At once the doors banged open and arguing voices drifted in.
Robby pulled back with his head lowered in disappointment while you licked the taste of him off your lips. “I swear to god, these kids-” he grumbled as Denis and Trinity stumbled in.
“Seems like you got the dad thing down already,” you said, hand rubbing up and down in his back.
The intruders had a hoard of things in arms. Denis was carrying a large bear in hand that almost drowned him as he struggled to hold him. The bear was holding a blue heart sewen into its paws while Trinity was struggling in pulling the pink balloons in.
It seemed they'd already made bets on what baby they wanted you to have.
“We er, wanted to get you these,” said Denis. “Sorry for ruining the surprise.”
“I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything,” said Santos with a scoff.
“You told me,” pointed out Whitaker.
“Yeah and I told you not to tell anyone, fuckleberry then you tell the dad!”
“I thought he knew!”
“I told you in confidence!”
“You were laughing while you were telling me! That wasn't every confident!”
“Oh my god, it's a figure of speech!”
You laughed at the two of them, hiding your face in Robby's scrubs as he leant his head back toward you.
“You think they'd notice if we started trying for baby number two now?”
⤷ michael robinavitch x fem! resident! reader || 4.8k
synopsis. Robby tells himself he's paying attention because you're his resident. The explanation gets harder to defend with time.
warnings. attending/resident relationship, mutual pining, workplace romance, age gap, explicit sexual content, protected sexual intercourse.
The trauma bay smelled like antiseptic and the end of things, and you were at the sink, back to him, hands under the tap, humming.
He'd clocked it forty-three minutes ago. Done absolutely nothing useful with the information since.
Robby kept his eyes on the chart. He was, objectively, a man capable of extraordinary focus under extraordinary pressure — this had been proven, repeatedly, in rooms far worse than this one — and yet here he was, reading the same line about magnesium levels for the fourth time because you were humming something without any apparent awareness of his existence.
That was the thing that got him, if he was being precise about it. The total lack of awareness. Like you were alone in the room. Like the fact of him standing eight feet away was information your nervous system had simply not received and wasn't particularly interested in processing.
"Are you signing off on Martinez or are you planning to stand there all night?"
You turned around. Hands still wet. "Her oxygen sat's been stable for two hours. I was doing one last check." You reached for a paper towel, unhurried. "Good evening."
"It's nearly midnight."
"Good evening, Dr. Robinavitch."
He did not look up. He was very deliberate about not looking up. "Paperwork first. Pleasantries second. Order of operations."
"I'll keep that in mind." Perfectly pleasant. Not a trace of sarcasm. Impervious. Like being curt with you was something that happened to other people and simply bounced off you. He'd watched it happen across an entire shift — residents trying to one-up each other and you deflecting it with some mild observation about coffee going cold, a nurse coming at you frazzled and leaving calmer, and him, standing at the nurses' station, doing the thing where he read the same line four times.
He watched you cross the bay to get the chart, moving through the wreckage of twelve hours like you had a fundamental dispute with the idea that any of it had been hard.
He looked back at the magnesium levels. They remained uninteresting. Across the bay, you turned off the tap and the humming stopped, and somehow that was worse — the sudden awareness of its absence, the way the room rearranged itself around the quiet.
Robby set the chart down. Picked it back up. Read the magnesium levels a fifth time.
He'd been an asshole. He was aware of this with the specific clarity of someone who knew and had decided, at some point, that knowing was sufficient.
It hadn't started that way. He'd been neutral in the beginning, the way he was with most residents — professionally indifferent, appropriately demanding, nothing beyond. And then somewhere between you explaining to a thirty-seven-year-old construction worker why he needed to stay still and not, in your words, be a hero about the needle, because you'd dealt with actual heroes today and they had all, uniformly, behaved themselves — something had shifted. Slowly. The kind of shift where you don't notice until the geography's already changed and you're standing somewhere you didn't plan to be. And by the time he'd noticed, the only thing he knew how to do was be curt about it.
The curt had escalated. He corrected your charting when it didn't need correcting. He'd sent you to the Mathers consult — a three-hour admit, the kind that hollowed a person out — and watched you handle it with the patient attentiveness of someone who didn't know there was another option. He'd told himself it was assessment. He'd told himself a lot of things.
Then was the supply closet.
Pediatric case. Bad, in the quiet way. He'd delivered the news himself and sent everyone back to their stations and gone to chart it, and he couldn't find you anywhere. He checked the on-call room. Then, following some dim instinct he chose not to examine, he tried the supply closet.
You were on the floor, back against the IV bag shelf, knees pulled up, crying.
He stood in the doorway. Thought about leaving.
You looked up. And then — immediately, the reflex of it — you said "I'm sorry" and started to wipe your face. Then you tried to smile at him. Eyes wet, nose red, and you assembled a smile. Like you'd built one in advance for whoever came through the door so they wouldn't have to deal with the crying. Like you'd gotten efficient at this.
That ate at him. He couldn't name it more precisely. Something about the apologizing, and then immediately the smile, in that order, bothered him in a way he didn't have a word for.
He stepped inside and let the door close. "You don't need to be back out in thirty seconds."
"It's unprofessional."
"You're a resident. First one?" He meant the loss. You understood, nodded once. "Then it's biology. Not a failing."
He wasn't good at this. He knew that. There was a box of tissues on the shelf nearest him and he handed it to you, because it was the only object in reach that might approximate the gesture of offering something, and you looked at it and then laughed — barely, a wet sound, but a real one.
"That's not what I—" he started.
"No, I know." You took one anyway, turned it over in your hands. "Thank you."
He stood there another minute. Couldn't leave. Watched you put yourself back together the way you apparently did everything — methodically, without drama, heel of your hand to your eye, one slow breath, and then back. Like a person who had practice.
He went back to his charts and was sharp with two nurses and a second-year before he'd made it to the bay, and didn't connect the two things until weeks later.
Then was the case of the blueberry muffins. In a container with a lid that didn't close properly, and every time there was one sitting on the counter near the coffee maker, and every time an attending found their way over within twenty minutes. He'd eaten four of them across separate occasions. He never planned to acknowledge this.
You hummed when you were focused. A different song every shift, always half-familiar, always just past where he could name it. It was maddening in a way that defied professional articulation.
Every patient remembered your name. Not just remembered — asked for you specifically, used it. He'd had a seventy-three-year-old man with a hairline hip fracture ask him to send back "the nice one, who explained the scan thing." He'd known immediately. He'd sent you. He'd told himself this was about patient outcomes.
He started cataloguing things. Unconsciously, the way you develop a reflex. The way you always sat down to explain a diagnosis — never stood over them. The fact that you took notes by hand on rounds and had told him, unprompted, early on, as if expecting to be corrected, that you retained it better that way. He hadn't corrected it. The snack bars you kept in your coat pocket and distributed to nurses around hour eight without making anything of it. The way you said thank you to orderlies. The way you phrased bad news — he'd noticed the phrasing, catalogued it, thought about it.
He had no use for any of this information. He kept it anyway.
There was a morning, somewhere in the middle of all of it, when he'd been post-call and running on three hours and you'd appeared at the nurses' station with coffee you handed to him before he'd asked, or looked like he needed it, or given any outward indication whatsoever that he was capable of human wants.
"How did you know I take it black?" he said.
"I didn't." You were already walking away. "I just figured if you were you, you probably didn't want anything done to it."
He'd stood there for a moment with the coffee in his hand.
He'd been annoyed about it. The presumption of it, the casual intimacy of the gesture, the fact that you'd got him right. He'd been annoyed about it right up until the moment he'd taken a sip and thought, with a clarity that three hours of sleep had done nothing to dull, that he was in actual trouble.
The Torres chart hand-off happened on a Tuesday. You came up behind him at the nurses' station and he smelled the muffins before you'd said anything.
"Torres hand-off. She's been stable since fourteen hundred hours, no fever. I flagged a note about the blood pressure trend — it's within normal, I just wanted to document I'd been watching it."
"I can read."
"I know you can read." Still pleasant. "She also wants me to tell you you have a nice voice."
"She's seventy-one and on morphine."
"She said it before the morphine." You set the chart down. "There's a muffin on the counter."
He took the chart and didn't look up, and he stood there for a moment after you'd gone and thought, with some irritation, that he'd been tracking Torres's blood pressure every two hours all shift. He hadn't flagged it. He fixed the formatting error at the top of page two — not because it was egregious, it wasn't — and didn't tell you about it. He told himself this was efficiency and moved on before he could disagree with himself.
Jack waited until the lounge was empty. In retrospect, Robby should have taken that as a warning.
They were both doing charts. Fourteen minutes of workable silence, which was the best kind, and then Jack said without looking up, "Kowalski was at the nurses' station again."
Robby said nothing.
"Third time this week. Ortho. No clinical reason to be down here three times in a week." A pause. "He keeps asking about her."
"Her who?"
"Your her."
"She's not — she's a resident. She's on shift."
"That's not what he's asking." Jack closed his laptop. That was always the tell — the deliberate setting-aside, the signal that you were in a conversation now, predetermined. He looked at Robby with the patience of a man who has decided to wait you out. "You want to say anything about that?"
"I don't have anything to say about Kowalski."
"No. But you've been short with her."
"I'm short with everyone."
"Not the same short." Jack leaned back. "You corrected her on a splint she did correctly. I checked afterward."
Robby set his pen down. Picked it back up. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I don't want you to say anything." Jack opened his laptop again. Closed it. "You know what I think?"
"No. But I suspect you're going to—"
"I think you've been so busy being her attending that you forgot she's going to leave and be someone else's problem in about eight months." A pause. "And I think that bothers you."
Robby looked at the coffee. Then the chart. Then some middle distance between the two.
"He's going to ask her to dinner. Kowalski."
The coffee in Robby's mug was still warm. He looked at it.
"Let him," he said.
Jack made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sure," he said, and opened the laptop for the last time.
He went to the attending lounge because it was past two in the morning and he needed somewhere to sit that wasn't the nurses' station, and you happened to be there when he opened the door.
Asleep in the chair by the window. Your chart was still open in your lap. Pen loosely between your fingers. At some point, the sleep had simply won.
He stood in the doorway for a moment.
There was a warmth in his chest that was entirely inconvenient and he looked at it sideways, the way you look at something too bright. You'd been here since seven that morning. He knew this without meaning to know it — knew which admits you'd taken, what you'd ordered for the woman in bay three, that you'd eaten something from the vending machine at fourteen hundred because you'd complained about it to Dana with the mournfulness of someone deeply wronged by a sandwich. He'd started logging your schedule without any conscious decision to do so. That was a recent development he hadn't examined closely.
He should go to the couch. Do his own charts.
He stood there another moment. You looked cold. He picked up the green blanket — the ones you sometimes used, which he had no reason knowing — and draped it over your body. Tucked under your feet for good measure.
Then he stepped back and eased the door shut, very quietly, and stood under the fluorescent light of the hallway, and thought: oh.
The acknowledgment of something he'd been refusing to file anywhere useful for long enough that the refusal had become its own noise. Oh. Right. He understood now why Jack had closed his laptop.
He was reviewing a discharge summary in the corridor, and you stepped out of the lounge with the green blanket under your arm and walked directly into his eyeline. He wasn't staring. Sure, he wasn't.
"Were you out here when I fell asleep?"
"Yep."
"You didn't sleep?"
"I checked the lounge. You were in there."
"That's not an answer."
He'd underestimated you in that specific way, in the beginning — the quiet refusal to be redirected. You did it without any sharpness, without confrontation, like you'd noticed it and decided not to. It surprised him the first time. It had never stopped surprising him, exactly.
"I didn't want to wake you," he said.
You stopped. Something crossed your face that he couldn't quite catch the shape of. "That was actually very considerate of you."
"You sound surprised."
"A little." You tucked the blanket more firmly under your arm. "You've been different lately."
"I'm professionally consistent."
"Dr. Robinavitch." Very patient. "I watched you make a first-year cry over a documentation error."
"His documentation was wrong."
"Mine had a formatting error on the Torres file. Page two. You didn't say anything."
He said nothing.
"You fixed it yourself." Still not accusing — just noticing. "I saw the edit timestamp."
The corridor was quiet. A monitor beeped down the hall in its steady automated note.
"You didn't have to do that," you said. Softer now. "I would've caught it."
"I know you would have."
A pause. You were looking at him with that look — the curious one, the one that felt like you were trying to work something out carefully, without making a production of it. Like he was a thing worth figuring out. Like you'd decided to be patient about it.
He found he had nothing useful to say to any of that. You opened your mouth and he thought for a second you were going to say something that would require him to respond in kind, and he wasn't ready for that, not in a corridor at three in the morning with the green blanket under your arm and his chest doing what it was doing.
"Get some sleep," he said. "In an actual bed. Not a chair."
"Are you worried about me?"
"I'm concerned with your clinical function tomorrow if you're running on four hours in a—"
"Robby."
Just his name. Without the professional buffer of the title, and the way you said it — quiet, slightly tentative, like you were testing whether it was allowed—
"The blanket," you said. "In the lounge. Was that you?"
He looked at you.
You looked back, and there was nothing confrontational in it, nothing probing, just — curious, and underneath that, something that was almost gentle. Waiting.
"Go to sleep," he said, and walked back toward the bay.
He didn't quite remember, in the moment, how you got here.
That was a lie. He remembered exactly — you'd followed him into the on-call room with a consult chart, and you'd asked him something, and he'd turned around and you were closer than he'd expected, and the chart had ended up on the floor, and something that had been accumulating for a long time finally hit a pressure it couldn't sustain.
You'd kissed him first. Barely. More like you'd tipped toward him and he'd closed the remaining distance, which meant they were equally responsible, and he was prepared to argue this point at length.
Now your back was against the on-call room door and you were looking at him like he was slightly terrifying and very interesting, which was, objectively, the most appealing combination of expressions he'd seen in some time.
"Are we—"
"Yes."
"Okay." A breath. "Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"What am I supposed to say?"
He pressed his mouth to the side of your neck and held it there — not moving, just breathing you in — until you went very still under him. He felt your pulse against his lips. He stayed there until you made a sound, small, involuntary, the sound of someone trying not to make a sound and losing the effort.
"Something more useful," he said against your skin.
Your hands found his collar. Fisted into it without quite pulling. "What do you want me to say?"
He pulled back enough to look at you. Already undone, and he'd barely started — the flush high on your throat, the way you were holding his shirt like it was the only fixed object in the room. Something settled in him that he recognised, distantly, as the opposite of the thing that had been sitting in his chest for months.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
You looked at him. Then sideways. Then back, with something stubborn in it underneath the flush. "You."
"More specific."
"Robby—"
"Dr. Robinavitch," he said, and watched your face cycle through several things.
"You cannot possibly be serious."
"I'm always serious." He undid the first button of your scrubs. "More specific."
Your breath came out uneven. "I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I—" The thought didn't complete. He undid the second button and whatever you'd been about to say dissolved. "I want your hands on me. Properly."
"Properly," he said. "There you go."
He walked you back to the narrow bed and sat you on the edge of it. Then stood there for a moment — just looked. He had spent a professionally inadvisable amount of time not looking at you, deliberately, as a sustained practice, and he was going to allow himself a moment now that the situation had changed.
You looked back. Flushed, lower lip caught between your teeth.
He got your scrub top off, then the undershirt, then reached around and unclipped your bra. When you moved to cover yourself, he caught both wrists.
"Don't."
"I just—"
He pressed your wrists to the mattress, one on either side, gentle but deliberate, and held them there. You let him immediately. He filed that away. "Keep them there."
He took his time. He'd earned the right to take his time — all those months of being deliberately removed, of watching you from across the bay and looking back at his charts — he had accumulated a significant amount of patience that was now going to get spent in one place.
He put his mouth to your collarbone and worked down slowly, and every time you moved he said stay and felt you try, felt the effort of it in the tension running through you, your hands gripping the mattress. He got his mouth to your nipple and felt you arch up sharp, and he pulled back just enough.
"Stay still."
"I'm trying—"
"Try harder."
"Robby, please—" And there it was — the specific texture of your voice when you were overwhelmed, the thing he'd catalogued and refused to think about directly. The way it went soft and raw at the edges. Your eyes had gone glassy. "Please. I need—"
"Tell me what you need."
"You know what I need—"
"I do. I want you to say it."
You made a frustrated sound that turned into something else when he dragged his thumb along the inside of your thigh and stopped before it got useful. "I need you to touch me. Please. I need—please."
"Where?"
"You know where—"
"Where?" Quieter. Final.
"My cunt," you said, and your face went red saying it, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach to have somewhere to put the expression that wanted to happen. The slight mortification and the fact that you'd said it anyway. He was going to be thinking about that for a long time.
He pulled your scrubs down and the underwear followed, and he sat back on his heels and looked at you spread across the narrow mattress, flushed to your chest, thighs pressed together out of some residual instinct toward dignity, and thought with a startling clarity that you had absolutely no idea what you'd been doing to him.
He pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh and felt you exhale shakily. Pressed it to the other. Kissed up slowly, felt you start to tremble, your thighs trying to close around him.
"You're already so wet," he said against your skin, and heard you make a sound. "I've barely done anything."
"Don't say it like that —" you whined.
"I'm just statin' what I see." He pressed his mouth to you properly and felt you gasp, felt your hands go immediately into his hair. He worked you slowly, his tongue flat against your clit and then pointed, then flat again, and two fingers pressing inside you, curling — and you made sounds he was going to be hearing in his head for years, the pitch of them, the way they went higher when he changed the pressure. He brought you right to the edge, felt it in the way you tightened around his fingers and your thighs started shaking—
And he stopped.
"What—" The outrage of it, immediate and genuine. Your hips chased nothing. "I was so close, I was right—please—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to make me come," you said, without hesitation this time, and your voice was wet at the edges and your eyes were wet, actual tears on your lashes, and he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee and held it there for a second.
"Please," you added, smaller. "Please. Robby."
He put his mouth back, and this time he didn't stop. He held your hips down with his forearms and kept the pressure steady and relentless, worked two fingers inside you in a rhythm that he'd figured out about four minutes in and was going to use mercilessly, and you came hard — shaking, properly shaking, both hands fisted in his hair, his name said so many times it became something else. He kissed your inner thigh through the end of it and felt you go loose by degrees.
He straightened. You had tears running down your temples. He kissed them away without entirely deciding to, and you laughed weakly.
"I'm just bein' thorough." He got his scrubs off, found the condom from the pocket he'd put it in on a hope, and looked up to find you watching him with red-rimmed eyes and an expression of dazed, complete attention.
"Stop looking at me like that," he said.
"Like what?"
He didn't answer. He settled over you and paused — his forearm beside your head, his weight on his knees — and just looked at you for a moment.
"Robby." Breathless. "Please."
"I've got you," he said, quietly, and pressed in slow.
He felt you exhale under him, felt you shift to pull him deeper, felt your legs wrap around him before he'd done anything. He set a pace that was, he'd admit only to himself, not particularly controlled — the months of it had a way of making themselves felt when the situation finally changed. He pressed his mouth to your ear and told you exactly what you felt like — and he was precise about it, anatomical in a way that made you shiver, hot and tight and so fucking wet that he'd had to think about something else when he'd first pushed inside you — told you what he'd been thinking about, in terms that left nothing abstract.
You made a sound into his shoulder that he was going to think about for a long time.
"You've been thinking about this?" you managed.
"At length."
"How long?"
"Longer than is appropriate." He pressed deeper and felt you gasp. "Considerably." He pulled back and pushed in again, slow, deliberate in the way that he could feel you registering — the way your breath caught, the way your nails pressed into his back. "You want me to tell you how long?"
"Yes," you said, slightly desperate.
"When you had the Torres admit. You were at the nurses' station and you leaned over to get a chart and your scrubs—" He stopped for a second because the memory had found him at an inconvenient angle. "I had to go chart something."
"You left because of me?"
"I left before I did something professionally unsound." He pressed a hand to the back of your thigh and pushed it higher, changed the angle, felt you make an embarrassingly gratifying sound. "Stop talking."
"You were the one who—"
"Stop talking," he said, and moved, and you did.
You cried through the second orgasm — actual tears, the way he'd half-expected, your face buried in his shoulder, both arms around his neck, holding on. He kissed the side of your face. The corner of your eye. Felt you clutch at him like you'd decided he was staying.
When he followed he was considerably less composed than he'd planned, face in your hair, your name said once, very quietly.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He understood this approximately fifteen minutes later when he woke to find you beside him, awake, looking at some mid-distance point with the expression of someone slowly processing a sequence of events and finding it, on the whole, acceptable.
"You fell asleep," you said.
"I rested my eyes."
"For fifteen minutes."
He looked at his watch. "Thirteen."
"Fifteen." You turned your head. Still flushed. He was not going to have feelings about that. "Should I—" You gestured vaguely toward the door.
"In a minute." He pulled you back before he'd consciously decided to, and you went without resistance, settled against him like you'd considered the geometry and found it reasonable. "Stop thinking so loudly."
"I'm not thinking loudly."
"You are." A pause. "Say it."
"I was just going to say." You seemed to be choosing words with some care. "This doesn't have to be weird."
"It's not weird."
"You've been weird about me for a while."
He looked at the wall for a moment. "Months," he said.
You lifted your head. Looked at him. He looked back with the equanimity of a man who had made a decision and was now on the other side of it.
"Months," you repeated.
"Don't make it a thing."
"You had a crush on me." The laugh was already happening, quiet, against his shoulder. "You've been making my shifts difficult because you had a crush."
"I don't have a crush. I'm almost fifty."
"You made a first-year cry."
"His documentation—"
"Was wrong, yes." You were laughing properly now, helpless, into his skin, and he let it happen and did not find it as irritating as he should have. "You fixed my formatting error. You ate four muffins."
"I ate one. Maybe two."
"Dana counted. She has a tally."
He absorbed this.
"Dana has a tally," he said.
"Apparently she's been running it since March."
He sat with that for a moment. The cart with the squeaky wheel went past outside, its regular circuit, the one maintenance had been promising to fix for weeks. He'd started timing the rounds. He wasn't going to tell you that.
"Robby," you said, quieter.
"Mm."
"The blanket." A pause. "It was you."
He said nothing.
You pressed your face back into his shoulder. He felt you smiling — actually felt it, the shape of it against his collarbone — and didn't say anything about it.
"Thank you," you said, very small. "For not waking me up."
He didn't answer.
You settled more completely against him. Outside, the hospital kept going — someone called down the hall, a monitor beeped its steady note, the cart made another pass. He listened to the intervals and thought this was probably fine. More than probably.
A thought occurred to him, belatedly. "Did Kowalski ask you to dinner?"
A pause.
"Last Thursday," you said.
"What did you say?"
Another pause. Longer. He could feel you deciding whether to make him ask twice.
"I said I was busy," you said.
"Were you?"
"No." You shifted against his shoulder. "But I had a feeling I'd be busier."
He didn't say anything. Outside, the cart went past again with its squeaky wheel.
"Robby," you said, half-asleep already.
"Go to sleep."
"Everyones's going to know."
"Hmm."
A pause. "Does that bother you?"
He thought about that for a moment. Dana had apparently been running a tally since March. Dana had apparently noticed before he had. That was its own kind of information about the past several months that he chose not to examine too closely.
"No," he said.
"Is that okay?"
He looked at the top of your head. "Go to sleep," he said.
a/n - thank you for reading. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
summary: you try to give robby hell for making you feel unimportant all night, but he has his own ideas how to make you forgive him.
cw: mean!dom!robby vibes, he eats it nasty from the back, um, kinda forced but everything’s cool consent wise :P (this is fiction!!!! be better irl), a bit of pain kink, edging, aftercare (yay)
wc: 1.7k
a/n: michael EATER robinavitch. but he is such an asshole in this (and in general. I still love him tho)
hayden, I know you won’t, but please, I need this song to be officially added to spotify
now playing: Tongue (unreleased) – Ethel Cain
And I, I, I, I think I wanted you dead
Fell as an angel just to please, no matter where you want it
Fightin' my way up to your tongue so I can die up on it
And show you what it really means to need somebody
Beyond their body
You’d slap Robby across the face for his stupid smirk if he weren’t pinning you to the bed, his strong arms holding your flailing ones.
“I said I was sorry,” he murmured softly.
And yeah, he had apologised a few times now. But no apology was going to fix the fact that he ditched you at some medical gala to smoke cigars on the roof with Jack. You had wandered around the grand room, standing awkwardly in the dress Robby had paid for, your makeup and hair done just for him.
He had wanted arm candy, and you had put in the effort to be just that, only to lose the fight for his affection to his friend and a few cigars.
On the ride home, you had given him the cold shoulder and frowned out the window. The words “I’m sorry” had echoed through the car at least five times before he gave up.
But the second the door had closed behind you, he had swooped you up and carried you to the bedroom.
His lips attacked your neck, pressing kisses to your heated skin between soft apologies.
“Robby,” you complained, twisting away from him as best as you could with him sprawled on top of you. “I mean it. Get off.”
He shook his head and pressed his nose to your collarbone.
“I gotta apologise to my girl,” he mumbled.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” you hissed.
He ignored your aggravated tone and caught your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“Shh, baby, hold still.”
As he kissed your neck again, you felt him grind his hard cock into your core.
“Robby—fuck,” you gasped, struggling against him. “Get the fuck off of me!”
“Mhm,” he mumbled.
Before you could complain again, he bit you. Fucking bit you.
Like a feral dog, he sank his teeth into the tender flesh of your neck, leaving behind an impressive mark that reddened with every passing second.
It wasn’t deep enough to draw blood, but a pained hiss fell from your lips nonetheless.
“Ow! What the fuck? Robby!? I said get off of me.”
You felt his stupid smirk when he pressed his lips against the tender spot, soothing it with his tongue.
“Listen to me,” he whispered.
Those brown eyes, deep and dark like melted chocolate, peered up at you.
“I’m really sorry, baby. Let me make it up to you. You just have to hold still.”
“I already said—”
You didn’t finish your sentence. You couldn’t.
Robby’s hands slid from your waist to your sides, digging into the soft tissue hard enough to leave bruises. With one quick movement, he had you flipped onto your belly. He hiked up your hips, then slid his hands up your thighs.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned.
Goosebumps erupted across your skin as his fingers caught the hem of your skirt and shoved it upwards. The fabric bunched around your waist, leaving you exposed in nothing but a thin strap of black lace.
“So beautiful,” Robby mumbled. “Now—let me make it up to you.”
He leaned forward and kissed the small of your back, right above the waistband of your panties.
“I don’t want—”
The words got stuck in your throat when his fingers brushed over your barely covered cunt, causing you to gasp.
“What don’t you want, hm?” Robby asked, “Tell me, angel.”
His palm smoothed over your ass cheek, kneading the flesh.
“Robby—” you tried to get a proper sentence out, but his hand felt so good that you almost forgot why you were mad. “Stop…”
“Stop what?” he teased. “This?”
The pad of his thumb rubbed over the gusset of your panties. He chuckled deeply as he felt your arousal seeping right through the lace.
“Why should I stop? You’re so fucking wet.”
You couldn’t lie—not when your body betrayed you like that.
“I’m still angry,” you murmured.
“And I’ll make it up to you,” Robby repeated.
His other hand pressed in between your shoulder blades, forcing you forward until you were face down, ass up. He slid down your panties and pushed your knees apart with his own, then captured your wrists. He held them in place on the small of your back.
With your face in the pillows, your already dwindling protests were muffled.
“Easy, angel,” Robby mumbled when he leaned down and kissed one of your ass cheeks, then the other. “I got you.”
The first thing you felt was his beard. It scratched the sensitive skin on your thighs deliciously when he swiped through your folds with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck,” you squealed, rocking towards him instinctively.
Your mobility was pretty fucking limited with him holding you in place practically everywhere, but with his tongue in your cunt, you were literal putty under him.
“That’s it,” Robby praised, “Let me make you feel good.”
He circled your clit, his spit mixing with your arousal.
A breathless moan spilled from your lips, making Robby chuckle against your skin. You felt the vibration travel up through your core, the pleasure feeling like liquid heat at the base of your spine.
“Robby, oh- god!”
He lapped at you shamelessly, palming your ass cheeks and spreading you further apart. When his tongue dipped into your clenching hole, you tried to free your arms, just to find some kind of purchase. But Robby’s grip was relentless, and you had no other choice but to take what he gave.
“Where are you going, angel?” Robby mumbled huskily.
You managed to twist your head far enough to look back at him, earning one hell of a view.
His pupils were blown wide with pure lust. Your arousal shimmered in his beard, sticking to the brown streaked with salt and pepper.
You were more out of breath than he was.
“Robby, goddammit-“ you began, but he was quick to shut you up.
His lips enclosed around your clit, sucking hard. Your entire body twitched in response, your legs almost giving out under you.
When he flattened his tongue against your button, his name fell from your lips in a moan loud enough to make neighbors complain.
Robby held you in place as he continued to drown himself in your wetness, but he didn’t let you cum. Not yet.
Every time you got close, he pulled away just long enough for the coil in your tummy to loosen again.
“Robby, please,” you whined, “What are you doing? Please let me cum.”
“Do you forgive me?” he asked.
You shook your head as best as you could, trying to catch his eyes.
“Well, then you’re not cumming,” he declared.
“No, Robby, that’s—that’s not fair. Please. I’m the one who’s mad at you.”
He shook his head, then dipped his head down again. His tongue circled your clit again, kissing and lapping at you, not letting a single drop of your wetness go to waste. But when you got close to sweet release again, he stopped. Pulled away. You whined like a child, trying to push yourself closer to him.
“Uh-uh,” Robby mumbled. “You know what you gotta say.”
Tears welled up in your eyes—ones born from frustration.
You tried to stay strong, you really did. But Robby knew just how to break you. You couldn’t recall how many times he let the idea of an orgasm dangle over you before stopping completely, but it was pitch black outside when you finally gave in. Your legs were quivering, and your throat felt raw.
“I forgive you,” you whimpered, “Please, Robby, I forgive you. Now let me cum.”
Robby chuckled and kissed the inside of your thigh, causing you to gasp.
“Thank you, baby,” he mumbled.
Then his lips moved again—he sucked on your engorged clit rhythmically, making you cry out. You were wound so tight that pleasure and pain bled into each other.
Robby held you, the only thing keeping you up at this point. He kissed and licked and lapped until you were seeing stars. Heat spread through you from your lower tummy to the tips of your fingers.
“Fuck- oh, fuck, Robby,” you cried.
When you finally came, every single muscle in your body trembled. Robby guided you through your orgasm, his tongue playing with your clit until he had drawn out every aftershock.
Only when you were more twitching than breathing did he release you.
As soon as he let go of your wrists, you sank fully into the mattress, your chest heaving.
Robby’s hand, now light as a feather, caressed your thigh tenderly.
“You okay, baby?” he whispered.
You nodded weakly, staying face down.
Robby accepted your silence and busied himself: he went to the kitchen.
“Got you something to drink, angel,” he mumbled when he returned. He placed the water on your bedside table, then sat down by your side.
He didn’t force you up yet but simply stroked your back, his touch tender.
Once your breathing had evened out again, he asked, “Can you sit up for me, sweet girl? You need to drink something.”
You did as you were told and straightened up a little with his help. He brought the water up to your lips, watching as you took tiny sips.
“Okay?” he questioned softly.
You nodded, your eyes focused on his.
“Words, please,” he reminded you.
You took a deep breath to steady yourself, then mumbled, “I’m good.”
A small smile made the skin around his eyes crinkle.
“Good,” he answered and leaned forward to kiss your forehead. “I really am sorry, you know?”
“I know,” you mumbled. “You’re still an asshole. Next time, just ask Jack to be your plus one instead of me if you’re not gonna talk to me anyway.”
He chuckled lightly and shook his head.
“I wanted you there. I just… forgot the time, cause, as you said, I’m an asshole. But I’ll do better. Promise.” He brushed a thumb across your cheek. “I know it looked like I didn’t care that you were there. But that’s not what happened. Sometimes, I just miss the good thing that’s right in front of me.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
synopsisyou and Robby had been going steady for a few months now but when a betting board is made on who your mysterious male friend could be, Robby is not happy with the outcome.
warningslanguage, smutish- allusions to smut, jealous Robby, mention of shooting- GSW
author noterobby x reader but platonic frank x reader, can you tell santos is my favourite cause i include her in basically everything i write
Santos had had a day.
More traumas than she could deal with and a young girl who came in with bruises that suspiciously looked like abuse. She’d had just about enough when she realised she’d have to give another two hours to the place to get her charting done.
When she came home she knew Whitaker was at Amy’s and you should have been home. She watched you practically bolt out the place. Santos hoped it’d be a night of crappy food and shitty movies.
So when she ditched her keys at the kitchen counter and listened out the last thing she expected to hear was moaning.
“What the?” she called out for you.
Maybe you were having a self-care night. Charged up a vibrator and such.
Santos chuckled to herself as she made to tiptoe past your room.
There was the unmistakable sound of another.
“Oh fuck.”
Trinity paused.
You and her were close, she could admit that. You were maybe her only friend. So she knew you had been going through a dry patch. Because you were making it everyone's problem.
She listened in.
There was deep groaning from a man and your moans, the soft thudding of a bed against the wall. Trinity thanked the heavens again that the head of your bed was against Denis's wall and not hers.
“Deeper, harder,” she heard you moan.
“Oh, fuck me,” the guy groaned deep. She didn't recognise the voice. Did she?
Curious she tried to listen to the mans voice, wondering what she could tell. He must have been busy as little else was said other than groanings.
Where had you met this guy? Had this been happening longer than she knew? Is this why you hurried out?
Santos thought you weren't one of one night stands. Were you proving her wrong?
She snook into her room and knew she had to tell someone, at least Whitaker.
Robby collapsed next to you on your bed, catching his breath as you pulled the sheets up to cover your slightly sweaty bodies. The bed creaked under his weight as he moved around, getting himself comfortable.
Your bed was a small double, not really built for anyone more than one. Let alone Robby.
“You want some water or something?” you asked.
Robby chuckled, the bed creaking again as he turned on his side to face you. “Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?”
You lifted your shoulders, tucking your hands under your head to admire him. “Well you're the senior citizen with the... bad back?”
His brows lifted. “Oh that's how you want to play it.”
He grabbed your hip and pulled you close.
You were still trying to recover from the multiple orgasms Robby had ripped through your body as soon as you'd stepped through your apartment door. But that didn't stop his hands from crowding around your body, pulling you into him as all his hardness turned soft.
His lips found yours as easy as one found home, kissing you the way he knew you liked to be kissed. Head tilted to reach deeper, nose moving against your cheek.
There was a sudden shriek in your apartment.
You pushed Robby off, sitting up quick in bed.
“What?” he asked, far less alarmed then you as his arm fell around your waist.
“Trinity.”
Robby hummed. “Thought you said she was at Garcia's tonight?”
“I thought she was,” you uttered as if she was in the room.
The dating with Robby had started maybe three months ago when you'd had a disastrous date at the same bar Robby frequented with his buddy Duke. He'd seen the distress you were in with your date when he wouldn't stop talking about why sports people should actually get paid more than health care workers.
From there you had drinks with Robby.
From there he asked to see you again outside of work.
From there you ended up in his bed and he in yours on the occasions you had the place to yourself, which with two room mates didn't happen often.
You'd thought tonight was one of them.
“You should go,” you said, throwing the cover back to find your clothes in the dark.
“What?” Robby laughed, without moving. Instead he got himself comfortable, throwing an arm around the back of his head and tugging the covers down to his waist.
“Yes, do you want Trinity to know?”
“She doesn't sleep in your room though does she?”
Still, you tried to find some clothes.
The word around the PTMC was that Robby was a seven week itch kind of guy, the sort to never tie himself down. So though you'd been on dates with him and though he'd brought you flowers before and held your hands in bars and took you to a fancy dinner, he still fucked you like a guy that could move on the next day.
And you didn't want to scare him away with talk of serious dating. A bit of Robby was better than none of him.
You just didn't want your friends to judge you for that.
“Hey-hey-” Robby moved over on the bed, arm darting out to wrap around your waist and tug you back in.
You couldn't even protest before he was pulling you into him, hooking one of his large legs over yours and trapping you in. Your quilt was pulled up and his head rested next to yours.
At least when you and Robby were done with the sex you never kicked each other out of bed. But you did go into work separately.
“But-”
“-I'll be out of here first thing in the morning.”
With his arms around you and his calming breath you didn't think you could push him off you if you wanted to.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Robby kissed the blade of your shoulder and for the rest of the night that was how you were and when you woke in the morning with two hours to spare before your shift started, Robby was already gone.
“So who's the lucky guy?”
You chocked on your coffee, peering next to you at Trinity. “What?”
She smirked, leaning on the locker next to yours. “Oh come on, I heard you last night.”
The bitter taste of black coffee turned to ash in your stomach. She'd heard. Or worse, she'd been up to see Robby sneak out in the morning.
“What-what do you mean?” play it cool, you could totally starve of the humiliation. Maybe you could persuade her it was a dream, a nightmare, that she was sleepwalking and actually heard/saw/knew nothing.
“I heard you last night,” she said. “Quite the dicking down from what it sounded like.”
You felt the heat in your cheeks. “Oh my god.”
“Hey, I think its good, you deserve it,” said Santos as you hid yourself in your locker, taking great care in peeling off your jacket and finding your stethoscope inside. “So is it someone I know, or...”
She didn't know. You rejoiced silently before realising she still knew there was someone. “That is none of your business.”
“Oh come on, you know Garcia!”
“Because she works here.”
“Does he work here?”
“No!” you close the locker door, not as amused as Trinity was clearly finding this situation. “Please, he's just... a guy.”
She leaned in closer for the gossip. Few things got her as excited as gossip did. “A boyfriend guy or a sleep around guy?”
Wasn't that the golden question.
“Oh my god, you don't know.”
“Santos!” the call of her name should have saved you. Not when it was Robby calling for her as he stood between the two of you. “Pelvic exam in three.”
She groaned but gave a salute. “You got it boss,” she said to him before aiming a finger at you. “This isn't over.”
Santos had turned, leaving and you hardly waited anytime to turn back to the lockers and bash your head into them. Not enough to hurt but enough to erase the terrible fact that Santos had heard you.
Robby liked hearing you moan and you liked Robby so you always moaned loud.
And she'd caught enough of it.
Usually, you wished for Robby to be a bit louder in bed. You were glad he hadn't been.
The cold metal of the locker was replaced on what might have been your twentieth go at hitting yourself with the back of a rough hand.
“Everything okay?” asked Robby, coming to stand next to you, leaning on the lockers. His eyes creased with concern.
“She knows.”
His brows shot up, which didn't indicate a good reaction. “She knows?”
“Not about you, don't worry,” you said with a light scoff. “She knows that I had a good time with a guy last night, she doesn't know who.”
Robby nodded in consideration. “So we're in the clear?”
You screwed your eyes shut. You hadn't realised just how bad you wanted him to shrug it off, tell you he didn't care if Trinity knew, that of everyone in the ward knew, that he only cared about what it meant between the two of you. You only realised when he didn't give you that option.
He wanted to be sure he wasn't affiliated with it.
“Yeah, you're in the clear.”
You left Robby at the lockers before suspicions could grow. Nothing wrong with a resident talking to their attending and so far you and Robby had done a good job at not having any suspicion- not even from Dana.
The least you could do for the guy was keep it that way.
“You had a hot date last night?” Princess slid up to your side before you were even half way across the ward.
You groaned. “Santos told you already.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“Say anything about what?” Javadi's voice suddenly came from Doctor McKay's side. The older woman tried to act uninterested but her keen eyes were watching you from over the computer.
“She had a date around hers last night,” said Perhlah, coming up to your other side.
“And she won't tell us who it was,” added Princess.
Javadi's smile grew and her jaw hung open. “Who?”
You shook your head and stared at your shoes. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“Okay!” Robby's voiced boomed out. He clapped his hands, gaining everyone's attention. “We have patients, how about we go ask them some riveting questions?”
Mel frowned from somewhere in the crowd that had formed. “We should go ask them if they know who the guy is?”
She realised quickly that wasn't quite what he meant.
Perlah and Princess walked off together, quietly scheming. “Men just don't get it.”
You gulped down, smoothing your hand over your head and where the growing headache was forming. “Thanks.”
Robby said nothing but there was the brief feel of his hands on your shoulders as he squeezed before moving past you.
It was going on lunch, you'd just gotten a trauma through and up to the OR when you spotted bright post-it notes stuck up on the board in Ahmed's office. The betting board, his mini kingdom had been put back together.
Three titles.
Who?
How long?
Casual or dating?
“Oh my god!” your shriek echoed around the Pitt.
“What? What is it? What?” Robby was at your side in an instant, body almost slamming into you with how quick he slid next to you. He steadied himself, holding on.
“That!”
Ahmed had set up a betting board based on your love life.
The who column was spread with names and the name of those that had bet scribbled underneath. In the middle there was how long had it been going on for, some thought it was only a few weeks, others guessed up to six months.
The last column, wondering if it was a casual thing or serious was filled with almost every post it note saying 'casual'.
“Oh,” Robby chuckled.
“It's not funny,” you argued. “Has every body here bet?”
“Not me, I had no idea. Besides I think that's kind of cheating, right?”
“I see you've found my latest and greatest,” said Ahmed, approaching behind the two of you. “We got this up and running two hours ago, you want me to break it down for you?”
“Holy shit,” you uttered, scanning the board. It was a great and easy way to find out what everyone thought about you.
Robby nodded, leaning on the door next to you. “Holy shit.”
“How much money's in the pot?” you asked.
Ahmed grinned like he was just waiting for you to ask. “Five-hundred and five dollars!”
Robby chocked on a breath next to you as your jaw hung open.
Someone was gonna make money of your guys' sex lives and none of that was going to come to you.
“And I'm guessing I can't get in on it?” you asked.
“No," said Ahmed. “Unless, you know, you wanna tell me who it is and I'll split the money between us.”
“And who do you think it is?” asked Robby. He asked casually, still leaning on the doorframe like he couldn't care less. If he was a girl in a rom-com he might have even checked on his nails or twirled his hair. But you'd studied him close the last couple months, you'd worked all his emotions out into your own little Robby dictionary.
There was a hint of jealousy.
“Well, I've gone with the fan favourite,” he said, plucking off his post it note to show you. “Frank. Three months. And serious.”
“Langdon!” Robby announced.
Uh-oh.
“Yeah, man,” he said. “More than half these notes say it's him.”
On further reading you noticed it did. On yellows and pinks and greens Frank's name was written in quick scribbles or thought out curves.
Frank? Sure the two of you were close. You'd worked close together for a year- nearly two. You worked coordinated well in traumas and with patients you always knew what the other was thinking.
Since his divorce with you'd been helping him as much as you could. You had a friend who was a good lawyer and when he had a chance to see the kids you always covered.
You knew, of course, everything that had happened with the benzos.
You knew Robby still wasn't back to being best-buds with the guy.
You didn't know everyone thought you and Frank were together!
Donnie side stepped past you, coming in with his bets. “I got it, I got it-”
Robby snatched them from his hand, scoffing at whatever was written.
“Langdon. Two weeks and serious.”
“Et-tu, Donnie?” you asked.
“I got fifty in the pool, looking to get a new tv, you know.”
Robby stormed off.
Donnie watched. “He got a bet in?”
“Not yet, sorry, you don't mind?” asked Ahamed.
You scoffed. “Do I have a choice?”
You left them to it, finding Robby sitting at the nurses station at a computer. His jaw clenched and fingers worked furiously over the keypads. You evaluated the area before leaning in. “If you put a pool in we could split the money?”
“Should I put a bet in for Langdon?” He didn't look up to you as he slid on his glasses.
It angered you because he seemed annoyed at something he knew not to be true and because he slid on the glasses that made him even hotter than he already was.
“Is there something wrong, Robby?”
“No.”
“You seem-”
“- I'm not,” he snapped.
He was.
Robby wouldn't admit how much he let his emotions rule, especially anger. He used to be terrible for it but for a while he'd been better, lighter on his feet, patient. Since about.... well, since you started seeing each other.
“Hey.” Langdon joined your side.
You noticed a vein in Robby's neck twitch. “Hey.”
“You seen what everyone's saying?” asked Frank. “Apparently we're seeing each other?”
“Yeah,” you said, turning to him. “I had no idea.”
“You think I should buy a ring next?” he teased.
Robby slammed his hands on the counter, pushing himself up and storming off without so much as a glance.
Frank watched. “What's his problem?”
What was his problem? You'd love to know. “He had a bet on someone else,” you excused.
“Oh bummer,” said Frank. “You think he lost a lot of money?”
You didn't have time to come up with another lie as you spotted Santos and Whitaker walking by. Politely, you ditched Frank, promising you'd catch him for lunch.
“Did you start a betting system on my sex life?” you asked Trinity.
She smirked. “That wasn't me, I had nothing to do with that, seriously!”
“It's true,” said Denis. “But she was the first to put down a bet on Frank.”
You looked at her. You knew the history between her and Frank. Why would she want you to sleep with him? “You hate Frank?”
She shrugged. “So I guessed you were sleeping with him and didn't want to tell me because you know I don't like him.”
You shook your head. “I didn't want to tell you because it's none of your business.” You considered Whitaker. “Who'd you bet for?”
“I-I didn't, I-I wouldn't-”
“He bet on Nick from radiology.”
All of this from Robby sleeping with you in your apartment. Next time- if there was even gong to be a next time- you were doing it at his.
By the end of your shift anyone that hadn't placed a bet had.
Franks name had doubled and the pot was up to one thousand dollars (the highest bet in Pitt history). Frank found it funny, cracking jokes about it all day, throwing arms around you and dragging you onto cases saying 'couples that save lives together, stay together.'
Any other time you'd have laughed.
But when Robby was around every corner, glaring yet refusing to talk to you you couldn't find amusement in it.
The night had come and you were catching a break at the ambulance bay, sitting down on the curb. You were home in an hour, Denis had already gone to Amy's to deliver a lamb or something and Santos was supposed to be at Garcia's tonight.
But you highly doubted you'd have company.
“Hey,” Jack greeted, walking over to you in his midnight scrubs and bag slung over his shoulder. “How's my favourite day shift resident?”
You smiled a tired one at him. “How much money do you have in your wallet?”
Without a beat Jack fetched it and offered you what he had. Because that's the kind of guy Jack was.
“No, no,” you chuckled. “I don't need your cash. There's a betting pool on about who I'm sleeping with. I just- I was gonna ask you to not place a bet.”
Jack laughed, setting next to you on the curb, stretching out his prosthetic leg. “Would be a bit unfair seeing's as I'm best pals with the guy you're dating.”
“Not dating,” you corrected. “Probably not even seeing each other after today.”
Jack listened as you explained the distance, the glares, the snapping that returned to Robby. He didn't jump to defend his friend, he listened to you and took notes mentally. “The guys an emotional wreck. You know that. I know that.”
“But I thought he was doing better?”
“He was- is. Since he started dating you,” he said. “You ask me he's dealing with some emotions he doesn't know how to process. Jealousy. Greed. What's the other deadly sin?”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Lust?”
“Yeah. That.”
“So I'm supposed to what? Let him be a dick all over again?”
“Oh fuck no,” said Jack firmly. “Put him in his place.”
Admittedly you didn't want to. You wanted to go back to being whatever it was you had with Robby. You wanted to hold hands and share beers in shitty bars at least an hour out of town so it was kept a secret. You wanted the brush of hands between the rush of patients and the discreet meetings at his or yours.
But how far were you willing to bend before you broke?
“So who's everyone putting bets on anyway?” Jack asked.
“Frank.”
Understanding of the situation hit him. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Ah.”
Suddenly the wail of an ambulance cut through the quiet.
The doors burst open, Robby, Santos, King, Jesse all pouring out.
“GSW to the chest, forty-two year old male, weak pulse, un-conscious on the ride over,” said Robby tugging on his gloves as you and Jack jumped up. He spared a glance at the two of you before the ambulance pulled up.
You jumped into it, wheeling the gurney ahead into trauma two. Everyone working around the man.
“Okay we move him on the count of three,” said Jack as you all got a hold of the patient. “One... two... three!”
He was heavier than some, not that it would effect your level of care but it made moving him just that but more difficult. There was a breath of air and struggle from Jack and Robby, the noises you had to drown out.
“Lets get an intubation tray going!” called Robby.
The two of you crossed each other, swapping sides.
“Can we talk later?” he uttered as he paused for only a second.
“Whatever, Robby.”
He sighed heavy.
The rest of you carried on gaging the extent of his injury.
“So do you want me out the apartment tonight so your man friend can come around?” asked Santos at your side.
“I want you out cause I'm annoyed at you.”
“Ouch.”
“Okay we need to turn him to see if it went through, on my say!” yelled Robby.
The team had thinned as orders had been barked, there were two of you on either side of him: Robby and Jack, and you and Santos.
Robby passed a nod. “Okay, roll!”
You and Trinity pulled while the men on the other side pushed but maybe Robby didn't have a good grip or maybe he hadn't expected him to be so heavy.
Robby grunted and groaned. “Ah, urg-”
“Not through,” Jack grunted.
You tried to lower him as slow as you could but it wasn't slow enough as Robby's hand got trapped under.
“Oh! Fuck me!”
You and Jack lifted the body quick and Robby released his hand.
Santos was frozen.
The whole room seemed to pause for a second.
“Oh my god!” Santos cheered, arms thrown wide. “Oh my god, oh my god!”
What was wrong with her?
It took you a second to realise, memory of last night coming to you.
Robby over you, thrusting careful.
Your body moved with his thrusts but you wrapped your legs around him, pushing his pelvis in till you felt the length of him deep. “Deeper, harder,” you'd begged.
Robby had groaned out loud, just the way you liked to hear him. “Oh! Fuck me!”
He'd uttered the words into you as he pressed his weight down, squashing you onto your squeaky bed. He'd wrapped his hands around your neck, squeezing just enough to have your walls fluttering around his cock.
Santos had been home longer than you'd thought.
Now, she was practically jumping up and down, smirking. “Oh my god!”
“Trinity can I talk to you outside please?”
“It's- you- and-” her arms were waving around.
“Outside, please, Trinity!”
Everyone was staring.
“Trinity, outside!” You guided her out and she let you, abandoning the trauma and ripping off her gown. You returned, finding Robby's gaze and Jack's amused grin as he tended to the patient. “Sorry, Doctor Robby, may I talk to Santos outside for a moment?”
Robby must have jumped to the same conclusion as you. “Er yes, yes! Of course, go!”
You rushed out, nudging Trinity into an empty exam room as she laughed. You closed the door and pulled the curtain over the glass.
“It's Doctor Robby!” she said at once. “It's Doctor Robby! You're sleeping with Doctor Robby!”
“Can you keep your voice down?”
Santos laughed again, a full belly laugh. “Oh my god, this whole time I thought it was Frank. Oh, I'm so happy.” She wiped at amused tears.
“Hey!”
“How long have you been sleeping with him?”
You shook your head, tugging off your own hospital gown. “It doesn't matter.”
Finally Trinity considered you. Her laughter died. “What-what do you mean?”
How could you explain that what she'd heard last night was over hardly twenty-four hours later.
The door pushed open and Robby stepped through, gown and gloves already gone.
“Is everything okay in here?” he asked, looking between the two of you.
“You and you?” Trinity confirmed, finger gesturing between the two of you.
Robby ran his hands through the back of his hair.
“I just can't believe it,” she said. “You guys are dating?”
Robby sighed out a “yes” at the same time you shook your head, “no”
Now, Robby looked at you.
Santos folded her arms over her chest, smirking and watching like the two of you were her favourite show. “Oh.”
Robby's hands fell to his hips as he looked at you. “What do you mean, no?”
“What do you mean, yes?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he chuckled.
Your rubbed at your temples. “I'm so confused.”
“You're confused, I'm confused,” Robby scoffed.
“Wait- I'm confused,” said Santos. “You guys don't know if you're dating or not?”
Robby's eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “Doctor Santos, please. Go make yourself useful.”
Trinity didn't move. She looked at you, waiting for what you wanted. Because yes, Robby was her attending but you were her friend. When she was insecure about Garcia you were there telling her how much better she could do.
In the hospital Santos was guided under Robby.
At home, she was guided by friendship and care for you.
You gave her a nod and she dismissed herself.
You didn't know where to look, didn't know where to touch.
Outside the usual routine of the Pitt carried on.
Robby sighed, hands going into his fleece pocket. “You didn't know we were dating?”
No, you really didn't. “Was I supposed to? You never asked.”
He shook his head, looking down with a chuckle. He started to list things off, counting them off on his fingers. “Flowers, dinners, day trips, was that not enough?”
“But you never said!”
“I thought it was obvious!”
“Obvious to who?”
“To us!” His hands fell to your forearms.
“No to you maybe!”
“So the dinners... the flowers, you thought it was all just, just sex?” he asked.
You'd hoped it was more. You'd dreamt about it when his weight kept you down on his bed after you kissed and made love for hours. Love...
“I... yeah.”
How long had you thought him the bad guy? Were you the one that had been distant, pulling away?
You carried yourself away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed. You never realised how uncomfortable those things were.
Robby laughed to himself, standing for a moment longer. He checked that nobody was around through the curtain before he settled next to you. He shuffled, his bodies attention focused on you. He laid a hand on your knee, tilting his head to try to look at you. “I should have asked, properly.”
“It would've saved confusion,” you admitted.
Robby's hand came up, cradling your face and drawing your attention to him. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over your cheek.
You looked at him, finding nothing but warmth in his gaze. The only thing that had been there for three months. “But today, you... you could hardly look at me.”
He took in a deep breath. “I was...” his jaw ticked.
You smirked. “Jealous?”
His eyes flickered back to yours. “Nobody on that board thought I could be dating you.”
“Till about two seconds ago I didn't even know we were dating,” you joked.
Robby shook his head, wetting his lips. “We are.”
“You're not even going to ask me?”
“I don't need to,” he said. “We're dating, that okay with you?” His face inched closer.
“I don't know, I might have to ask Frank that one,” you teased.
Robby leant back, a dark look to him. The hand caressing you fell to your neck, keeping you looking at him. “You think that's funny?”
“Everyone else thinks so-”
He pulled you in by your neck and kissed you, hard, the imprint of his teeth felt through your lips.
You held onto him, kissing him with a new need. Kissing your boyfriend. Your hands wound around his head and you brought him down on top of you.
Robby climbed atop the bed that was not made for heavy make out sessions. He held the edge with one hand and the other fell down your body till it could crawl up your scrub top, un-tucking it and holding onto your hips.
He bit down on your lip and used the opening of your mouth to slide in his tongue.
“This is un-professional,” you said against his lips.
“I've been wanting to be un-professional for months.”
You were so lost in the feel of each other you didn't notice the curtain being yanked back until you heard.
“We got him stable,” said Jack, casually. “Oh and you've got an audience.”
You looked over Robby's shoulder as he looked back to see nosey nurses and night shifters along with half the day staff all looking at you.
You tapped his shoulder and though resigned to, Robby slowly climbed off you.
“Who put down Robby?” Ahmed called. “Did anyone bet Robby?”
The crowd that had watched you both suddenly rushed to the board, scanning the name.
Eventually you and Robby joined, waiting.
“Oh my god.”
“There he is, Robby, one vote!”
Robby's head perked in confusion.
“Who is it? Who?”
Ahmed collected the money and made his way through the people. To the one who had made a bet on Robby. “Doctor Robby, three months, and serious.”
He delivered the money- to everyone's shock- to Frank.
Your jaw hung open as Frank collected the money.
Everyone looked at him, silent.
You couldn't tell if next to you Robby was okay with it or angered.
Frank looked around at everyone. “C'mon, nobody else saw it? He's been happier for three months and can't take his eyes off her.”
Clealry, nobody had.
“I thought you didn't bet?” you asked him.
Frank shrugged, bashful. “Yeah well, couldn't help myself. Here-” Langdon held out the wad of cash to Robby's hand, practically forcing it in. “Take her somewhere nice.”
You wished you had a camera to capture Robby's shock.
“Okay folks! Show's over!” called out Dana. “Day shift let's pass on to night so we can get out of here to have some fun!” she winked your way.
Slowly the crowd dissipated, shaking their heads in disappointment.
Ahmed was already pulling off the notes and rubbing away at the board.
Robby waved the cash in front of you. “What do you say, you gonna let your boyfriend treat you tonight?”
Chapter Thirty-Three: For The First Time, What's Past Is Past
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ REQUITED LOVE, SMUT, Suggestive Content, Second-Chance, Angst, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, PiV, Oral (F!Receiving), No Condom (pls wrap before you tap!), Giggly sex, Saying I Love You,
Word Count: 13.8k
A/N: If you know me irl… you don’t. Not in this chapter. I don’t exist. Also, long ahh end notes. (P.S. Not proofread, will edit later.)
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/pinterest. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Begin Again by Taylor Swift, COMING HOME by HONNE with NIKI, and Juno by Sabrina Carpenter
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YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, not after everything. Especially after how messy, complicated, and quietly devastating it had all been before. But as you stand in front of your sister’s mirror, smoothing down your skirt for the third—no, fourth—time, your stomach flips like you’re sixteen again.
Butterflies, nerves, and a low, constant hum of oh my God, this is actually happening.
You press your lips together, exhale slowly, and glance at yourself. A soft knitted sweater tucked into your skirt, leggings hugging your legs, boots by the door waiting. Your hair is down but tamed, just enough. A little effort, not too much.
“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself. Because this is just a date… with Robby. The man you’ve known for years and you’ve loved for longer.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on your bedroom door. Everything in you stills while your heart kicks several times. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself, then turn and walk toward the door, fingers brushing the hem of your sweater as it might ground you.
Eventually, you open it, and there he is, standing there like he’s been holding his breath with flowers in hand. A slightly-too-big bouquet, like he didn’t know how much was appropriate, so he just… chose abundance.
He’s dressed up, a clean dress shirt—new, you’re almost certain. Crisp and fitted in a way that makes your brain short-circuit a little, with dark pants and proper shoes. He put in effort… for you.
For a second, neither of you says anything; you just look at each other. Taking each other in, like you’re both confirming this is real.
He breaks first, a quiet breath, almost reverent.
“God…” His eyes soften. “You’re beautiful.”
It settles somewhere deep within you. You duck your head, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t been in years, taking the bouquet from him just to have something to do with your hands. “Thank you…” A small smile, you added, “You clean up pretty nice too.”
You glance back up at him, a little braver now, and you mutter, “You look… really handsome.”
His mouth twitches because he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. For a split second, you catch it—the flicker of something more primal behind his eyes before he reins it in.
Careful with you, always careful with you… especially now.
He clears his throat softly, “You ready?”
You nod, place the bouquet atop a side table, then hesitate, touching your neck.
“Almost.” You hold up the delicate chain of your necklace, the clasp stubbornly refusing to cooperate earlier. “Do you mind helping me with this? I can’t seem to get it.”
There’s a pause, it’s subtle, but you feel it. “Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “Of course.”
You turn around and lift your hair. Suddenly, the room feels smaller, closer. His presence behind you is immediate and warm. Robby’s fingers brush the back of your neck—just barely—and you feel it everywhere.
It’s completely electric.
Robby exhales slowly, like he’s reminding himself to be careful and not to rush this. His fingertips are constant, but there’s a softness to the way he handles the chain, like he’s aware of how close he is to you. How easily this could tip into something else.
The cool metal slides against your skin, while his knuckles graze the slope of your shoulder. Your breath catches, and you try to play it off. Behind you, he swallows, and you hear it, feel it within your soul.
His hands linger a second longer than necessary once the clasp clicks into place. Not inappropriate or crossing a line… only reluctant to leave.
“There,” he murmurs, his voice is lower now.
You turn slightly, and for a second, you’re standing too close. Looking at each other like there’s a whole history sitting between your breaths. You both remember what it felt like to not have this. He takes a small step back, giving you space, respect… a choice.
“Ready now?” he asks, softer. This time, when you smile, it’s not nervous. “Yeah.”
You take a step toward him and toward the door. Headfirst into whatever this is becoming, and he falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
NEW YORK BOTANICAL GARDEN — DAY
It feels almost unreal, being here with him. You’re stepping into something softer than the life you’re used to. There’s so much sky, air, and a multitude of colors; it’s a stark contrast to the Pitt.
November has settled into the Botanical Garden like it owns the place—gold and rust and deep burnt orange spilling across every path. Leaves crunch under your boots, pumpkins arranged in little clusters like someone carefully curated joy itself, vines twisting around archways, the light filtering through branches in a way that makes everything look warmer than it should be.
It’s stupidly beautiful.
The kind of charm that makes your chest tingle with hope because you don’t get to exist in it often.
Robby is with you, completely present, and no longer carrying the weight of an entire emergency department on his shoulders. Simply walking next to you. Close enough that you’re aware of him constantly, like a second heartbeat.
There’s something tentative in the way both of you move. It’s as if you’re learning each other all over again. Like one wrong step might undo this fragile, miraculous thing you’ve found your way into.
It feels ridiculous, but also—like a high school crush. The kind where your hands brush, and it feels like lightning. Where every glance lingers half a second too long. That thought you don’t quite know what to do with your body because suddenly everything feels like it matters.
You stop near a row of pumpkins, laughing softly as you take a photo. “Okay, wait—this one’s cute.”
“Everything here is cute,” he says.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m just stating facts.”
You roll your eyes but smile anyway, adjusting the angle, snapping a picture. At some point, an older couple approaches—gentle smiles, bundled in scarves. “Would you like us to take one of you together?”
You blink before you, then glance at him.
He glances at you, and there’s that flicker again—that quiet, are we really doing this?
You nod and reply, “Yeah, that would be nice.”
You step closer to him, hesitant to touch each other at first. Then instinct—or courage—bridges the gap. Your arm slips lightly around his, while his hand settles at your back. He’s asking permission even in the way he holds you.
“Ready?” the woman calls.
You look up at him just as the photo is taken. The smile that catches your face isn’t practiced; it’s entirely authentic.
After you thank them, watch them walk off hand-in-hand, something soft settling in your bones at the sight.
You and Robby keep walking on the paths, with leaves falling. Conversation is easy, then quiet, then easy again.
Without warning, it happens. So subtle you almost miss it.
Robby’s hand brushes yours twice, then—he makes a decision. His fingers curl around yours, testing. He's prepared for you to pull away. But you don’t; instead, you let your fingers lace with his, and it feels right.
He exhales, almost imperceptibly, that tiny release, a quiet relief.
Then, without thinking, you shift closer and wrap both your arms around his. Tucking yourself into him as you walk, and it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He nearly forgets how to function, and actually stumbles half a step. You laugh softly as you ask, “You good?”
“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He is, in fact, not good. Because, in all honesty, he is dangerously close to short-circuiting. Because you’re holding onto him like you want to. His arm tightens just slightly, protective. You lean into him, and he leans into you, for a while—you just walk like that together.
Later, softer, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You look at him, “Tell you what?”
He hesitates before saying, “Back then… that you…” You tilt your head, a small smile tugging. “Liked you?”
He huffs a breath. “Well—yeah. That. Or… the other thing.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why didn’t you?”
He exhales. “…Touché.”
You smile, but it fades into something more honest. “Back then…” you begin slowly, “I don’t think I could or should have.” You look ahead. “I wasn’t even sure you liked me.”
“But I did,” he says immediately.
You shoot him a look. “You gave me a verbal order once, I said no, and you got mad.” He winces at that, “Yeah… okay. Not my finest attending moment.”
“Mhm.” There’s a small smile there, but your voice softens after.
“When someone likes me…” You hesitate before saying it anyway. “I get anxious.”
He becomes perfectly motionless next to you.
“I start wondering how they could.” Your voice drops. “If I’m worth it or if I deserve it. I start thinking maybe I won’t be able to love them right. Or back.” You swallow, a little more vulnerable. “I’ve never really… had that before.”
He becomes perfectly motionless next to you, then gently pulls you to a stop with him. You look up, and there’s no teasing in his face now or deflection, only quiet understanding.
“It makes sense,” he says softly. “That you’d be scared.” His thumb brushes over your hand. “But it’s still worth trying. Even if it might not work out.” His eyes hold yours. “There’s always that little part of you that hopes it will.”
A loosening of tension is felt throughout.
“Kindness is scary,” you admit and he nods, “Yeah.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “It feels like something that’s gonna disappear.”
“Sometimes it does,” he says honestly. “And sometimes it doesn’t.” A second ticked by before he adds, “Sometimes it stays.”
You look at him, and you don’t immediately brace for loss. Instead, you smile, and you both keep walking hand in hand, with leaves falling around you, talking about nothing and everything, laughing too easily.
Your head tipping back at something he says, laughter spilling out of you. Because you belong here, with him, for the first time in a long time—what’s past is past. Something new, quiet, fragile, hopeful—begins again.
STEPHEN SONDHEIM THEATRE, BROADWAY — NIGHT
Broadway at night feels electric.
The city glows differently here—gold lights reflecting off wet pavement, taxis blurring past in streaks of yellow, crowds bundled in coats and scarves moving together like a current. The marquee for & Juliet shines above the street, bright and dramatic and alive, and you can’t help the grin already stretching across your face before you’ve even made it inside.
Robby notices immediately. “You’re excited.”
You look at him like that should be obvious. “It’s Broadway.”
“I gathered that.”
“Michael,” you whisper, scandalized, “this is culture.”
That gets a warm and easy laugh out of him.
God, he loves hearing you laugh.
Inside, the theater buzzes with energy. Playbills rustling, people talking over each other, the smell of expensive perfume and old velvet seats, and overpriced cocktails lingering in the air. Everything feels grand in that old New York way—ornate ceilings, glowing chandeliers, red carpeting worn down by decades of people coming here to feel something.
Beside him, you’re glowing. You clutch your Playbill to your chest as you both find your seats, leaning close to whisper commentary to him before the show starts. “Oh my God, these seats are amazing.”
“They better be for what I paid.”
You snort. “You sound ninety years old.”
“I feel ninety years old.”
“You are so silly.”
“You work in emergency medicine, too. You’re not exactly a spring chicken.”
You gasp softly. “Wow. Okay.”
He grins, shameless.
The lights dim before you can retaliate, and the entire theater erupts into applause.
Then the music starts, you are gone. Completely, utterly delighted, and Robby spends half the show watching you instead of the stage.
Not because the show isn’t good—it is. Funny and bright and ridiculously entertaining, packed with pop songs that make the audience laugh and cheer and sing under their breath—but because you are impossible not to look at.
You mouth along quietly to nearly every song, not obnoxiously or loudly, but enough for him to notice. Your shoulders shimmy in your seat during the upbeat numbers, your knee bouncing to the rhythm. Sometimes you clap immediately after a performance with this wholehearted enthusiasm that makes him smile before he even realizes he’s doing it.
At one point, you lean over during a song and whisper excitedly, “I love this one.”
“I can tell,” he whispers back, watching you more than the stage.
You don’t even notice him staring.
You’re too busy laughing at a joke, one hand flying to his arm instinctively as the crowd around you bursts into applause, the contact nearly kills him.
You pull away quickly afterward, still smiling toward the stage, unaware of the way his heart just stumbled over itself. He looks at your profile under the soft theater lighting. Your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and the tiny sparkle of your necklace when you move. He believes that this feeling is something he could’ve lost forever because of fear or cowardice.
At intermission, you immediately turn to him, vibrating with excitement. “This is so fun.”
“You’ve said ‘oh my God’ at least fourteen times.”
“And I’ll say it fourteen more.”
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re excited.”
You blink at him, then immediately look away, cheeks warming. “You can’t just say things like that randomly.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I stop functioning.”
That almost takes him out at the knees. He has to look away for a second, rubbing at his mouth to hide the helpless smile there.
By the second act, you’ve relaxed into him more naturally. Your shoulder brushes his constantly now. Thigh presses lightly against his. At one point during a slower song, your fingers absentmindedly curl into the sleeve of his dress shirt while you watch the stage. Like you want grounding, and you trust him enough to take it from him. Robby thinks he could live inside that feeling forever.
The show itself—God, it’s joyful. The audience cheers and laughs and claps along, and you join in without hesitation, head tipped back laughing at one scene so hard you nearly wheeze.
He’s never seen you like this before. Completely alive and not exhausted and running on adrenaline and caffeine. Simply put, you look happy.
You catch him staring eventually. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
He smiles to himself before answering honestly. “I just…” His voice lowers. “I really like seeing you like this.”
Your expression softens instantly.
“Oh.”
There’s so much hidden meaning in that tiny word.
The lights from the stage flicker gold across your face as you look at him, and suddenly the moment feels unbearably tender. Two people are carefully learning happiness at the same time.
By the finale, the entire theater is on its feet, including you. You’re clapping enthusiastically, laughing as the cast bows, turning toward him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “That was amazing.”
“Yeah,” he says softly.
But he isn’t looking at the stage anymore, he’s looking at you, and for the first time in a very long time, Robby realizes something terrifyingly simple: He wants more of this.
Late-night theater shows with your hand finding his in the dark. Listening to you laugh until his ribs ache from it. Wanting tomorrow with you more than anything.
As you beam at him under the dim Broadway lights, still buzzing with excitement, your fingers slipping into his as you leave the theater together and disappear into the glowing New York night.
DINER — NIGHT
The city is still buzzing by the time you leave the theater.
Broadway lights glow behind you, traffic reflecting off wet pavement, while people pour down sidewalks in coats and scarves and hurried conversations. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You’re still humming one of the songs under your breath when Robby checks his phone for the fourth time. Then he groans, and you look over immediately and ask, “What?”
“The restaurant.” He clarifies, and you tilt your head, asking, “What about it?”
“It closed.”
You blink. “The fancy one?”
“Yes.”
“The one you made reservations for?”
“Yes.”
You stare at him for exactly one second before dissolving into laughter. Head tipped back, hand clutching his arm, while he looks personally offended by modern business hours.
“This city used to stay open all night,” he mutters, and you shrug, “COVID killed late-night culture.”
“It’s un-American.”
“Okay, gramps.” You grin and point down the block toward a glowing neon sign. A diner. Open 24/7. “C’mon,” you say. “Breakfast for dinner.”
He looks at you carefully, then, almost suspiciously. “You’re not mad?”
Your face softens immediately. “No.” Because the truth is—you’d eat gas station chips with him on the curb and still be happy right now.
The diner is warm in that old New York way. Slightly sticky menus, cracked leather booths, fluorescent lights softened by time, the smell of coffee and syrup and grease lingering in the air. Somewhere behind the counter, a waitress calls someone “hon” while a tired cook flips pancakes like he’s done it for thirty years straight.
It’s perfect.
You slide into the booth first, but instead of sitting across from him, you tug gently at his hand. “Here.”
His brows lift in question, but you grin, “Sit by the same side as me.”
Robby’s insides twisted at the way you said it. He slides in beside you, thigh pressed against yours instantly in the cramped booth. Your fingers stay intertwined the entire time you look at the menu, and neither of you lets go. The waitress comes by, exhausted but kind. “You kids know what you want?”
Kids.
Robby almost laughs at that.
You order waffles and fries because, apparently, you enjoy chaos, plus milkshakes, pancakes, eggs, and mozzarella sticks. After all, once you started ordering, neither of you knew how to stop.
The second the waitress leaves, you immediately cuddle against his side. It feels like instinct now, as if your body already knows where it wants to be. Your head rests against his shoulder while his arm wraps around you automatically, hand settling warm against your waist beneath your coat.
And Robby—fuck. Robby is completely gone for you. He tries not to make it obvious, but every time you curl closer to him, every time your fingers absentmindedly play with the sleeve of his shirt, every time your perfume drifts toward him when you move—he feels it everywhere.
You’re watching the city through the diner window. People hurrying by under streetlights, the steam rising from subway grates, taxi horns, and New Yorkers somehow managing to look annoyed even at eleven at night.
You mumble sleepily against him, “I kinda love this city.”
“It’s growing on me.”
“That’s because it’s like you.”
He looks down. “What does that mean?”
“Tired. Mean-looking. Secretly soft.”
He huffs a laugh into your hair.
Eventually, you shift, hugging his arm with both of yours instead while he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your eyes close immediately, content and happy.
He lingers there a second too long, breathing you in quietly. Your shampoo, perfume, and something warm underneath it that is just you.
Then suddenly—you sit upright. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
You point animatedly toward the window. “Is that pigeon waiting to use the crosswalk?”
Robby squints and spots the pigeon standing there at the curb beside several pedestrians. Then the light changes, and the pigeon starts walking directly across the street while using the crosswalk. You gasp like you’ve witnessed a miracle. “Holy shit.”
Robby bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, it is.”
“That’s insane.”
“That pigeon pays taxes.”
“That pigeon has somewhere to be.”
You’re both laughing now.
“It’s so New York,” you continue. “The rats here probably have organized crime families.”
“Oh, definitely.” Robby agrees with you as you continue to ramble, “The Bronx rats and the Brooklyn rats are in active gang warfare.”
“Queens rats stay neutral.”
“Absolutely not. Queens rats are laundering money.”
“And Manhattan rats?”
You lean in seriously. “Real estate moguls.”
He laughs so hard he has to lean forward for a second, rubbing at his face. The waitress brings your food, still chuckling at whatever joke she overheard last. “Anything else for you two?”
“We’re good, thank you.”
The food is ridiculous—it’s perfect diner food. Greasy fries, fluffy pancakes, waffles drowning in whipped cream. You immediately start stealing from each other’s plates.
“Try this.” You tell him.
“I have my own.”
“No, this one’s better.” You stab a waffle piece with your fork and hold it toward him, and he opens his mouth obediently. Later, he does the same to you, holding out a bite of pancake dripping with syrup. “C’mon.”
You lean forward automatically, lips wrapping around the fork as you take the bite. Jesus fucking Christ. His brain fully short-circuits because you do it absentmindedly and completely unaware.
Still chewing while reaching for your milkshake.
Meanwhile, he’s suddenly trying very hard not to think about your mouth. You keep talking normally while he stares at his coffee like it personally betrayed him. Then you get whipped cream just above your lip.
Without thinking, he reaches over, thumb brushing softly across your mouth, and the touch stills both of you for half a second. Your eyes flick to his before you very slowly take his thumb into your mouth, your gaze warm and playful as it never leaves his.
Robby nearly loses his fucking mind as his entire body goes tight. “You…” he starts hoarsely.
You only smirk and kiss his cheek sweetly like you didn’t just do that. Pretending you didn’t just set his nervous system on fire inside a diner at midnight.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters as you grin against his shoulder, biting your lower lip, “Maybe.”
He leans closer, voice lower now. “Careful.” While your brows lift innocently. “Hm?”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Heat floods straight into your face. But instead of backing down, you sip your milkshake calmly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He actually laughs under his breath at that and points at your plate. “Finish your food.”
“Bossy.”
“We’re going back to your apartment after this.”
Your stomach flips violently, and you try to look out the window to hide it.
Of course, he notices, but the smug bastard kisses your temple anyway. When the check comes, you automatically reach for your wallet. Robby spots your movement and thinks, absolutely not. He catches your wrist immediately. “I got it.”
“You already paid for Broadway and the gardens.”
“And?”
“You don’t have to keep spending money on me.”
His expression softens instantly. “It’s not about the money.” He adds quietly, “I just like taking care of you.” That shuts you up completely while he pays.
Leaves an absurd tip that makes the waitress blink twice at the receipt, and afterward the two of you step back out into the cold New York night together—warm from diner coffee and laughter and each other—walking shoulder to shoulder beneath the city lights.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
By the time you both get back to the apartment, New York has settled into that strange late-night quiet that only happens after midnight. The soft, distant hum of traffic outside the windows. The occasional siren somewhere far off. Rainwater still shines on the streets below under streetlamps, and your cheeks still hurt from smiling.
Robby shuts the apartment door behind him while you toe off your boots near the entryway, laughing quietly when Bowie immediately trots over, demanding attention.
“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me? Hope you had a good time with Grace today.”
“Traitor,” Robby mutters when the dog immediately abandons him for you.
You grin over your shoulder. “He knows who feeds him.”
“He also knows who dropped half his scrambled eggs this morning.”
“That was tactical.”
“Mmhm.”
You laugh softly and wander toward the kitchen while Robby moves toward the little speaker by the bookshelf. A second later, music drifts through the apartment. Soft indie music, gentle guitar, and the kind you play during night drives or rainy mornings.
You glance back at him immediately. “You remembered.” He shrugs, suddenly shy about it. “You always played this in the ED break room.”
Something warm blooms low in your chest. The apartment lights are dim except for the little lamp near the couch and the warm glow from the kitchen stove light. It makes everything feel safer somehow.
You’re standing by the counter when he walks over, drawn to you. His hands settle carefully at your waist, and your breath catches as he asks you, “Dance with me?”
You smile instantly.
“Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper dramatically, “are you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?”
“Unfortunately.”
That gets a laugh out of him, and then he pulls you closer. You sway together in the middle of your sister’s apartment kitchen like two people who almost lost the chance to do this at all.
Your arms loop around his neck while his hands rest low against your waist, warm and grounding. The music hums softly around you while he tells you stories between slow movements.
About the cruise, Greece, and getting sunburned in Naples because apparently an emergency physician with multiple advanced degrees forgot sunscreen existed.
You laugh so hard you nearly bury your face in his chest. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
“You’re a disaster.”
“I’m aware.”
He tells you about the people he met. Older couples traveling together after retirement. Multiple families. A little Filipino grandmother who apparently adopted him emotionally within fifteen minutes.
“She yelled at me,” he says seriously.
You blink. “What?”
“She asked why I looked sad.”
“Oh, my God.”
“And then she fed me.”
You nod at that, “Yeah, that adds up.”
“And then,” he continues, “she told me I was stupid.” You burst out laughing, “She was right.”
“She also told me to stop acting like a martyr and go after the woman I love.”
Your laughter quiets, as your vision softens and focuses on him, “Oh.” He nods once. “They taught me a few words, too.”
Your brows lift, “Oh?” He shifts slightly closer, and then, carefully—as he practiced, he says, “Pasensya na.” (I’m sorry.)
Your breath catches as you realize what he was saying.
“Patawarin mo ako.” (Please forgive me.)
“Salamat.” (Thank you.)
Your eyes already sting. But then he looks directly at you, voice rougher now. “Mahal kita.” (I love you.)
You start crying instantly as that absolutely destroys you. Sobbing as you slap a hand over your face while laughing through it, overwhelmed beyond reason. “Fuck you, Michael Robinavitch,” you cry. “That is so unfairly romantic.”
He laughs softly too, eyes glassy now as you throw your arms around him. You hold him tightly, still afraid this could disappear.
His face buries into your hair, and for a moment neither of you says anything. Only breathing and holding on. Later, quietly, against your temple, “Come back to Pittsburgh with me.”
You pull back just enough to squint suspiciously at him through your tears. “How did you know I’d be back next week?”
That smug little smile appears, a dangerous thing. “I may have asked your sister when she was getting home.”
You gasp softly. “You schemed with my family?”
“She likes me.”
“Knowing her, she probably threatened to murder you.”
“Yeah, but warmly.”
You laugh helplessly again, shaking your head before touching his face carefully. “Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper. Your voice breaks around it as you smile, “I love you too. Mahal Kita.”
The look on his face after you say it—God. All the grief he’s been carrying in his ribs for years, and suddenly there’s room for something else now.
You kiss him first. It’s soft and tender. Then again, longer, and something changes. Maybe it’s the air, the space between you and the wanting that’s been simmering quietly for months—years, suddenly rises all at once.
His hands slide carefully up your back, holding you like you’re precious. Still trying to convince himself this is real. You kiss him deeper, and he makes this quiet sound against your mouth that nearly wrecks you.
Then suddenly he pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. Forehead resting against yours. “We don’t have to do this.”
You blink.
His thumb strokes gently against your waist. “I mean it.” His voice is low, steady despite the obvious restraint in it. “We can stop. We can slow down. We can sit on the couch and cuddle all night if you want.” Another soft breath as he finishes, “I’ll wait however long you need me to.”
Your heart actually hurts as you stare at him in disbelief. “Do you understand,” you whisper, “how insanely attractive consent is?”
That startles a laugh out of him.
“I’m serious,” you continue, emotional and wrecked and completely gone for him. “I love you.”
Something in his expression crumples, as if the tenderness physically pains him. So, you kiss him again, harder this time. And in response, his hands tighten instinctively at your waist. You climb halfway into his lap on the couch without fully realizing you’re doing it, and he exhales sharply into your mouth like the contact nearly kills him.
The kisses deepen slowly, carefully. He lets you set the pace even now. When his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, it’s hesitant, asking.
You answer by kissing him deeper. And fuck, the sound he makes. His hand slides down instinctively, gripping softly at your thigh, then lower—curving over your ass through your skirt.
You gasp softly against his mouth, and pleasure sparks hot down your spine. His forehead falls briefly against yours as he exhales shakily. “You’re killing me.”
You laugh breathlessly, dazed and happy and dizzy on him. His mouth trails once along your jaw, then pauses. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
He kisses you again immediately after that, like he can’t help himself anymore. Slow, deep, and so very starved. While your fingers disappear into his hair, his grip tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s barely space left between you.
Somewhere between the soft melodies still playing from the kitchen, the city lights flickering like distant candles outside the windows, and the way he says your name against your mouth—a whisper, a prayer, a sacred invocation—you realize this isn’t just longing anymore. It’s home, a belonging that seeps into your bones, warm and inevitable.
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to your sister’s guest room, his lips never leaving yours.
Michael lays you down on the bed with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, his eyes tracing every line of your face as if memorizing it anew.
The room is bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows that dance with the sway of distant trees. His hands, rough and warm, slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher as he kneels before you. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch, his brown eyes dark and hungry under hooded lids as he pulls your underwear down your legs.
“So pretty.” He lowers his head, his beard scratching deliciously against your inner thighs as he takes his first taste of you. A low sound rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he laps at you with a hunger that leaves you gasping.
He takes his time, savoring you like a man starved, his tongue circling and flicking against your clit with a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you.
His fingers join the dance, slipping inside you with a smoothness that makes your back arch off the bed. The sounds of your pleasure fill the room—the slick wetness of his fingers moving in and out of you, the ragged moans escaping your lips, the hushed murmurs of his voice as he whispers filthy promises against your flesh.
He looks up at you then, his eyes wild and dark, completely lost in the taste of you, in the sounds that spill from your lips. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, your body convulsing as you grip his hair tightly, squeezing his head with your thighs as waves of release crash over you.
You were still panting when Robby’s mouth trailed up your belly, your ribs, resting between your breasts like it was a stopping place. His beard was slick with you, his hands strong and gentle where they stroked your hips, your stomach, your trembling thighs. He kissed your sternum, the valley between your breasts, the scars left by the scabs on your arms, then pressed his ear to your chest like he liked hearing what his work had done to your heartbeat.
He looked up at you, hair mussed and lips wet and so goddamn earnest it hurt. “You okay?”
You nodded, still in the afterglow, still not convinced your body would ever fully coalesce again. “More than okay.”
He grinned that soft, private little smile of his—the one he calibrated only for you, infuriatingly shy and possessive at once. You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, kissed him hard so you could taste yourself on his tongue, a feral, greedy thing.
You’re still riding the high, boneless and thrumming, you can barely catch your breath, but you manage a tremulous, “You’re going to kill me.”
He just grins, some pride, some gratitude, none of the usual self-effacement. “You’re tough, Ducky.”
You watch him crawl up your body, helping you remove several articles of clothing. Stripping you naked, he gazes every valley, every inch of your skin in such awe as a man who wholeheartedly desires you, your softness, the natural shape and curves of your body.
“You are so fucking beautiful.” He says, bracing himself above you, arms caging you most thrillingly. He’s still fully clothed, but you can feel the length of him hot and insistent through the fabric of his pants, a tease of pressure at your hip.
You reach for the waistband greedily, and he lets you strip him down, helping only enough to make you feel like you’re the one in charge.
Robby crawled up your body, gold chain around his neck catching in the light, dangling, as he is bracing himself above you, his presence hot and insistent against your hip. You reached for his waistband, pulling him closer. He was heavy, a promise made manifest.
You lick your lips as you look up at his heated gaze, “That’s not gonna fit.”
“I’ll make it fit.”
Fucking hell.
“Condom?” He asked, and you shook your head, “If you’re okay with it… I’m clean, and I have an IUD.”
“I recently got tested, and haven’t had sex at all during my sabbatical.” Robby breathes heavily.
“At all?” You widened your eyes in surprise, and he chuckled, “All I could think about was you. I wanted no one else.”
You nearly tear up again, then nod, “Okay.”
You looked up at him, breathless and dazed, and the sudden reality of the situation crashed into your head. "Oh, god," you whispered, eyes widening. "HR is going to kill us."
Robby let out a choked, breathless laugh, pressing a wet, scorching kiss. "Ducky, my love, please don't talk about HR when my dick is about to be inside you."
"Sorry," you squeaked, your brain short-circuiting as he pressed into you, the friction sharp and divine. "My brain won’t shut up sometimes."
He huffed, a sound of pure, possessive affection, and kissed you hard, effectively silencing your thoughts.
Robby moans your name in pure bliss. “Fuck, good—good girl. You’re so fucking tight—fuck.” He began to rock into you, steady and rhythmic, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re taking it so well.”
In the dim light of the apartment, with the city breathing outside the window, nothing else mattered—not the job, not the risks, only the way he grounded you, pulling you impossibly closer until the two of you were moving as one.
The laughter dies in your throat, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as he commits to the motion. It’s a slow, deliberate slide, a physical realization of the hunger that’s been stalking the edges of your perception for years.
You aren’t ready for the sheer weight of him, the way he seems to displace everything else in the room—the air, the sound of the rain, the lingering anxiety of your jobs.
“Ahhh.” The sound escapes you, not as a cry, but as a shaky, stuttered exhale. He’s stopped, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, watching you with eyes that look like molten copper in the low light. He’s waiting. Always waiting for you to catch up.
"Okay?" he whispers, his voice dropping into that register—the one that usually steadies a crashing patient, but now is meant solely for you.
"Keep going," you manage, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders, your legs tangling with his to pull him tighter. "Please."
He huffs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and then he moves. It starts slow—a deliberate, agonizingly sweet pace that stretches you, makes you feel full and centered and completely his.
The friction is electric, a heat that builds behind your navel and radiates outward, turning your limbs to water.
He leans down, and his lips find the crook of your elbow, then drift down to the faded white lines on your forearm. He presses a lingering, reverent kiss there, his beard grazing your sensitive skin. It’s a gesture of such profound acknowledgment—that he sees the history etched into your skin and wants it all—that you nearly lose your rhythm, your breath hitching in your chest.
“Mmm—ah! Please—” You arch your back, gasping as he catches the pace, his hips connecting with yours with a steady, relentless thud.
He grunts, "That's it, just like that.” The bed creaks, a rhythmic, wooden groan that joins the soundtrack of your night.
You can feel him everywhere—the heavy, solid presence of his thighs against yours, the heat of his sweat, the way he watches you with an intensity that makes you feel naked even beneath the tangle of sheets.
"I— fuck, oh, Michael—" you babble, but the words dissolve into a fragmented oh as he hits a nerve, a spot so deep and precise it sends a jolt of lightning straight down to your toes.
"You like that?" he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He’s not laughing anymore. The humor from a moment ago has been incinerated by the raw, kinetic energy of the act. He sounds desperate, starved.
"Michael, please!" you moan, your voice a desperate plea.
He shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you to the mattress. "I've got you, I've got you.”
He rocks into you, deeper this time, and you feel the way he shudders, the way he’s fighting to hold back for you, even when he’s so clearly on the edge himself.
He makes a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. You’re spinning, the room tilting as the pressure mounts. You can see the veins corded in his neck, the way his jaw is set, his lips pulled back slightly as he battles his own control.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. It’s like looking into a furnace. There’s no ambiguity left, no "HR," no "traitor," no jokes about emergency medicine. Just two people, finally, finally finding each other in the dark.
"I’ve wanted this," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Since the first time you walked into the break room with that stupid coffee mug."
"That was years ago," you gasp, your nails digging into his back as the waves start to crash.
"I know," he grunts, his movements accelerating, the rhythm becoming a blur of friction and heat. "I’ve been waiting since the first time I saw you smile at a patient. I've been waiting forever."
His words shatter the last of your composure. You stop thinking about the job, the risk, the fallout. You just let go. Your core tightens, pulling him closer, wanting to consume him.
“Ah! Ah, Robby!” You scream his name, a soft, high sound that gets swallowed by the room as your body begins to convulse, the release hitting you like a physical blow.
He doesn’t break his gaze. He watches you fall apart, his face twisting in a mix of pride and fierce possessiveness, and then he gives a final, powerful thrust, letting out a sharp, ragged shout that sounds like a prayer.
He collapses onto you, his forehead resting against yours, his body heavy and warm, shuddering with the aftershocks.
For a long time, the only sound in the guest room is the two of you—sucking in great, lung-filling breaths, the rapid thump-thump of your heart against his, the soft, distant hum of New York continuing on as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair damp against his forehead, his face flushed and wrecked in the most beautiful way. He reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your temple, his touch so light it borders on worship.
"You okay?" he asks again, his voice gravelly, stripped raw.
You can only nod, unable to string a coherent sentence together. You feel boneless, melted into the mattress, your skin humming with the memory of him.
He chuckles, a low, exhausted sound that vibrates in his chest against yours. He shifts, rolling onto his side but refusing to break contact, dragging you with him so you’re flush against his side, his arm draped possessively over your waist.
"HR," he mutters, his voice heavy with sleepiness and smug satisfaction. "You were worried about HR."
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—soap, rain, and the faint, musky scent of sex. You laugh, a soft, bubbly sound that feels lighter than air. "Shut up," you murmur.
"No, I’m just saying," he teases, kissing the top of your head. "If they have a problem with it, they’ll have to get through me first."
"You're a doctor, Michael. You're supposed to save people, not threaten the administration."
"I can do both," he whispers against your hair. "I'm a multi-tasker."
You drift into a haze, the reality of the night settling over you like a warm blanket. You’re in your sister’s guest room. The city is still breathing outside. And beside you, the man you’ve been pining for is finally, truly, yours.
The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s thick with the unspoken promises of the hours to come. You close your eyes, the exhaustion of the shift and the emotional vertigo of the last hour finally pulling you under.
"Ducky?" he whispers just before you drift off.
"Hm?"
"Stay," he says. Not a command, just a plea.
You snuggle closer, tucking your hand under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere."
He sighs, a sound of profound relief, a soft whoosh of air against your ear, and pulls the duvet up higher over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. In the darkness, you can still feel the echo of him, the phantom pressure of his skin against yours, a map of where you’ve been and where you’re going.
A moment of blissful quiet passes, then a new thought surfaces, cutting through the dreamy haze. “But I do need to pee,” you mumble, a slight groan escaping you, “cause UTI is not particularly fun.”
Michael’s hand, which had been resting gently on your hip, gives a soft squeeze. “Smart girl. Don’t want any nasty infections ruining our glow.” He shifts, and you feel the cool air momentarily as he moves to the bedside table. A warm, damp cloth is gently dabbed between your legs, cleaning you with an unexpected tenderness.
His fingers are careful, reassuring. “There,” he murmurs, his voice low, “all clean. Now go do your business.”
You untangle yourself from the sheets, the sudden coolness of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. A small thump as your feet hit the carpet. You pad across the room, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight, and slip into the adjoining bathroom. The familiar flush of the toilet sounds remarkably loud in the quiet apartment.
When you emerge, Robby is already sitting up, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Feel better?”
“Infinitely,” you sigh, stretching your arms above your head. “Now what?”
“Now?” He pats the spot beside him. “Now, we get properly clean.” He swings his legs out of bed, the duvet sliding down with a soft swish. “Shower?”
You nod, a grin spreading across your face. “Definitely shower.”
He takes your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and leads you into the bathroom. The air is cool, but a moment later, the shower starts, a steady stream of water hitting the tiles. Steam begins to curl, blurring the edges of the mirror. You step in first, feeling the initial cold spray, then the welcoming warmth as the water adjusts.
Robby steps in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his front. The water cascades over both of you, a comforting roar. He presses kisses to your shoulder, his lips warm and wet. “Mmm, you smell good,” he hums, a deep, resonant sound in your ear.
His beard, a soft brush of dark hair with those intriguing silver strands at the temples, tickles your skin as he trails kisses down your neck, then along your collarbone. The giggle you let out is a light, airy sound, as his beard brushes against a particularly sensitive spot. “Stop, you’re tickling me!” You squirm playfully in his embrace, but he only holds you tighter.
“Am I?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Good. I like your giggles.” He continues his assault of soft kisses, his hands moving over your skin, soaping your back with slow, deliberate strokes. You lean back into him, letting the warm water and his ministrations wash away any lingering tension.
You reach for the soap, then gently take his hands, turning to face him. You begin to wash his chest, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his muscles, the softness of his belly, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.
He closes his eyes, a soft moan escaping his lips as your fingers glide over his skin. “Mmmph,” he sighs contentedly, leaning his head back against the tiled wall, letting you take control.
You work the soap into his hair, feeling the thick strands between your fingers, the soft grey at his temples contrasting with the darker brown. He lets out a soft groan of pleasure as you massage his scalp, his body relaxing completely against yours. “That feels… incredible, Ducky.”
“Only the best for my favorite doctor,” you tease, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. The water streams down his face, washing away the suds. He opens his eyes, droplets clinging to his dark lashes.
His gaze is intense, full of a raw, tender emotion that makes your breath catch. He reaches out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “You know, I’ve been in love with you for so long, Ducky.” His voice is a low rumble, earnest and raw, barely audible over the shower’s spray.
“Since that first day you tripped over your own feet in the ER and spilled coffee all over my scrubs.” He chuckles softly, a deep, rich sound. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s just adorable.’ And then you apologized for about five minutes straight, looking like a drowned kitten.”
You remember that day, a wave of heat rising to your cheeks. “I was mortified!” you protest, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You just stood there, looking all… stoic and intimidating with your perfectly pressed scrubs.”
“Stoic, maybe,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eyes. “Intimidated? Never. Fascinated? Absolutely.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, the water still cascading over both of you. “You’re everything I didn’t know I was looking for.”
A tremor runs through you, a delicious shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. “Oh, Robby,” you whisper, using the affectionate nickname that feels so right on your tongue, a name you’ve never dared utter before tonight. “You’re so in love with me, aren’t you?”
He pulls back slightly, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hmph,” he grunts playfully, a sound of pure affection. “Is it that obvious?” He leans in again, his lips finding yours under the spray, a long, deep kiss that tastes of water and passion and a future you’d only dared to dream of.
After the shower, wrapped in thick, fluffy towels from your sister’s linen closet, you pad back into the guest room. The city outside is beginning to stir, a faint increase in the distant traffic hum. Michael sits on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry, his gaze fixed on you as you search for clothes.
“What are we going to tell Dana?” you ask, your voice a little shaky as you pull on a soft t-shirt. “She’s going to flip.”
Michael throws his towel over a chair. “We tell her the truth,” he says, his voice calm, but with an underlying steel. “That we’re together. That it’s serious.” He stands, walking over to you, his hands finding your waist. “She loves you like her own kids, Ducky. She’ll understand, and besides… pretty sure she won everyone’s money with Ahmad’s betting board.”
“But… the hospital,” you murmur, the worry creeping back in. “HR. Our jobs. It’s a huge conflict of interest, Michael. We both know the rules and how this looks.” A knot tightens in your stomach. The thrill of the night was giving way to the cold reality of your professional lives.
He pulls you closer, his warmth a comforting presence against your growing anxiety. “I know the rules,” he acknowledges, his voice softer now. “And we’ll navigate them. We’ll be discreet. We’ll be smart.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes, usually so serious and focused in the operating room, are now filled with a tender resolve. “Are you regretting this?”
You shake your head, a quick, emphatic movement. “Never. Not a single second. I’ve wanted this for so long, Michael.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It’s just… scary.”
“I know,” he whispers, pulling you into a tight hug, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Shhh, Ducky. I know. But we’re in this together, okay? We’ll figure it out.” He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “I wouldn’t trade last night, or any future night with you, for anything. Not a promotion, not a perfect record, nothing.”
You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear. “Mmmph,” you hum, a sound of both comfort and lingering worry. “I’m glad you said that.”
He pulls back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Besides,” he says, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “who’s going to tell HR that Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief Emergency Medicine, is madly in love with the best emergency nurse in the hospital? I’d like to see them try.” He winks. “They’d have to get through a very protective Robby first.”
You laugh, a nervous but genuine sound. “Still threatening the administration, are we?”
“Only when it comes to you,” he says, his smile softening, his gaze full of adoration. He gently strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I’m not letting you go, Ducky. Not now, not ever.”
The sun begins to peek through the curtains, casting long, pale streaks across the room. The city outside is fully awake now, a symphony of distant horns and the rumble of delivery trucks. The world was moving on, oblivious to the momentous shift that had occurred in your small corner of it. But for you, nestled in Michael’s arms, the future, with all its challenges, suddenly felt less daunting. You had him. And that, you realized, was everything.
The day before your sister and her boyfriend are due back from their trip, Michael asks you out again.
You are standing in the kitchen in fuzzy socks and one of your oversized sweaters, sleep-mussed hair clipped back badly while coffee brews beside you. Bowie is sprawled upside down across the floor nearby, watching you with the intensity of a Victorian child dying of consumption because breakfast is thirty seconds late.
The apartment smells like coffee and cold November air drifting through the slightly cracked kitchen window.
Michael leans against the counter across from you, arms folded loosely over his chest. He’s freshly showered, wearing a dark Henley with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and he’s looking at you with that soft, hopeless expression he gets now when he forgets to guard himself.
“So,” he says casually. Immediately, your eyes narrow. “That tone means trouble.” A grin pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Go on another date with me?”
You pretend to think very seriously about it while stirring cream into your coffee. “Hm,” you hum thoughtfully. “Depends.”
“On?”
“What’s the date?”
“A picnic.”
You blink once.
“A picnic?”
“In Central Park.”
There’s something so earnest about the way he says it that your chest hurts a little. This is a man who spent years speaking in trauma protocols and dry sarcasm, and now he’s standing in your sister’s kitchen asking you on a picnic like a teenager with a crush.
You stare at him for another second before smiling helplessly into your mug. “That’s disgustingly cute.”
“I’m trying very hard here.”
“You really are.”
He is, that’s the thing. Michael Robinavitch has always loved intensely. Like a flood. Something all-consuming and frightening in its depth. But now—after the burnout, after the grief, after the running and finally turning around and coming back—he’s learning how to love gently too.
CENTRAL PARK — DAY
The afternoon is freezing in that crisp November way that bites at your cheeks and turns your nose pink, no matter how deeply your hands stay shoved in your coat pockets.
Central Park looks unreal.
Burnt orange leaves blanket the walking paths. Trees glow gold against the pale sky while bundled-up New Yorkers wander past with scarves tucked up to their noses and coffee cups in mittened hands. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a saxophone badly enough to be charming.
Michael insisted on carrying almost everything.
Which means he currently has the picnic basket in one hand, blanket tucked under his arm, and your tote bag slung over his shoulder because apparently this is now his personal romantic pilgrimage.
“You know,” you say while walking beside him, “I actually do have functioning arms.”
“I’m aware.” He hums. You gesture to everything that he’s holding, “You’re literally carrying all the bags.”
“Correct.”
“You’re being weirdly macho about this.”
“I’m courting you.”
You bark out a laugh loud enough that a woman walking her poodle glances over, while Robby only looks smug.
“You say courting like you were born in 1942.” You teased, and he smirks, “Maybe I was.”
“You absolutely were.”
By the time you settle near the water, your coffee is lukewarm, and your fingers are freezing, but you don’t think you’ve stopped smiling once.
The blanket is spread beneath a tree dusted in orange leaves. Around you, the park hums softly with life. There’s distant laughter, joggers, and dogs barking somewhere farther down the path.
The picnic itself is almost offensively thoughtful.
Sandwiches from the deli you mentioned liking once in passing. Pastries from the bakery he dragged you into earlier because, according to him, “You looked at the cinnamon rolls too long.” Fresh fruit. Coffee. Little packets of hot chocolate were shoved into the basket “for emergencies.”
You sit cross-legged beside him while he opens containers and hands you food with the kind of quiet attentiveness that makes your chest ache.
Then there’s the touching. Dear God. Dr. Michael Robinavitch cannot keep his hands off you. Not necessarily in a vulgar way or intentionally, really.
It’s worse than that.
Hopelessly affectionate.
His hand settles automatically on your thigh while you talk. Fingers rubbing absent circles through your tights while he listens to you complain about Mateo nearly setting a microwave on fire one time in the break room.
Then later, while you’re laughing, his hand drifts to your waist beneath your coat. He just needs contact.
Because being near you has become instinctive now. Every so often, he kisses you absentmindedly during conversation. Your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Those little touches of affection that still make your brain short-circuit every single time.
You’re halfway through telling him another story about Dana bullying Langdon when Michael suddenly leans over and presses a kiss against the side of your neck.
Your entire sentence dies instantly, and you stop talking mid-word and slowly turn to stare at him. “Michael.”
“Hm?” he asks innocently, mouth still dangerously close to your skin.
“We are in public.”
“No one’s looking.”
You gape at him. “Sir, there are literally children fifteen feet away.” He glances over briefly, shrugs, “They seem busy.”
You smack his shoulder lightly, horrified laughter escaping you. “Michael Robinavitch.”
He only grins against your cheek, utterly shameless now.
Somewhere in the last few days, he’s become almost drunk on being allowed to love you openly. But honestly? You think maybe he deserves to be.
Then somehow—somehow—his hand slips lower beneath your coat until his warm palm settles over your ass possessively through your skirt.
Your mouth actually falls open against his shoulder. “Michael,” you whisper, scandalized and breathless all at once.
“What?” he murmurs, not even pretending innocence very well anymore.
“You are being insane right now.”
“You started it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
He gestures vaguely toward you. “You wore this skirt knowing I’m weak.”
You burst into laughter so suddenly that you nearly choke on your own coffee. “Oh my fucking God.”
You hide your burning face against his shoulder while he looks unbearably pleased with himself, arm tightening around your waist as your laughter shakes against him.
And the thing is—he’s happier now. You can feel it in every small thing. He’s not magically healed. Some mornings, he still goes quiet in ways that worry you, and some nights he still wakes up tense from dreams he won’t fully explain.
But he’s lighter, more present. He’s finally allowing himself to imagine a future again instead of just surviving one shift at a time.
One of the things he wants in that future is very obviously you. The realization still startles you sometimes. The fact that someone can look at you—with your scabs, scars, your anxiety, your messiness, your tendency to pull away when things become too real—and still choose you this completely.
Robby catches you staring at him.
You hadn’t even realized you were doing it. Your head resting against his shoulder while the wind coming off the water turns colder by the minute, leaves skittering across the grass around the picnic blanket. The late afternoon sun hangs low now, all honey-gold and soft around him.
He looks back at you, brows lifting slightly. “What?” You shake your head softly before you can stop the smile spreading across your face.
“I love you.” Your voice comes out quieter than expected, shy despite everything. “Mahal kita.”
The words settle between you tenderly. For a second, he just looks at you. It physically hurts him to be loved this much. Then your hand reaches for his instinctively across the blanket, and he takes it immediately, fingers slotting between yours like they were always meant to fit there.
His gaze searches your face carefully, almost reverently. Then he says your real name. Not Ducky or some teasing nickname. Your actual name, spoken with that unmistakable American roughness still clinging to the syllables. Imperfect accent and all. “Mahal kita.”
Your breath catches, because he says it carefully. Just as he practiced. He wanted to get it right for you, and maybe that’s what destroys you most.
You laugh softly through sudden tears, and then he’s kissing you before either of you can say anything else. Slow and wholehearted. The kind of kiss that feels less like heat and more like surrender. You kiss him back just as fully, your hand sliding up into his hair while his palm cups your jaw like he still can’t quite believe you’re real and all you can feel is him.
Later, you’re curled together on the picnic blanket beneath his coat, your legs tangled with his.
Robby’s arm is wrapped around your waist while the fingers of his other hand move absently along your skin, tracing. His thumb brushes lightly over the faint scars near the creases of your elbows. Pale marks mixed among healing patches from recent flare-ups.
His touch slows.
“How’d all this happen?” he asks quietly. There’s no judgment in it, only concern. You glance down at your arms for a moment before shrugging lightly. “Atopic dermatitis,” you say. “Skin asthma basically. Had it my whole life.”
His brows pinch slightly while you continue softly, “It gets worse with stress sometimes. Allergies too. I only recently started immunotherapy for it.”
His thumb traces carefully along one of the faded scars like he’s trying not to hurt you. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.” You shrug again. “Mostly during flare-ups. It burns more than anything. Feels like my skin’s angry at me.”
His expression tightens immediately at that. You know that look. It’s the physician in him cataloguing symptoms automatically. The man in him hates that you’ve suffered quietly beside him for this long. “When do you go next?”
“Next Saturday.”
He nods once, thinking, then, “Can I come with you?”
You blink at him.
“It’s literally upstairs from the ED,” you say with a small laugh. “One of the outpatient allergy clinics.”
“I still want to come.”
The answer comes immediately. He presses a kiss against the side of your head while his hand stays warm over your arm.
You look at him for a second before sighing fondly. “It’s not a huge deal, Robby. They give me the injection, then I wait around for observation afterward to make sure I don’t have a reaction bad enough to send me downstairs to the ER.” You grin slightly. “Which, thankfully, hasn’t happened.”
His face does not look reassured.
“Atopic patients can still develop anaphylaxis during immunotherapy,” he mutters automatically. “Oh my God,” you laugh. “You sound like Uptodate.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
His hand tightens around yours slightly.
“Then I’ll wait with you,” he says quietly. “I don’t ever want to be downstairs working a shift and suddenly see you come through those ambulance doors as my patient.”
The sincerity in his voice knocks something loose in your chest, and you smile softly at him. “We’d have to disclose the relationship by then,” you point out gently. “People are gonna be confused why the Chief Attending of the PTMC ED is hovering upstairs during my allergy appointment.”
Robby doesn’t even hesitate. “Then we do the paperwork.”
You stare at him, and he shrugs lightly. “Our relationship didn’t start in the hospital anyway. It happened during your leave and my sabbatical. HR’s probably just gonna make sure there’s no favoritism or conflict with staffing.”
You pick at the sleeve of his coat thoughtfully.
“Worst case scenario,” you murmur, “they transfer me somewhere else in the hospital.” His jaw tightens instantly. Because you both know how these systems work sometimes. Especially for women.
You look at him carefully. “You know how it is.” Robby nods once slowly, eyes darkening. Then, very calmly says, “I’ll fight the whole board if I have to.”
You snort. “Even Gloria?”
“Especially Gloria.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, “My hero.”
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he turns toward you more fully, expression serious in that devastatingly earnest way he gets sometimes now. “‘M serious, Ducky,” he says quietly. “I’ll step down as Chief Attending if I have to.”
Your eyes widen immediately.
“What—Robby, wait.” You push yourself upright to look at him properly. “That’s your whole career.”
“And you’re you.”
The answer comes so simply that it nearly steals the air from your lungs. As if it’s obvious. Plain as day. There was never even a choice.
His hand slides into yours again.
“I spent my whole life thinking the job was the only thing in my life worth keeping,” he says softly. “I’m not doing that anymore.”
Emotion climbs painfully into your throat. Because this man—this impossible, stubborn, honest man—is looking at you like loving you is not a burden or a sacrifice. But something sacred enough to rearrange his life around.
You shake your head a little, overwhelmed. “You can’t keep saying things like that to me.” A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Why?”
“Because eventually I’m gonna believe you.”
The look he gives you then—warm, wrecked, completely certain—feels a little bit like standing in sunlight after surviving winter.
“Good.”
Your chest aches because your feelings always come out sideways when they become too overwhelming. You murmur against his shoulder, “And then we’re gonna end up with a house by a pond.”
His brows furrow instantly. “How did you—” You grin immediately. “Samira.” His eyes widen slightly in betrayal. “She told you?”
“She told me before she left Pittsburgh for her fellowship,” you say smugly. Then his expression changes completely. “She left?”
The amusement softens from your face, and you nod gently. “Mhm.”
A cold breeze rustles through the trees overhead while the light over the park deepens more softly and gold.
“She finished residency,” you continue quietly. “We had a whole goodbye party in the staff lounge. I cried first, obviously. Then Dana started crying because I was crying. Then everyone else followed.”
Robby huffs out a faint laugh at that, but it fades quickly.
“I thought she would’ve…” He trails off, gaze drifting toward the water. “I don’t know. Stayed in Pittsburgh.”
You shake your head a little. “I don’t think you realized how competitive PTMC got for fellowships.”
“Yeah,” he mutters softly. “Damn.”
There’s something sad about the way he says it, wistful. He blinked and suddenly the residents he trained are becoming attendings somewhere else. Building lives outside the hospital halls where he first met them.
You squeeze his hand gently. “She was one of your best.” He nods immediately. “Yeah.”
You lean over and kiss his cheek softly, smiling when his beard tickles your lips.
“She’s smart,” you murmur. “Resilient. Kind. Every bit as hardworking as she thinks she has to be.” You smile a little. “She’ll be okay.”
Robby stares quietly at the river for another moment before admitting softly, “I wish I wasn’t such an asshole to her last shift.”
The Fourth of July shift. You both know the one, the shift that cracked him open. You lean back slightly to look at him properly. The regret on his face is real, and you brush your thumb along his wrist gently.
“We were all trying to survive that day,” you say quietly. “Some of us just did it better than others.”
His eyes flick toward yours.
You shrug softly.
“We make choices with the version of ourselves we have at the time. Sometimes they’re messy. Sometimes we hurt people.” Your voice gentles further. “That doesn’t mean we stop deserving the chance to become better afterward.”
Something in his expression falters at that. Because he still doesn’t fully know what to do with forgiveness when it’s offered freely.
Especially yours.
The silence that settles afterward feels comfortable, the kind you don’t need to fill.
You curl closer beneath his coat, tucking your face against his chest while his arms close around you automatically. The steady weight of him surrounds you instantly, grounding and safe.
You can hear his heartbeat as it slows down to a rhythmic calm. His chin rests lightly on top of your head, listening to the ambience that Central Park provides
After a while, almost without thinking, you begin humming softly against him. Just a little melody under your breath. Quiet enough that anyone else would miss it beneath the wind and distant traffic.
But Michael notices immediately, because you always sing when you’re content. He figured that out months ago during rare late-night shifts when you’d hum absentmindedly while organizing meds or charting at three in the morning.
Now, wrapped up together while the city glows gold around you, he closes his eyes briefly just to listen.
Your voice is soft, sleepy, and tender around the edges. Suddenly, he’s struck with the terrifying realization that this—this right here—is the closest he’s ever come to peace.
You in his arms, humming softly while the world keeps moving around the two of you. His hand slides slowly up your back, holding you closer, and quietly, against your hair, he whispers, “I could listen to you forever.”
You smile faintly against his chest. “Forever seems like a really long time.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, then the expression on his face is so unbearably tender it almost hurts to hold. The kind of look that makes you understand, all at once, why poets used to write themselves sick over love.
His thumb brushes softly beneath your eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kinda the point.”
Your breath catches a little because he says it so simply, as if forever isn’t frightening to him anymore if it includes you.
The wind shifts colder around you, but his coat is wrapped around both your shoulders now, his warmth completely surrounding you. “I used to think forever sounded exhausting,” you admit softly.
Michael hums quietly. “How come?”
You shrug a little against him.
“I don’t know. I think…” Your fingers twist lightly into the fabric of his sweater. “I think when you spend most of your life waiting for good things to disappear, you stop trusting permanence.”
His face changes immediately at that, since he understands that feeling too well. So instead of trying to argue with it, he just presses a slow kiss against your forehead and says quietly, “Then we’ll take it one day at a time.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. No promises too huge to carry or impossible guarantees. Only choosing each other again and again for as long as you can. Something about that feels even more romantic than forever ever did. You smile shakily. “That sounds suspiciously healthy.”
“I’ve been to therapy now,” he says dryly. “I’m insufferable.”
You laugh softly, and the sound lights something warm inside his chest immediately. The terrifying, miraculous realization that happiness still exists for him after all.
He wraps his arms tighter around you instinctively, burying his face briefly into your hair. And quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—he says, “I really thought I lost my chance with you.”
Your heart squeezes painfully.
You pull back enough to look at him fully. The evening light catches in his tired brown eyes. The faint silver at his temples. The softness he spent years trying to bury beneath competence and exhaustion and grief.
You touch his face gently. “You came back.” A pause, then his forehead rests against yours. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.”
Later, after the picnic is packed away and the blanket folded up unevenly because Michael absolutely refuses to let you help, he carries nearly everything despite your protests.
The basket hangs from one hand while the tote bag digs into his shoulder. “You’re gonna throw your back out,” you warn.
“I’m fifty-three, not eighty.”
You snort immediately. “You made a dad noise standing up earlier.”
“That was on purpose.”
“Mhm.”
“It was.”
You give him a skeptical look while walking beside him through the glowing November evening. Then, without missing a beat, he adds, “Besides, you liked the noises I made last—” You choke on your own spit. “Okay!” you yelp loudly, scandalized. “Calm down, ER Cowboy.”
Michael looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You started it.”
“I literally did not.”
“You looked at me in a manner.”
“Oh, my God.”
He laughs then, open and warm and surprised out of him. The sun begins to set slowly by the time you make it to the Hudson River promenade. The skyline stretches across the water in shimmering gold and glass. Sunset melts through the sky in layers—orange fading into pink, fading into deep bruised blue. The river catches all of it, liquid fire rippling beneath the wind.
People pass around you bundled in coats and scarves, couples walking hand in hand, joggers slowing as evening settles in. Michael walks slightly closer to the street side automatically. You notice that quickly, the tiny unconscious things he does now that scream care louder than words.
When the wind gets sharper, his hand settles against your lower back. You shiver slightly, and he immediately asks, “You cold?”
“I’m Filipino,” you deadpan. “Anything below seventy degrees feels like psychological warfare.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and immediately starts unwrapping his scarf. You try to protest, “Michael, no.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m literally fine.”
“You’re lying.” Before you can argue further, he loops the scarf gently around your neck anyway, fingers brushing your skin in the process.
Your cheeks warm instantly.
“There,” he says softly, adjusting it once. “Better.”
“You know this is how old men flirt, right?”
His mouth twitches. “Good thing I’m ancient.”
You glance over at him then. At the softened lines around his eyes now. The healthier color in his face from months away. The way he doesn’t seem quite so haunted standing still anymore. Somehow, the sight of it makes your chest ache worse than the sadness ever did.
Because this version of him—hopeful, trying, letting himself want things—feels unbearably precious. “You okay?” he asks quietly after catching you staring again.
You blink. “Yeah.” He studies your face for another second like he’s checking whether you mean it. Before he gently bumps his shoulder against yours. “C’mere.”
You move closer immediately, your arm slipping through his while you continue walking beside the river.
The city glows around you, alive and bright. The kind of evening that makes even strangers seem softer somehow.
Michael starts telling you another story from the cruise, then. Something about accidentally ending up at a family karaoke night in the Philippines section of the ship because a Lola physically dragged him there after hearing him say he knew one Filipino word.
You’re already laughing before he even finishes. “She made me sing.”
“Oh no.”
“I didn’t know the song.”
“What song?”
“I don’t know,” he says defensively. “It had emotions.” You laugh so hard you nearly walk into the railing. “And then,” he continues with growing offense, “they scored me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“How bad?” You asked, and his silence answers for him, while you gasp dramatically. “Robinavitch!”
“I was set up.”
“You lost karaoke to Filipino titas?”
“They were vicious.”
You are fully doubled over laughing now, clinging to his arm while he watches you with that helplessly fond expression again, because the truth is, your joy itself is something sacred to him.
Eventually, your laughter softens into quiet again as you both stop near the railing overlooking the water. The sun hangs low now, huge and golden, while the skyline burns softly beneath it.
You lean against the railing beside him, shoulders brushing lightly in the cold. Softly, almost without meaning to, you say, “I’ve never really liked sunsets.”
Michael looks over immediately. “Why?”
You shrug a little, eyes fixed on the horizon. “They always made me sad.” The wind lifts your hair gently. “Like…” You pause, searching for the right words. “Endings, I guess.”
Your fingers curl together against the cold metal railing.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then quietly, you add, “But today…” You glance toward the water again, sunset painting everything gold and amber. “…today I like it.”
Michael’s expression softens instantly.
“It’s beautiful.”
He steps closer behind you then, both arms wrapping loosely around your waist while his chin settles lightly against your shoulder. The kind of closeness that quiets something restless inside you.
The river glows ahead in streaks of molten gold while the sun slowly sinks behind the skyline, buildings turning amber at the edges as evening settles over the city.
You lean back into him instinctively, and somewhere between the cold air and his heartbeat against your back and the way his fingers absentmindedly trace slow patterns against your coat, you realize something has changed inside you, too.
Ever since Robby showed up at your sister’s apartment, soaked from the rain, heart cracked open in his hands, asking you to come back, mornings have stopped feeling so heavy.
You used to wake up with dread sitting quietly in your chest. The kind that came from too many shifts, too much grief, too many years spent surviving instead of living. Even good things used to feel temporary. Fragile. Like happiness was something borrowed that would eventually be taken back.
But now—now you catch yourself looking forward to things.
Waking up to coffee in the kitchen while he stands there, sleepy and warm and annoyingly handsome. Hearing him shuffle down the hallway in the morning. To the way he always reaches for you first without thinking. To sunlight creeping through apartment windows while New York wakes up around the two of you.
You started looking forward to the sunshine greeting you every morning.
Because for the first time in a very long time, tomorrow no longer feels like something you have to endure alone.
Robby presses a soft kiss just beneath your ear.
“What’re you thinking about?” he murmurs.
You smile faintly, eyes still fixed on the sunset. “That maybe life doesn’t feel as scary anymore.”
His arms tighten around you slightly at that, while you turn your head slightly toward him.
“And I think…” Your voice softens. “I think you ruined me a little.” That earns the quietest laugh from him, warm against your skin. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“How?”
You glance up at him finally, and fuck, the tenderness in his face nearly undoes you again. “You made me want things.”
You can actually see the impact your words have on him happen. His expression falters slightly, emotion moving across his face too fast to fully hide. Because he knows exactly what you mean. Wanting things again is terrifying. It means hope, risk, and imagining a future and caring enough that losing it would hurt.
Robby’s hand slips into yours carefully, fingers threading together while the last light of sunset catches against the silver strands of his beard. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then quietly, honestly, he says, “Good.”
End Notes:
writing smut and fluff with my mood being all over the place is a testament to my meds and my therapist, so gg on that
lol sorry for not updating as frequently as before but I told you guys I was gonna take it slow for a bit cuz brain go brrrr and that one anon pmo lol
The whole pigeon and rat convo is based on an actual convo I have with my older sister, so… yeah.
^^It’s because we have to be smart all the time, so it’s fun to sometimes shut down your brain and think of silly, whimsical, “stupid” things.
Halfway through the haze of smut, I wrote I was like “OH SHIT PROTECTION WAIT—”
When they mentioned Ho'oponopono during S1 of the Pitt, I was like, oh my god I KNOW HOW I'M GONNA MAKE EM ADMIT THEY’RE IN LOVE— ahem anyways, Chekov's gun.
“Who took care of Bowie while you guys went out?” - Answer: The dog walker/ neighbor. Me. I am the dog walker. Just imagine me, Grace is the dog walker. He’s fine, guys dw. I, the author, deem him fine and alive. Gave him belly rubs, too.
Been switching back and forth with this, my Jack Abbot fic, and then the soulmate au I’m still cooking up on…
Anyways, yay, HR mess is gonna be fun. Dw, it’s light angst. I’m sure irl if this were to happen, HR would be unhappy! Cause ethics or whatever 😔
But I am the author, therefore I say… HR can eat my ass—
Ok, I’m tired. Thank you for reading my ramblings. If you made it this far, you get a cookie and a gold star.
summary: After years of mentoring under Dr. Michael Robinavitch, you’d become everything the ER joked about: his miniature clone. But when Robby begins pulling away, the comparisons stop feeling flattering and start feeling like preparation for a goodbye neither of you knows how to talk about.
tags/notes: platonic!mentorRobby, platonic!menteeReader, eldestdaughter/distantfather vibes, talks of robby offing himself, miscommunication, robby being an asshole (what's new though), arguing
an: I've been wanting to dip my toes in platonic!robby so here you go
wc: 9.9k
The ambulance bay doors slid open, and the Pitt was sent straight into its rolling pandemonium.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, crush injuring from scaffolding collapse,” the EMS rattled off while the gurney burst through the room in a storm of motion and noise. “Hypotensive enroute, decreased breath sounds left side, pelvic instability suspected—”
“Trauma one is open,” Dana announced, gray eyes looking at the patient over her glasses.
You slid automatically into position before anyone could call for a resident, already taking a place next to Robby before he even had to ask. Months ago, maybe even a year ago, you would’ve hovered at the edge of the bed waiting for instruction, careful not to take up too much space around the other residents and attending who carried significantly more years of experience in their pinkies than you possessed in your entire body. Now, however, after being thrown to the Pitt’s biting jaws through the worst of the worst, you moved with the flow of the room that felt like it had been stitched into your body. You planned in a way that screamed you were thinking one step ahead of the rest, even while they were doing the same. You stepped around Robby without colliding with him because you’d learned his habits so well you could almost taste where he’d turned before he did.
The patient cried out as they transferred him over in a wet, frightening sound that should have made your stomach twist if you were in any other career choice. Blood soaked through the side of his neon yellow work vest in slow spreading layers.
Robby’s voice cut through the room cleaning. “Chest rise diminished on the left. Collins-0”
“Not Collins,” Frank corrected from across the bed without looking up from where he was already cutting through clothing. “Some of us do need a break from your foreboding ambiance.”
Robby elected to ignore him completely. “BP?”
“Ninety over sixty and falling,” Princess answered.
You reached for the ultrasound before Robby even had to ask, earning you a raise of his eyebrows and a slight, almost humorous widening of his brown eyes. He had noticed but said nothing as he took the probe from your hand.
There was a reason people called him terrifying. Nothing, and you truly meant nothing, escaped him, not in medicine and scarily not in people. You’d once watched him identify a pulmonary embolism from the way a patient shifted uncomfortably in bed before labs even came back, and later that same week he’d pulled you aside after a grueling shift because you’d been quieter than usual and asked if you were sleeping enough. The man observed everything with the same relentless intensity that made the residents’ skin crawl just by being in the same area as him.
“FAST,” he ordered.
Already doing it, you thought, but years of self-preservation kept the comment behind your teeth.
Gel on skin. Probe down.
Your eyes tracked the monitor quickly, mind sorting through anatomy and shadowing and fluid collections fast enough that the room almost blurred out around you. Your heart skipped a beat when the screen finally showed you what you needed.
“There,” you said, holding the probe down in one spot. “Morison’s pouch.”
Robby leaned slightly closer, one hand braced against the bed rail beside you while he looked at the screen. You could feel the heat rolling off him through the sleeve of your scrub top, sharp citrus soap and stale coffee sitting familiar in your lungs.
“Yeah,” he said after half a second. “Good.”
Simple word for a complex man, and yet, it was enough to send warmth through your chest.
Frank looked over from the other side of the bed and sighed dramatically. “You know, some of us had to really work for validation around here.”
“You still do,” Princess hummed, eyes trained on the monitors around her.
“That’s hurtful.”
“It’s accurate.”
The patient started crashing before Frank could keep complaining. Blood pressure dipped again. Heart rate raced sporadically. One of the other nurses cursed under her breath as another IV line blew.
“We’re going to need a chest tube,” Robby muttered, hands raised as he waited.
You moved toward the instrument tray almost absentmindedly, hands reorganizing clamps and tubing while the nurse beside you struggled to tear the packaging open with slippery gloves. By the time Robby looked back down, everything sat in place exactly where he preferred. His eyes shifted back over to you again.
A delighted feeling cruised through your veins when recognition flashed in his eyes. Many of the residents, med students, and even nurses loudly prayed for at least a smidge of Robby’s praise to be sent their way. You somehow got it on a daily basis.
Nothing made your body sing more like his subtle acknowledgement of him knowing that you were so familiar with his methods that you’d started anticipating them before he voiced them aloud. It really shouldn’t have mattered to you as much as it did, but your entire residency had slowly rearranged itself around moments exactly like that.
Mix in a few daddy issues, and you’d really dug a hole for yourself that you didn’t really want to climb out of.
“Scalpel.”
You placed it into his waiting hand before the finally syllable fully left his mouth.
Frank snorted quietly from across the bed. “That’s unsettling?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What is?”
“Your synchronized trauma routine.” He looked between the two of you once before grimacing theatrically. “You know you do the same thing with your eyebrows now.”
Your nostril curled ever so slightly. “I do not.”
“You do,” he insisted. “You make that little judgement face Robby makes when somebody says something stupid.”
Robby didn’t even glance up from the procedure. “Most things people say are stupid.”
“That,” Frank pointed. “Exactly that. She did it to a med student yesterday.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “The kid tried to convince me that appendicitis presents in the left lower quadrant. What else was I supposed to do? Shake his hand and say congrats, you’re an idiot?”
Frank considered this was a pause. “Okay, yeah, you made the right choice.”
Princess laughed under her breath while adjusting pressure against the patient’s abdomen. “It’s honestly getting creepy at this point. They’re now starting to do the same posture too.”
You shifted your weight, mouth open and ready to argue, but Robby spoke first.
“She’s more tolerable than I am.”
Frank’s eyebrows lifted slowly before he looked at you with exaggerated pity. “He likes you. I hope you know that.”
Robby slid the chest tube into practiced precision. “Don’t make it weird, Langdon.”
“Too late. You take one intern under your wing, and now she follows you around like a very stressed duckling.”
“You’re just pissy Johnson didn’t do the same with you,” you shot back before looking back down to the patient. “Can we focus on the actively dying man, please, and not my flock tendencies?”
“We are,” Frank said. “I can multitask.”
Robby finally glanced up then, dry exhaustion written into every line and wrinkle of his face. “Somehow you became more irritating after marriage.”
“Stability gave me confidence.”
“Unfortunately.”
You bit back a smile as the room settled into a more controlled movement as the man’s blood pressure stabilized, his oxygen stats improved, and you could hear Garcia’s footsteps approaching for a surgery consult. The familiar rush of successful intervention loosened the tension slowly from your shoulders.
You reveled in this part.
Not the patient’s suffering, but the moment everything became more manageable again, the feeling of grabbing someone out of freefall with your bare hands and refusing to let go. You understood (maybe too well) why Robby had built his entire life around this feeling. It left you breathless like getting off a rollercoaster.
The patient was finally wheeled toward surgery a few moments later, leaving Trauma room one to sit in a strange aftermath that always felt louder than the trauma itself. Bloody gauze littered the floor. Someone peeled gloves off with a tired curse. Princess disappeared toward another room without ceremony.
You were wiping ultrasound gel off your forearm when Robby suddenly held out a chart toward you with no explanation. Your hand reached out and grabbed it, eyes already running over it with extreme precision.
“Walk me through the bleed,” he said, always the teacher.
Around you, a couple younger residents slowed subtly, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. They wanted to know if Robby’s protégé was as accurate as some people made you out to be.
You scanned the chart once more before answering. “Abdominal guarding worsened before the pressure drop. Bruising pattern suggested deeper impact than soft tissue trauma, and he stopped tracking conversation midway through transport.”
“Earlier.”
You frowned. “What.”
He gave you a look. “Earlier before transport. What’d you notice?”
Your brain rewound for half a breath. “Oh. The shoulder tension.” You looked bac up at him. “He was compensating before the vitals shifted.”
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
Fank leaned against the nurses’ station nearby, arms crossed and chest inflated. His eyes flickered over to Robby. “You know what’s upsetting? She answers questions exactly the same way you do now.”
You groaned softly, letting the chart swing down by your thigh. “Can everyone stop psychoanalyzing me during shift?”
“No. It’s enriching my work environment.” He grinned wickedly, pointing between you and Robby. “She even does the pause thing. You ask a question and suddenly you stare into middle distance like you’re consulting ancient prophecies.”
Robby scrubbed a hand over his forehead tiredly. “Langdon.”
“I’m just saying—” The raven-haired resident held up two arms in mock surrender. “If she starts emotionally neglecting interns we may need a divine intervention.”
You deadpanned. “You of all people shouldn’t be talking about emotional neglect. You cried during Toy Story 3.”
“The film was devasting.”
“The toys all lived, and yet you sobbed. Your children didn’t even shed a tear.”
“They have the emotional competence of a business man.”
Robby exhaled something dangerously close to a laugh before turning back toward you. “Did you eat today?”
Frank breathed in a hissing sound. “Oh, you’re so cooked.”
You shot him a quick glare before going for the most innocent, doe-like look that you hoped rivaled Samira’ eyes. “I had . . . a coffee.”
Like a balloon, Robby’s expression deflated. “Coffee’s not food.”
“It fills me up. Cream has protein, right?”
“Somehow you’ve made that worse in one breath.”
“Oh!” You suddenly remembered. “I had half a granola bar at like . . . ten.”
You’d think Robby would look more impressed by fish swimming the way it should than the way he was looking at you right in that moment.
“What time is it now?” he shot back.
You checked the clocked over his shoulder and instantly regretted it. “five-thirty.”
Frank somehow winced audibly. “See, this is exactly what Robby does!”
The glare he got in return from Robby was sharp enough that Dr. King in room five might not need a scalpel anymore if she reached up and grabbed the look instead. Thankfully, Frank Langdon new when he needed to step back, which was right now. His demeanor changed as he dropped his shoulders; you could practically hear the sarcasm sizzle out of his skin.
“I’m gonna go check on post-op before Dana gives me another boogery kid because I didn’t discharge someone fast enough,” he said lightly, pushing away from the counter. Then, as he passed you, his voice lowered. “Eat something before you pass out and make him develop a feeling.”
“Frank,” Robby warned.
“I’m leaving.”
He disappeared down the hall still grinning to himself.
You looked back toward Robby unconsciously mirroring the way Robby was also holding his face: pinched brows and the slightest pout on your lips. “He acts like we’re in a sitcom.”
“He acts like gossip built his entire personality.”
“That’s mean.”
“Eh, it’s a little accurate.”
You laughed softly, exhaustion pulling the sound lower than usual.
Robby watched you for a second afterward, gaze lingering just enough to turn your attention suddenly self-conscious. You’d gotten used to his intensity over time, but there were still moments where being perceived by him felt alarmingly thorough, as though he could line up every bad habit and stress fracture inside you with one glance.
“Does your knee hurt?”
You blinked. “How’d you know that?”
“You favor your right leg when your knee hurts. You’ve been shifting weight since the trauma so much you could sign up for a dance competition.”
You gawked before clamping your mouth shut with a chomp.
Because annoyingly enough, he was right. An old soccer injury had started throbbing three hours ago under your scrubs, but you’d ignored it so thoroughly you genuinely forgot it was visible to sway side to side.
“You notice way too much.”
He kind of eyed the whole department. “That’s my job.”
“That can’t possibly be healthy for your eyes.”
“No,” he agreed easily. “Probably not.”
Something about his casual honestly caught you off guard enough that you studied him for a moment. Somewhere between the past three months, exhaustion had carved deeper into his face. You’d started recognizing the signs while he started ignoring them. Quieter pauses, the headaches he pretended weren’t headaches, the way he pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose when charting got particularly brutal, the way he stopped existing after snapping at Gloria when she denied his request for the second time in a row.
Most people saw Dr. Robinavitch as this immovable force that haunted the ER like a ghost in a mid-century house people romanticized on Zillow.
You had started noticing his cracks because somewhere along the line, he’d stopped hiding them quite as carefully around you.
“You should sit down for ten minutes,” you said before thinking better of it.
One of his eyebrows lifted slowly. “. . . Did you try to assign your attending a break?”
“You’ve been here since six.”
“So have you.”
You smirked. “Yeah, but I’m young. My joints still contain hope and can bend without WD-40.”
His head nodded side to side slightly as he took in the quip. “You’re getting mouthier.”
“You accepted my terms and conditions when you personally walked me through that intraosseous access ten minutes into my first shift.”
“A mistake I continue to regret every night before bed.”
“You say that, but you keep answering my pages.”
“Hm.”
You fell into step beside him as he started down the hallway toward the physician workroom, both of you moving slower now that the leftover trauma adrenaline had burned itself out. Around you the emergency department carried on in restless motion: phones ringing, stretchers squeaking against tile, distant questions dissolving into static.
It struck you sometimes that the hospital had become its own kind of ecosystem for the two of you. Entire conversations carried out in passing glances across trauma bas. Shared coffees left untouched for hours. Long double shifts stitched together by dark humor and the unspoken understanding that both of you would stay longer than you should because leaving always felt harder than continuing.
“You know Frank’s right,” you said eventually.
“That’s the most concerning thing you’ve said all day.”
“About the posture thing.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
He sighed the sigh of a man deeply burdened by 24/7 nonsense. “You’re all incredibly dramatic. Is that a class they recently added in med school?”
“We literally huffed at the same time this morning while simultaneously crossing our arms.”
“That sounds more like a you problem.”
“It’s absolutely your fault.”
He side-eyed you. “You’re an adult. Legally your own responsibility.”
By the time you reached the workroom, the tension had dissolved almost entirely into familiar ease. You dropped into the chair beside his desk while he logged back into the computer with visible reluctance, shoulder sight beneath his navy scrubs and matching jacket you knew he owned three identical ones.
Without looking away from the screen, he slid a protein bar across the desk toward you. Much to your surprise (and delight), it was one of those IQ bars that were definitely too expensive for you to purchase on whim.
And it was the peanut butter one with chocolate chips.
Your favorite.
You stared at it and then at him. “You carry emergency protein bars for your residents now?”
“You forget meals with alarming consistency.”
His answer came matter-of-factly, as though that explained everything. Maybe to him it did, but to you, it lodged something warm painfully deep behind your ribs before you could even say thank you.
With a playful huff that said I’m going to eat this but not because you told me to, you reached forward and dragged it off his desk. Your fingers peeled the wrapper open quietly while he reviewed labs in silence in front of you, the room settling while the first burst of salty peanut butter hit your tongue. His typing was the only thing that droned on in the otherwise silent room, but you didn’t mind.
Because between that fateful intraosseous access and huffing at the same time after a patient said something incredibly stupid, you and Robby had found a way to sit in the quiet that no longer required effort to enjoy.
_______________________
By the final hour of Robby’s last shift before his sabbatical, the ER settled into a particular kind of weariness that made everyone meaner.
Monitors continued their endless chiming overhead, stretchers still rolled through ambulance bay doors every few minutes, nurses still moved at impossible speeds through overcrowded hallways, but the energy had shifted from morning urgency into something more frayed. Tempers shortened. Patience wore thin. Even the lights felt harsher this late into the shift, bleaching everyone pale in the wake of its glare.
You stood at the central workstation with a chart balanced against your forearm while a med student stumbled through a patient presentation beside you.
“. . . and since the pain radiates downward, we thought maybe pyelonephritis—”
“It’s gallstones,” you interrupted without looking up from the chart.
The student blinked. “But the flank pain—”
“Referred.” You flipped the page. “Positive Murphy’s sign, elevated bilirubin, pain onset after eating. If you anchor location before symptom progression, you’ll miss obvious pathology.”
The student stayed quiet, biting down on their bottom lip to keep from either speaking or crying. You couldn’t tell. A year ago, guilt would’ve hit immediately. But now, all you felt was a pure tiredness that only made you snappier. The student finally nodded and scribbled something down before retreating toward their patient’s room.
Behind you, Frank let out a low whistle. “Jeez,” he muttered around his coffee cup. “That one even sounded like Robby.”
Despite his teasing, you didn’t smile, didn’t roll your eyes, didn’t answer at all. The absence of a usual reaction sat strangely in the air as Frank’s smirk melted away. He leaned back in his chair, gaze flickering toward the opposite side of the department where Robby stood speaking with Dana near trauma three. Even from there, he could recognize the rigid set of his shoulders, the fatigue carved deep into his posture after weeks of increasingly brutal shifts and mounting administrative pressure surrounding his upcoming sabbatical.
Two months ago, he would’ve glanced toward you by instinct at least once during your conversation and evaluation with the intern. Now, Robby barely looked at you unless you were two feet away from him speaking directly about a case.
You hated how much you noticed despite the distance.
“Okay,” Frank drew out carefully after a second, “I’m officially banning everyone from saying that sentence for the next twenty-four hours.”
You kept scanning labs. “Saying what sentence.”
“You know which one.”
You placed the one chart down and picked up another harder than necessary. “People can say whatever they want.”
“Hm,” carried entirely too much skepticism, which you ignored entirely.
Across the room, Robby finally broke from Dana and started toward the workstation. Your body reacted before your brain caught up by your spine straightening slightly, your attention sharpening, your pulse kicking once beneath your sternum in the humiliating reflex of someone still waiting for approval you no longer received. The betrayal of it all made you angry every single time.
He stopped beside you without preamble, holding out a tablet. “Room’s twelve repeat troponin came back elevated.”
You took the tablet with a cocked eyebrow and lips halfway in a sneer. “I already paged cardio.”
“Not the issue.”
Your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly with that relentless distance he’d started using on you over the past few months, every interaction stripped down to correction and instruction and professional detachment sharp enough to cut you open if you even looked at him wrong.
You grazed the chart quickly. “His pain worsened after the repeat EKG.”
“You didn’t document that.”
“I was about to.”
“You should’ve already,” he spat before pursing his lips like he hadn’t meant for the words to slip out so violently.
To your side, Frank glanced very deliberately at his own computer screen.
You swallowed thickly, saliva and pride gliding down into your belly. “The consult was more important.”
Robby huffed. “How many times have I told you that documentation matters.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
A heated feeling flared in your chest at his insistence. He’d corrected you so many times before, the feeling shouldn’t have risen and burned, but he never used to correct you like that: without context, without conversation, without a lick of dry humor to soften the blows of his teachings. Every conversation since his sabbatical had been announced felt cleanly impersonal, as though he was sanding the relationship down on purpose until there was nothing left except chief attending and learning resident.
You handed the tablet back with more oomph than necessary. “I’ll fix the note.”
“Good.”
The wall was so high and incredibly thick that you wondered if anyone else could see it or if you were the only one still stupid enough to keep running into it headfirst.
Robby turned slightly towards a med student lingering nearby. “Walk with me.”
The student nearly jumped to attention.
You stared down at the chart in your hands hard enough the words started blurring together. Months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to ask you to join him at his side. Instead, he handed cases to other residents whenever possible, redirected questions, stopped sitting beside you during charting, stopped checking whether you’d eaten, stopped falling into those easy exhausted conversations s at 2 a.m. that used to make 24-hour shifts feel survivable.
When he stared doing it all, you convinced yourself that he was just busy. Then you moved on to him being tired and then stress before all you had left was the ugly realization that he was pulling away carefully enough to make his actions look unintentional.
Which somehow hurt worse than if he’d looked you in your face and said, “Because I’m leaving, I’m going to stop treating you like someone that matters to me and more like just another one of my residents.”
Frank watched Robby disappear down the hallway before looking back toward you.
“You know,” he said slowly, “for two of the smartest people I’ve ever met, you’re both handling this incredibly badly.”
You kept your eyes down, almost willing for the chart to blow up under your gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.”
“I’m trying to chart.”
“And you’re glaring at the chart hard enough to intimidate the lab results.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose.
“He’s scared.” Frank’s voice had softened, matching the way his eyes looked at you like he’d look at a stepped-on flower. With pity.
“Of what?” flew out of your mouth before you could trap it behind your teeth.
He paused; his hesitation made your stomach twist, because you’d never seen Frank Langdon hesitate as long as you’d been working at the Pitt.
He finally spoke one word: “You.”
A laugh turned scoff pushed through your lungs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Frank studied you a moment longer. “You know when everyone says that ‘you look just like him’ they mean it as a compliment, right?”
Something ugly curled low in your chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I know.”
Lately, the comparison sounded different than admiration. It sounded more like preparation for something that hadn’t happened yet. The department already talked about you stepping up to take on more responsibility after Robby left for sabbatical. Your fellow residents who had equal footing had started looping you into discussions they used to have with him. Nurses sough you out first during trauma overflow. Med students watched you during difficult cases with the same wary attention they watched him.
Every time someone laughed and called you “Baby Robinavitch” or joked that the ED had cloned its favorite workaholic, all you heard were just reminders that Robby was leaving, and you hated yourself for thinking it, hated him more for making the thought possible.
The overhead pager crackled suddenly before another ambulance alert rang through the department signaling an incoming trauma. Around you, the ER shifted gears like a character from a Fast and Furious movie.
Frank stood with a groan, tossing his empty coffee cup toward the trash. “Excellent. Maybe getting screamed at by surgeons will heal the emotional devastation around here.”
You rolled your eyes. “Doubtful.”
“Worth a shot.”
You followed him toward the trauma bay automatically, pulling gloves on while nurses rushed around preparing equipment. Robby was already standing near the ambulance doors, crossed arms resting against his chest. He didn’t look at you when you took your usual position beside him.
The paramedics burst through moments later with a teenager strapped to a backboard, blood matted through dark curls near her temple.
“Seventeen-year-old female, restrained passenger in MVA, brief LOC at scene—”
The next twenty minutes swallowed everything else whole. At least through Robby’s season of confused and surprised emotional warfare, medicine still made sense. Movement, priorities, protocols: you slipped seamlessly into their rhythm beside Robby despite everything that unraveled outside the trauma bay. You still handed instruments over before he asked, still anticipated orders, still caught a subtle pressure drop before monitors reflected it.
At one point, your hand brushed his wrist while passing gauze. Once upon a time, he would’ve made some dry comment about personal space or quip something about Do I need to hold your hand while you cross the street next? Now, he only stepped back slightly in a tiny movement that felt enormous.
By the time the patient stabilized enough for CT transport, sweat clung damp against the back of your neck, and your knee throbbed beneath your scrub pants. The room smelled sharply of saline and iron and overheated machinery while nurses weaved around on another in a practiced dance as the last of the bloody gauze disappeared into red biohazard bins.
Dana stripped off her gloves first. “Nice catch on the pressure change.”
You nodded absently, already reaching for the chart.
Almost like instinct, Frank pointed between you and Robby while reaching for fresh gloves. “See? Same brain. It’s disturbing.”
His comment landed differently than it used to. You felt the impact like a bruise that got pressed on too hard. Dana noticed the way your face pinched briefly. Frank did too, judging by the way his mouth shut halfway through his next sentence.
You knew you should have kept yours in your mouth, but the back and forth had your lips loosening. So, in hurt and emotionally drained fashion, you let your next statement fly.
“At least one of ours is working properly.”
Robby, despite every push back, finally looked at you. Really looked. And for one awful second, you though he understood exactly why it all hurt now. Why that every time someone said you were becoming him, or did something he did, or even claim you were morphing into his spitting image, all you could think about was how everybody spoke about his sabbatical with careful, rehearsed optimism.
A few months away.
He needs the rest.
It’ll be good for him.
Nobody said the possibility that he might leave the hospital and simply not come back out loud. But you heard it clear as day anyway. You heard it in the gentleness people used around him lately, in the way Dana watched him when he looked particularly exhausted, in the way residents had already started shifting responsibility toward you before he’d even gone.
They tiptoed around the possibility like they were already cushioning the impact in advance. Preparing the department slowly enough that nobody panicked. Replacing him piece by piece while he still technically belonged to the hospital for 35 more minutes.
You realized too late that the room had gone quiet around you the same way a theater quieted before the conductor started the show.
Robby’s gaze narrowed slightly down at you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Sorry,” you stated flatly. “Did you want me to document my emotional response too?”
Frank closed his eyes briefly; Dana muttered something like Good Lord under her breath; Robby went very still.
“You’re overtired,” he said evenly.
The lack of an exploding response snapped something inside you hard enough to make your pulse ring.
“That’s funny,” you answered before you could stop yourself. “I learned that from you.”
The room froze. Despite popular belief, no one gasped dramatically, the monitors didn’t stop screaming, and the ER kept moving around you the same way it always did, but inside the trauma bay, something tightened all at once, thin and dangerous as a piano wire.
Robby’s eyes locked onto yours. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Dana took a slow step backward while Frank looked like a man witnessing a controlled detonation.
Robby’s voice stayed low and borderline cold as he spoke your name in a warning. “This isn’t the place.”
You laughed softly with a brittle edge. “Right. God forbit anybody notices there’s a problem.”
“There isn’t a problem.”
Weeks—months—of him pulling away from you one careful inch at a time, and he still wanted to pretend none of it existed, pretend none of it scooped out your insides on painful spoonful at a time. You stared at him, suddenly furious enough to shake.
“Seriously?” you asked. “You stopped speaking to me unless it’s to criticize something. You hand my cases to other residents. You act like I’m inconveniencing you by standing in the same room, and now there’s suddenly no problem?”
Your voice rose pitches at least three times in those statements as you slowly were losing control on how you said things.
Robby pursed his lips once. “This is exactly what I mean,” he snapped. “You’re exhausted, you’re reactive, and you’re taking everything personally.”
“Because you—” Your finger jutted out and pointed right at his chest. “—made it personal!”
His jaw tightened below his beard. “Lower your voice.”
“No,” cracked out instantly.
Around you, nursed had started finding reasons to leave the bay.
Smart people.
“You don’t get to do this, Robby,” you continued, chest heaving now with something dangerously close to panic beneath your anger. "You don't get to spend years teaching me how to think and how to work and how to survive this place and then suddenly decide I’m too much of a problem to deal with.”
Robby glanced briefly toward the hallway before looking back at you. “You’re not a problem.”
“Then stop acting like you think I’m one before high tailing it out of here without a second thought!”
And there it was in all its twisted and emotionally stunted glory: the real thing.
Not the charting. Not the criticism. Not the endless cutting distance between you.
That ugly truth that no one was brave enough to say out loud.
Robby’s entire expression changed at once, exhaustion surfacing visibly beneath his waning control. “This is not about my sabbatical.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not,” he argued.
“Then what is it about?” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Because everybody else in this entire fucking department already acts like I’m supposed to replace you when you’re gone, and apparently you do too.”
He shook his head, eyes closing briefly. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“Really?” You took a step closer. “Because every time someone says I remind them of you or that I look like you or that I act like you, you look at me like I’ve done something wrong.”
His face gave you nothing, wordless confirming it all, making the hurt twist sharper inside your chest.
One single tear, with its own sheer will, slid down your cheek after you closed your eyes for half a second to breathe, a second for the room’s energy to lessen to a point that could be more manageable for everyone.
“You know what the worst part is?” you asked quietly. “I used to love hearing that.” Your tongue peaked out and wetted your lips. “You are the best doctor here. You care about people. You take the time to teach everyone no matter the circumstance. You made this place survivable, because if Dr. Robby could make it through then so could I.” You swallowed hard. “And now you can barely look at me.”
Robby paused for a moment before saying, “That’s not true.”
“Then look at me and tell me you’re coming back.”
For the first time since the argument started, Robby looked genuinely caught off guard as your demand landed between you and him with terrifying weight. He hesitated, and you took it right to the heart.
Your laugh came out in a shaky breath, closer to grief than humor. “Wow.” You blinked away the rest of the tears rapidly, hands coming to rest on your hips.
He said your name with such earnest you almost believed he wanted to make amends before “That’s not fair,” followed.
“No,” you replied, voice breaking harder now despite your best efforts. “What’s not fair is turning me into your pet project for three years and then deciding you’re done with me before you even leave.”
His eyes hardened. “That is not what this is, and you know it.”
“But I don’t. I don’t know what this is,” you told him. “Because from where I’m standing, it really looks like you’re trying to make leaving easier on yourself while the rest of us have to pick up your shit you left behind.”
“That’s fucking enough.”
“No, it’s not.”
The exhaustion, the fear, the months of swallowing every ugly feeling until they curdled into resentment finally erupted all at once like a shaken bottle of Coke.
“You know what?” you snapped. “Fine. Go.”
You watched in real time as Robby froze.
Your eyes burned with unblinked tears. “I’m serious. Take your three-month sabbatical. Leave us all behind wondering if you’ll ever step through the doors again.” You inhaled shakily, ready to give the final blow. “Maybe then we’ll finally realize the ER was better off without you anyways.”
The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. In its stillness, your anger vanished so quickly it left nausea behind.
Frank stared at you in horror.
Dana looked openly stricken.
Robby . . . It broke something inside as he looked at you like you’d just hit him with a tiredness you’d never seen before. It transformed his whole face. And for one terrible second, you saw how shattered he really was beneath all the sharpness and control and impossible competence he projected daily. How worn thin he’d become. How much effort it probably took just to keep showing up every day while everyone around him quietly waited to see if he’d finally break.
Guilt crashed into you so hard your hands started shaking, but pride kept your mouth shut.
In the end, Robby looked away first, and when he finally spoke, his voice had gone very quiet as he said your name. “Go home.”
You swallowed the creeping bile down. “Robby—”
“Go home,” he repeated, voice void of any anger, any hint of yelling, any edge of sharpness, just finality.
Dana moved slightly as though she wanted to intervene, but Frank caught her wrist subtly before she could.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed at something entirely related. A monitor alarm started beeping almost immediately afterward. The ER kept moving; hospitals never paused long enough for personal disasters.
You stared at Robby for another second, desperate suddenly for him to say something else, yell back, be angry, give you something to fight against besides that awful, exhausted distance settled back over his expression. But he only stepped around you and walked out of the trauma bay without another word.
And somehow that felt exactly like being left behind before he actual left.
_______________________
In the dying embers of the argument, the ER had mostly settled by the time the nightshift started filtering in during handoff. That frantic point of day shift dulled as nurses traded clipped updates at central stations while exhausted residents disappeared toward lockers or call rooms with the hollow-eyes look of people whose brains had stopped processing new information two hours ago. Pages still crackled through the halls, monitors still beeped intermittently from patient rooms, gurneys still traveled through ambulance doors under the forever buzzing lights, but the melody of it all shifted into a different key.
Robby sat alone at the nurses’ station staring at a chart he hadn’t actually read in the last five minutes with the argument replaying over and over again in shifts and flashes.
Maybe then we’ll finally realize the ER was better off without you anyways.
The words should have made him angry. Instead, they pounded against his ribs like he’d earned each kick. He harshly dragged a hand over his face slowly enough that his skin lagged behind the motion before snapping back with probably another wrinkle added. Everything around him blurred together in disconnected pieces. Dana argued with transport near triage, a nurse laughed tiredly somewhere down the hall, a supply drawer slammed shut with a distant metallic clang.
He knew he should have gone home already, should have already been on the road with his motorcycle rumbling between his legs down the highway. Yet, he kept finding reasons to stay. One more chart, one more patient review, one more handoff clarification. He wondered if leaning now would somehow solidify what had happened in trauma two.
“You look terrible, brother.”
Jack Abbot dropped into the chair beside him holding two coffees (Robby noted that they were from the cafeteria), one immediately shoved toward Robby without ceremony.
Robby accepted it but set it down quickly right after. “You say that every handoff.”
“Because every shift you look terrible.” Jack leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out with a groan that should have rumbled the table. “Age comes for us all.”
“You’re younger than me by four years.”
“And spiritually eighty-seven.”
Robby took a sip of coffee that tasted burnt enough to strip paint before finally looking toward his friend. Jack, despite already being there since the cyber-attack, had already changed into his night shift mode: more awake now, energy settling into place as the rest of the department started fading.
Jack’s gaze flickered once around the workstation before settling back on Robby. “Where’s your mini-me?”
Robby’s jaw clicked before he could stop it, something that Jack picked up on almost immediately.
A low whistle sung through Jack’s lips. “That bad?”
For a moment, Robby didn’t reply. Around them, the sounds of the ER swelled and receded in restless waves, mirroring what Robby was feeling on the inside. A part of him wanted to run after you, the other wanted to stand its ground after what he said.
Jack sighed quietly. “What happened?”
Normally, Robby would have brushed the question off, but the day had worn him thin enough that the words came easier than they should’ve.
“She’s been increasingly reactive for weeks,” he stated like he was reading off a patient’s symptoms. “Combative. Defensive. Every conversation either ends in an argument, or I get the silent treatment for the rest of the shift.”
Jack listened without interrupting.
“I’ve been trying to give her space before I leave,” Robby continued, eyes fixed somewhere past the computer screen now. “She’s too attached to this place already. To me.”
His admission tasted sour out loud.
Jack nodded along. “And today?”
Robby exhaled slowly through his nose. “Langdon made another joke about us being the same.” His eyebrows pinched as that part of the memory flashed over his eyes. “She snapped.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “What kind of snapped?”
“She accused me of pushing her away.”
“Are you?” Jack leaned back farther in his chair, studying him now with the same calm attention he usually reserved for difficult patients. “Oh,” he said after Robby failed to answer. “You really screwed this up, brother.”
Robby finally looked at him, neck snapping at a speed Jack should have been concerned for dislocation. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“She told me the ER would be better off without me.”
“And you think that happened in a vacuum?”
Irritation flared through Robby’s stomach. “Jack.”
“No seriously.” Jack gestured toward him with his coffee cup. “What exactly did you think was going to happen here? That she’d send you off with a card and a Good Luck after treating her like that for the past few months?”
“I was trying to make this easier on her, on everyone.”
Jack stared at him for one long moment before a disbelieving laugh barked out of him.
“You really don’t hear how you sound,” he muttered. His hazel eyes locked onto Robby’s brown ones. “She thinks you’re disappearing.”
Robby’s lips tugged into a deep frown, smile lines pointing the wrong way. “I told everyone it’s temporary.”
“Yeah,” Jack huffed. “And everybody talks about it like you’re dying.”
And somehow, Robby never thought of it like that. The realization felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down his scrubs in the way he froze under it all.
Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Come on, Robby. Look around lately. Dana watches you like she’s waiting for you to collapse. Langdon keeps making jokes because nobody knows how else to handle the fact that you’ve worked yourself half to death for years already.” His sharp features soften somehow like it’d lessen the blow. “And meanwhile she’s listening to everybody compare her to you while you slowly start handing pieces of your job over.”
Robby said nothing, because for the first time in months, he could see it how you saw it. Every joke about your similarities, every conversation about responsibility after his sabbatical, every careful smile people flashed his way lately, every time he’d pulled away desperate to make the separation cleaner safer.
He truly believed he’d been protecting you from becoming too dependent on him all while convincing you that he was preparing everyone for his absence—a permanent sounding absence.
Something must have inched across his face because Jack nodded once.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Now you see it.”
Robby’s back hit the chair in a silent protest, exhaustion suddenly feeling bone-deep while your words rang in his ears but this time from your perspective.
Then look at me and tell me you’re coming back.
You hadn’t said that in anger, but rather a deep and genuine fear that must have been festering since . . . well, his elaborate plan to make “space” started happening. Your type of fear wasn’t that he was leaving the hospital for a few months, it was that you believed one day he would simply stop existing in the shape the Pitt had built around him.
The same way Adamson had back in 2021. Not by abandonment but just gone, just someplace where no one living could ever reach him. The idea that you believed that hollowed out everything in his chest, leaving behind just an empty old heart.
“She said the ER was better off without me,” he finally ended with, voice cracking the way your heart probably did every time he pushed you away.
Jack’s lips curled into a thin line. “Yeah. And I’m guessing she looked about ready to cry when she said it.”
Robby looked down at the coffee and stared blankly at the small bubbles. “She already was.”
“Then congrats, brother,” Jack chuckled lowly. “You’ve officially hit the point where the kid starts saying horrible things because she thinks she’s losing you and doesn’t know how to fix it to where you come back.”
The word kid should not have affected him as much as it did. Robby was past the golden dreams of fatherhood the minute he bought the motorcycle during his so-called mid-life crisis. Yet, at some point, somewhere between overnight trauma shifts and cafeteria coffees and years of teaching you how to survive emergency medicine, he had stopped thinking of you as just another intern a long time ago.
And apparently you had stopped thinking of him as just another attending a long time ago too.
He closed his eyes, letting everything sink in down to his bones. “I need to find her.”
“Probably.”
He stood too quickly, chair scraping harshly against the tile, vision going a bit fuzzy from the change in bodily direction.
Jack eyed him carefully before asking, “You are coming back, right?”
Robby just glared sharply.
Jack held up a hand in defense. “I know. Stupid question.” He licked his lips. “But maybe say it out loud to her anyway.”
His advice thundered in Robby’s chest because no one had ever said something like that to him. Not during COVID, not after his mentor passed, not when the grief hollowed the entire department out for weeks after Pittfest when everyone kept working because there wasn’t anything else to do.
Nobody had sat him down, looked him in the eye, and said: I’m not leaving too.
Just before Robby could answer, Dana appeared from down a hallway with a chart against her hip. “You’re still here?” she asked, eyes narrowing when she took them both in. “Why do you two look like someone died.”
“We’re working on preventing an emotional catastrophe,” Jack answered.
Dana sighed. “Ah. So business as usual.”
Robby grabbed his zip-up jacket from the back of his chair. “Have you seen her?”
Dana’s pointed features softened instantly. “Yeah,” she said. “Thought she went home at first, but Langdon found her about twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?” he asked with a zealous to make things right before he lost one of the best things that’d ever happened to him.
Dana tilted her head toward the hallway leading deeper into the department. “In your office.”
_______________________
Robby’s office door stood half-open when he reached it with the inside light turned off.
Only the dim spill from the hallway stretched across the floor in pale bands, cutting through the darkness just enough for him to make out the shape of you sitting against the far wall beside his desk. He frowned. You hadn’t chosen the chair, not even close to it, just choosing the floor with your knees pulled loosely toward your chest, one arm draped over them while the glow from a laptop screen reflected faintly across your face. His desk chair sat abandoned a few feet away, turning crooked as thought you’d shoved it rather than use it.
You didn’t notice him standing there immediately. Your attention stayed fixed somewhere distant, eyes unfocused on the char opening in front of you. The exhaustion in your posture hit him harder than the yelling had. You looked wrung out, small despite the fact that he’d spent years watching you grow beautifully and more capable inside the hospital.
He wanted to take a few more minutes, prepare for what he was going to say, but the floor just had to creak softly beneath his show.
Your head jerked up at the sound with a guarded looking flashing across your face. When it clicked that Robby was the person in the doorway, you looked back down at the computer.
“Thought you went home,” you mumbled like a child who didn’t get ice cream for dessert.
Robby flicked the light on before closing the door fully with a soft click. “So did I.”
A pout tugged at your lips. “Forgot to finish my charts.”
“That’s a lie.”
You huffed a tired breath through your nose. “Yeah,” you admitted tiredly.
He stayed standing for another moment before finally crossing the office in slow, measured steps. You watched him approach this time, shoulders curling inward the closer he got, as though you expected another argument to start back up, another correction, another clean profession distance placed between the two of you with the most sterile goodbye he could manage.
To your surprise, Robby lowered himself to the floor beside you with a quiet groan of tired joints. He was close enough that his shoulder pressed almost deliberately against yours, and the contact nearly undid you on the spot.
The action was such a small thing, barely anything, but after months of him slowly stepping away every time you got too close, the solid warmth of him beside you felt almost unbearable and entirely unbelievable.
You let out a shaky and wet exhale at the same time Robby’s was just pure fatigue.
Your eyes strained at the floor between your shoes. “I didn’t mean it,” you finally confessed with closed eyes. “What I said before.”
“I know.”
You swallowed thickly around burning hot tears that welled too quickly in your eyes. “Still shouldn’t have said it.”
“No,” he agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”
His honestly almost made you laugh because that was the most Robby answer he could ever give you. He’d never lie just to make you feel better; that’s just not how the world worked. Beside you, his shoulder shifted more firmly against yours in a grounding and intentional choice.
Your lips pressed hard enough that they started shaking. “I thought you hated me,” you admitted before you could stop the words from slipping through.
The silence afterward felt too large for the small office.
Robby turned toward you fully, eyebrows furrowed like he didn’t believe that at all. “What?”
Your laugh cracked embarrassingly halfway through. “You stopped talking to me, started questioning everything I said while you let other residents call everything, wouldn’t look me in the eye unless you needed to.” Your throat tightened painfully. “I thought maybe you realized everyone was right, and I was turning into you too much and you just . . . didn’t want me around anymore.”
“Honey.”
The name shouldn’t have hit hard enough for tears to spill, but with one blink, a torrential downpour flooded down your cheeks. You covered your face quickly, humiliated by how fast you were suddenly crying, but Robby kept talking before you could apologize for it.
“That is not what happened.” He shook his head to really send it home.
“Then what was it?” you asked. “Because it really felt like you were getting ready to leave and making sure that I didn’t matter enough to miss you.”
You felt the way his shoulder stiffened follow by the way he stopped shuffling. Taking a peek at his face, your chest twisted at the sight of devastation plastered clear as day in his features, in the way his own eyes seemed glassy.
“Oh,” he breathed out, chest visibly deflating with the word.
“I know it sounds stupid,” you whispered. “I know you said it’s temporary, I know everyone keeps saying it’s temporary, but—” Your voice broke hard enough you had to stop for a second. “Everybody talks about you like you’re planning to die.”
Robby looked away sharply.
A shuddering breath filled your lungs. “You’ve been exhausted for years. Dana watches you constantly. Frank keeps making jokes every time the word sabbatical gets thrown around because no one knows how else to act. Dennis is freaking out about watering your plants and is constantly wondering if he even gets to message you about them while you’re away. And they all keep talking about me taking over things while you’re gone and—” A hiccup cut you off. “And then you started pulling away.”
The office fell silent except for the faint hum of the old air conditioner overhead.
When Robby finally spoke again, his voice sounded rougher than usual. “I thought I was helping.”
You wiped angrily under your eyes. “By pretending I didn’t exist.”
“By making sure you’d be okay without me.”
Each thing he said hurt you so badly that you couldn’t help but laugh through the tears at his stupidity. “That’s the problem. You sound like you’re dying.”
For a second, neither of you moved. And then Robby, poor old man Robby with his complicated feelings, leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees while one hand covered part of his mouth hard enough you watched him drag in a slow breath through his fingers like a cigarette.
"Oh, kid."
The grief in his voice was the final straw, breaking everything open inside you completely. You bent forward before you could stop yourself, crying in earnest now; silent at first, shoulders shaking beneath scrubs that desperately needed a wash while months of fear and bubbling anger and hurt finally collapsed under their own weight.
At the sound of your sobs, Robby turned toward you fully. “Hey,” he said gently. “Hey.”
One of his hands rose and settled carefully against the back of your head. The other wrapped around your shoulder before he pulled you into him. The moment your forehead hit his shoulder, you broke. Your sobs weren’t anything graceful like the movies where the girl’s makeup stays perfect; they weren’t quiet like some people could manage; they were loud with waves of devastated tears soaking straight into the front of his scrub top while he held you with one arm tight around your back and the other cradling the back of your head protectively against him in the same way he held Baby Jane Doe hours earlier.
“I’m s-sorry,” you choked out uselessly.
“No.” He hushed you firmly. “None of that.”
“I didn’t mean it, I swear—”
“I know.”
His hand moved slowly through your hair in long, grounding movements from the top of your skull to the base.
“You listen to me,” he said quietly into your hair before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes looked tired but achingly clear. “I am not dying.”
You pulled in a gasping breath.
“I’m not disappearing,” he continued. “I’m not going to vanish on you. I’m taking three months because Dana threatened bodily harm if I didn’t stop working eighty hours a week.” He cooed your name when a watery laugh escaped you. “There you are,” he murmured barely above a whisper. “Good.”
You wiped uselessly at your face again. “You can’t blame me for thinking something was wrong.”
“I know.”
“You looked miserable every day.”
“That’s because this place is terrible.”
“You love this place.”
“Horrible character flaw. Writers should have done better.”
Another tiny, broken laugh escaped, but Robby’s face melted fully for the first time in months at the sound. Suddenly, like a door opening to another universe, you could see Robby again—the version of him you’d been missing so badly underneath the distance. Yes, he was still run through and emotionally constipated beyond belief but still him, still yours in the strange, complicated way mentorship sometimes became family before either person noticed.
You sighed loudly. “You should’ve just told me.”
“I should’ve.”
“You’re supposed to be the emotionally intelligent one.”
Robby looked genuinely offended. “That has literally never been said about mel”
You laughed harder through the remnants of tears, forehead dropping briefly against his shoulder again. He thankfully let you stay there, not rushing, not teasing to bring a heat to your cheeks, just keeping one hand stead at your back while the other rested warmly against your hair.
After a while of catching up on lost moments, he spoke more quietly. “For the record, the ER would not be better off without me.”
You groaned, nose practically smushed into his collarbone. “Fuck off.”
“I’m just saying, objectively, moral would plummet, satisfaction scores would drop down to the floor.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Hm.”
You stayed there before finally pulling back, eyes misty again as another question sat behind your teeth. “Are you really coming back?”
“Yes.” There wasn’t any hesitation on his part. “Yes. I’m coming back.”
Your chest ached with relief so sudden it almost felt painful. Robby was able to catch the way it made your whole body melt against his in real time.
“And if you want,” he added slowly, “you could come up for a weekend.”
You blinked. “What?”
“The cabin.”
“You’re inviting me to your creepy forest recovery era? Have you ever seen a horror movie?”
“It’s a lake.”
“Same concept. Serial killers don’t pass over doctors.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You could get out of the hospital for forty-eight hours. Dana claims the fresh air prevents personality disorders.”
“That feels medically inaccurate.”
“Probably.”
“But Dana’s smarter than us combined.” You smiled, teeth poking through, eyes still red and swollen.
Robby looked down at you, almost burning this version in his mind to remember what he almost made himself lose, before reaching over and brushing his thumb carefully under one eye, catching the last tear there with a gentleness so careful it nearly unraveled you all over again.
“You know,” he added, “you don’t actually have to become me to be a good doctor.”
You let the words sink into your system, ones that you’d been so wired to accept that they almost felt foreign coming from him. He wasn’t warning you this time but giving a gentle reassurance that, yes, you could do just fine without him.
Even if you wanted to keep choosing to follow him for a long while.
You leaned back against the wall beside him, shoulder once again pressing against his. “Good,” you muttered. “Because your coping mechanisms are terrible.”
Robby barked a tired laugh beside you. “Yeah. Gotta work on that too.”
For a long while after that, neither of you moved from the office floor.
The Pitt continued around in muffled motion, but for the first time in months, the unnamed space between you and Robby no longer felt fragile enough to shatter under one wrong word. He stayed pressed against you, solid and familiar, and every so often his hand would tap absently against your arm like he was reassuring himself you were still there too.
Eventually, the exhaustion would catch up to both of you. Robby would leave for his sabbatical, and you would stay behind in the ER he’d helped shape around himself for years. But now there was something steady thrumming along under the fear where there hadn’t been before: the quiet certainty that he was coming back, and then the equally terrifying realization for Robby that someone wanted him to.
READ-A-THON ANNOUNCEMENT: you and robby announce to your pre-k class you’re pregnant during a read-a-thon.
GRAYCEE SPEAKS: this is a shorter one, but it’s still sooo cute!!! read more about mama and robby here!
JOIN MY TAGLIST!
four months pregnant is when it stops being a secret you can hide with good posture and loose sweaters.
not completely.
but enough that you notice it in small, annoying ways.
the way your pre-k kids start staring at your midsection like it’s suddenly part of the curriculum.
the way one of them asks, very seriously, if you “ate a whole watermelon without telling anyone.”
the way you find yourself resting a hand there more often without meaning to, like you’re checking in on something only you can feel.
you and robby had already agreed on one thing early on:
they knew you were married.
they did not know about the baby.
not yet.
because pre-k is chaos in its purest form, and you both agreed there should be at least one calm adult decision left in this situation.
or at least… semi-calm.
readathon day is always louder than it has any right to be.
your classroom is a field of tiny bodies in pajamas, stuffed animals being introduced to each other like diplomats, and blankets forming what can only be described as questionable architecture.
you’re halfway through morning circle when it starts again.
“MRS R,” one of them says, squinting at you like they’ve discovered a mystery, “YOUR BELLY IS BIGGER.”
you pause.
slowly set down the book you were holding.
“my belly is normal,” you say carefully.
another kid leans forward.
“NO IT’S NOT.”
you sigh.
this is how negotiations begin in pre-k.
you’re saved, as always, by chaos that isn’t your own.
the door opens.
and they immediately notice.
because they always notice him.
robby stands in the doorway with the same hospital badge clipped to his scrubs, stethoscope hanging like it’s become part of his body, book in hand.
he looks tired in that er-doctor way that never fully goes away.
but when he sees the room—
something shifts.
like he steps into a different version of himself.
you already know what’s coming.
“readathon volunteer,” he says.
the reaction is instant.
“IT’S HIM!!!”
“THE BABY DOCTOR!!!”
you close your eyes briefly.
“we are not calling him that,” you mutter under your breath.
he hears you.
his mouth twitches slightly like he’s trying not to smile.
your kids are already vibrating with excitement.
because to them, robby is now:
1. your husband
2. the man who reads books
3. medically important
4. emotionally fascinating
he steps inside like he belongs there.
because, unfortunately for your sense of order, he does.
he starts reading like he always does.
calm. steady. voice dropping just enough to pull a room full of four-year-olds into focus like he’s done it a hundred times before.
which, at this point, he basically has.
you lean against your desk and watch.
not the book.
him.
the way he doesn’t flinch when someone sneezes directly into the emotional climax of a story.
the way he just pauses, waits, continues.
the way your kids treat him like a visiting authority on everything from dinosaurs to feelings.
one of your students suddenly raises a hand mid-page.
“ARE YOU AND MRS R MARRIED FOR REAL??”
robby doesn’t even hesitate.
he looks up.
then at you.
you lift your eyebrows like don’t you dare make this worse.
“yes,” he says simply.
instant cheers.
like this is the most satisfying answer in human history.
you shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
“we’ve lost control of them,” you whisper.
he glances at you briefly.
“we never had it,” he replies.
fair.
he finishes the book.
closes it.
sets it down.
and instead of immediately leaving like most volunteers, he stays standing at the front of the rug.
that’s your first clue something is different.
your second clue is the way he looks at you again.
a little longer than usual.
a little more deliberate.
you narrow your eyes slightly.
“what?” you mouth.
he doesn’t answer.
instead, he turns back to the class.
and the room quiets almost instantly.
because even pre-k kids can feel when the tone changes.
“okay,” he says gently. “i need to tell you something.”
you sit up straighter.
this is not part of the usual routine.
a kid whispers loudly:
“IS IT ABOUT A BABY??”
you choke slightly.
robby pauses for half a second.
then nods.
“yes,” he says.
the room detonates.
not even a full sentence later.
just yes.
immediate chaos.
“OUR BABY???”
“MRS R’S BABY??”
“DOES IT HAVE A NAME??”
you step forward instinctively.
“okay, okay—everyone calm down—”
but robby lifts a hand slightly.
not to stop you.
just… to steady the room.
and somehow, it works.
they quiet down again.
you look at him.
he takes a breath.
“mrs r is pregnant,” he says calmly.
silence.
real silence this time.
even for pre-k.
then—
“WHAT DOES PREGNANT MEAN??”
you press a hand to your forehead.
robby answers immediately.
“it means there’s a baby growing in her belly.”
another pause.
then the explosion returns.
louder this time.
more emotional.
“IN HER BELLY??”
“LIKE INSIDE??”
“DOES IT HAVE TO COME OUT??”
you laugh helplessly now, because there is no managing this level of honesty.
“yes,” you say carefully. “eventually.”
a child gasps like you’ve just revealed ancient prophecy.
you don’t notice when robby moves closer to you until he’s beside your desk.
not touching.
just there.
anchoring the space.
a kid raises their hand dramatically.
“IS HE THE DAD??”
the room freezes again.
you feel your face warm instantly.
pre-k does not understand privacy. pre-k understands only information distribution.
you glance at robby.
he looks at you.
and this time, there’s no hesitation.
“yes,” he says.
instant celebration.
like they’ve solved a mystery.
like the world is now correct.
you drop your head into your hands.
“this is why we don’t tell them things,” you mutter.
robby leans slightly toward you, voice low.
“they were going to figure it out anyway,” he says.
you glare at him through your fingers.
“you’re enjoying this.”
he doesn’t deny it.
after that, the rest of the classroom becomes a different kind of chaos.
not confusion anymore.
something closer to excitement.
kids immediately start planning.
one declares they will “help the baby learn shapes.”
another insists the baby will need a favorite color and volunteers blue without consulting anyone.
someone starts a debate about whether babies can attend show-and-tell.
you are outnumbered.
completely.
when things finally settle back into centers, robby lingers near your desk again.
the room hums with quiet play.
blocks clacking.
pages turning.
small voices narrating imaginary worlds.
he looks down at you.
“you okay?” he asks softly.
you exhale.
long.
slow.
then nod.
“yeah,” you say. “just… overwhelmed.”
he hums slightly in understanding.
then adds, quieter:
“you’re showing more.”
you glance down.
he’s right.
four months has stopped being invisible.
not obvious to everyone yet.
but enough for him.
always enough for him.
you let out a breath.
“we’re not going to survive the next five months,” you say.
he snorts softly.
“we’ll survive it,” he corrects.
you look at him.
“you’re very confident for someone who just got interrogated by four-year-olds.”
“i work in the er,” he says. “this is calmer.”
you laugh despite yourself.
he reaches under the desk then.
finds your hand.
squeezes it once.
“they’re excited,” he says.
you glance back at your class.
your students.
your tiny loud unpredictable world.
“yeah,” you admit. “they are.”
a pause.
then you look at him again.
“you could’ve warned me before you told them,” you say.
he shrugs slightly.
“didn’t want them to miss the moment.”
you groan.
but you’re smiling.
because somehow—
somehow this chaos feels less like something happening to you.
and more like something happening with you.
together.
in a room full of pre-k kids who now believe they are personally involved in the creation of a baby.
The realization does not come in some dramatic, cinematic moment, no swelling music or sudden gasp into a mirror, but instead in the quiet, mundane stillness of your bathroom at six in the morning, the kind of early where the world feels paused and the city outside your window has not yet decided to wake up, and you are standing there barefoot on cold tile, staring at a thin plastic stick in your hand like it might suddenly change its mind if you look at it long enough.
You had not meant to take the test today, not really, telling yourself over the past few days that you were just late because of stress, because of the long shifts, because of the way your body sometimes ran on chaos and caffeine instead of anything predictable, but something had nudged at you this morning, something quiet and persistent, and now here you are, heart thudding too loudly in your chest as two unmistakable lines stare back at you.
Pregnant.
The word does not feel real at first, does not settle into your bones the way it should, and you find yourself sitting down slowly on the edge of the bathtub, the test still clutched in your hand as your mind tries to catch up with what your body apparently already knows, and for a moment you simply breathe, long and slow, as the weight of it begins to press in. There is no panic, not exactly, but there is a sharp, dizzying awareness that your life has just shifted on its axis in a way that cannot be undone, and then, almost immediately after, there is Robby.
Of course there is. Your lips press together as you let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, because if there is one thing you know with absolute certainty, it is that this is not something you will face alone, not with him, not ever, and that thought steadies you in a way nothing else could. Still, the idea of telling him sends a flicker of nerves through you, not because you fear his reaction, but because it matters so much, because this moment will live somewhere permanent between the two of you, and you want it to be… right.
You glance down at the test again, then set it carefully on the counter as you push yourself to your feet, already running through possibilities in your head, all the ways you could say it, all the ways you could make it special, and yet nothing feels quite like you.
By the time you leave your apartment, the sun is just beginning to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of gold and pink, and you find yourself driving to the hospital with your hand resting absently over your stomach, as if that small, unconscious gesture might somehow bridge the gap between knowing and believing.
The shift passes in a blur, though you manage it well enough, slipping into your rhythm, your routine, but there is an undercurrent to everything now, a quiet awareness that hums beneath every conversation, every patient interaction, every passing glance at the clock, because you are waiting. Waiting for the moment you see him.
It is late afternoon when it finally happens, the familiar sound of his voice cutting through the noise of the floor before you even spot him, and your head lifts instinctively, eyes searching until they land on him across the room, and there is something about the sight of him that hits you differently now, something deeper, heavier, fuller.
Robby looks tired, you notice immediately, the kind of tired that settles into his shoulders and pulls at the corners of his eyes, but when he catches sight of you, there is that shift, that softening that is just for you, and it warms something in your chest as he makes his way over.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, familiar, as he steps into your space, his hand brushing lightly against your arm in a way that feels grounding, instinctive.
“Hey,” you echo, and for a moment you just look at him, really look at him, and it almost feels like you are holding a secret too big for your own skin.
His brow furrows slightly, picking up on it immediately because of course he does, because he always does. “What’s that look for?”
You shake your head lightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you step closer, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, and for a second you just breathe him in.
“Nothing,” you murmur, though the word is soft, almost teasing, and it earns you a narrow-eyed look.
“Yeah, no, that’s not nothing,” he says, voice tinged with suspicion but softened by affection, and you can see the faintest hint of a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.
“How’s your temper right now?” You ask softly.
“Tempers?” Robby’s eyebrows furrowed. “Fine?”
You tilt your head, studying him for a beat longer, letting the moment stretch just enough, and then you lean in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his lips, the kind that catches him off guard just slightly, his hand coming up to your waist as he leans into it. When you pull back, you do not go far, your lips still close enough to his that your words brush against them when you speak.
“Good,” you say softly.
He blinks, clearly thrown. “Good… what?”
Your smile deepens just a fraction, something almost mischievous flickering in your eyes as you hold his gaze for one more heartbeat, letting the moment hang.
“Because I’m pregnant.”
The words land between you with a quiet finality, simple and unadorned, and for a split second, nothing happens. Robby just stares at you. There is a flicker of something in his expression, something unguarded and raw, like his brain is trying to process what you just said and has not quite caught up yet, and you can almost see the exact moment it does.
“…what?” he breathes, the word barely more than air.
You do not answer him again, not right away, because you can feel your own nerves starting to creep in now that it is out there, now that it is real between the two of you, and instead you simply press one more quick, soft kiss to his lips, your hand sliding briefly along his jaw.
“I’ll meet you after your shift,” you say lightly, as if you did not just alter the course of both of your lives in a single sentence.
And then you step back. And walk away. You do not look back as you go, though you can feel his gaze burning into you, can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to catch up, and it is only when you turn the corner that you let out a breath you did not realize you were holding, your hand once again drifting to your stomach.
Behind you, Robby still has not moved. Still standing exactly where you left him, staring after you like the ground has shifted beneath his feet, one hand lifting slowly to drag through his hair as a disbelieving, breathless laugh escapes him.
“Holy shit.”
******
If there is one thing you learn within the first ten minutes of your next shift, it is that telling Robby you are pregnant has fundamentally altered something in his brain.
Not subtly. Not gradually. Immediately.
It starts small enough, almost easy to ignore at first, the way his eyes track you more closely than usual as you move through the floor, the way he appears at your side during your first case without being asked, his presence steady and quiet but unmistakably deliberate, and you tell yourself it is just him processing, just him adjusting, just him being… Robby. Until it isn’t.
“Give me that,” he says about twenty minutes in, already reaching for the chart in your hand before you can respond, his tone calm but firm in a way that makes you blink.
“I’ve got it,” you reply evenly, not pulling it away but not relinquishing it either, your grip steady as you meet his eyes.
“I know you do,” he says, just as evenly, though there is something underneath it now, something tighter, more controlled, “but I’m taking this one.”
You hold his gaze for a beat longer, searching his expression, and what you find there is not doubt in you, not a lack of trust in your ability, but something else entirely, something that makes your chest tighten in a way you do not quite understand yet.
Still, you let him take it. Just this once. Except it is not just once. It happens again in the next case, and the one after that, subtle shifts that anyone else might miss but that you feel acutely, the way he positions himself slightly between you and a combative patient, the way he steps in before you can when things get tense, the way his hand finds your back, your arm, your shoulder, grounding and guiding all at once, as if he needs constant reassurance that you are right there. At first, it is almost… endearing. Almost. Until it starts to grate.
“Robby,” you say quietly an hour later, catching him as he once again intercepts a task you were fully capable of handling, your voice low enough that it does not carry but firm enough that it makes him pause, “I’m fine.”
“I know,” he says again, like a reflex now, but he does not step back.
You exhale slowly, patience thinning just slightly. “Then stop acting like I’m not.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and for a moment you think you might have gotten through, that he might ease off, but then he nods once, short and clipped, and says, “Just let me handle this one.”
Something in you bristles at that, something sharp and instinctive, but you swallow it down, because you are at work, because this is not the place, because you know him, and you know this is not coming from a place of control. It is coming from somewhere else. That understanding, however, does not make it any less frustrating.
By the time your shift ends, the tension has built into something you can no longer ignore, a tight coil in your chest that follows you out into the parking lot, the evening air cool against your skin as you make your way to your car, your steps a little sharper than usual. You hear him before you see him.
“Hey.”
You stop, but you do not turn immediately, closing your eyes for half a second as you gather yourself, and then you pivot to face him, arms crossing over your chest.
“What was that today?” you ask, skipping any pretense of casual conversation, because there is no point.
Robby slows as he approaches, clearly caught off guard by the directness of it, his brows drawing together slightly. “What?”
“You know what,” you reply, your voice still controlled but edged now, frustration bleeding through despite your best efforts, “every case, every patient, you stepping in like I can’t do my job.”
“That’s not what I was doing,” he says immediately, the response quick, almost defensive.
“It is exactly what you were doing,” you counter, taking a step closer, your eyes locked on his, “I’ve been doing this just fine without you hovering over my shoulder.”
“I wasn’t—” he starts, then cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair as he exhales sharply, clearly searching for the right words, and that is when you see it again.
Not frustration. Not anger. Fear. It is subtle, buried under layers of control and composure, but it is there, flickering behind his eyes in a way that makes your own anger falter just slightly.
“I just…” he begins again, slower this time, his voice quieter, more measured, “I need to know you’re okay.”
You stare at him, something in your chest shifting, but you hold your ground. “I am okay.”
“I know,” he says, and there is that word again, but this time it sounds different, heavier, like it is not quite enough on its own, “but it’s not just you anymore.”
The words land softly, but they hit harder than anything else he has said, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.
“I don’t know how to just… turn that off,” he admits after a beat, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to yours, raw and honest in a way that makes your breath catch, “you told me that, and then I came in today and every worst-case scenario I’ve ever seen just—” he stops himself, jaw tightening, like he does not want to finish that thought out loud.
Your arms loosen where they are crossed over your chest, your anger slipping through your fingers as something else takes its place, something softer, something that aches in a way you were not expecting.
“I’m not fragile, Robby,” you say, though your voice has lost its edge now, gentler, quieter.
“I know you’re not,” he replies immediately, stepping closer, his hands hovering like he wants to touch you but is not sure if he should, “you’re the strongest person I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to care about this.”
About you. About the baby. He does not say it outright, but it is there, threaded through every word, every look, every breath. And something in you cracks.
It is not dramatic, not sudden, but it is there, a shift deep in your chest as the full weight of it settles in, the reality that he is not trying to control you, not trying to undermine you, but trying, maybe a little clumsily, maybe a little too intensely, to protect something that already means everything to him. To both of you. Your throat tightens before you can stop it, your eyes stinging as the emotion sneaks up on you, fast and overwhelming, and you let out a shaky breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.
“Wow,” you murmur, blinking rapidly as you look away for a second, caught off guard by your own reaction, “okay, that’s new.”
Robby’s expression shifts instantly, concern flooding in as he steps fully into your space now, his hands finally settling on your arms. “Hey—what happened?”
You shake your head, a breathless, disbelieving sound escaping you as you swipe at your eyes, the tears already spilling over despite your efforts.
“Nothing, I just—” you let out another small laugh, the absurdity of it hitting you all at once, “you’re being really sweet and now I’m crying in the parking lot like an idiot.”
His brows lift slightly, the tension easing just a fraction as something softer replaces it, something almost amused despite the concern still lingering in his gaze. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Tell that to my face right now,” you mutter, gesturing vaguely to the tears you are very much failing to hide.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, one hand coming up to gently brush under your eye, catching the tear before it falls. “Pretty sure this is my fault.”
“Yeah, it is,” you agree without hesitation, though there is no bite to it, only a fragile sort of warmth that settles between you.
He studies you for a moment longer, something thoughtful passing through his expression, and then he sighs softly, shaking his head like he is making a decision.
“Alright,” he says, his tone shifting into something a little more resolute, “come on.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Come home with me,” he clarifies, his hand sliding down to take yours, his grip firm but gentle, “you’ve had a long shift, you’re crying in a parking lot, and I’m apparently hovering like a psychopath, so we’re done here.”
A small, watery laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re not a psychopath.”
“Debatable,” he mutters, tugging lightly on your hand, and you let him, your resistance gone somewhere between the honesty in his voice and the way he is still holding you like you might slip through his fingers if he lets go.
“Robby—” you start, though you are not entirely sure what you were going to say.
He glances back at you, his expression softening in that way that always undoes you just a little. “Just… let me take care of you tonight, okay?”
The words are simple, but there is something behind them, something steady and unwavering, and you feel that crack in your chest widen just enough to let it in.
You nod. And this time, when he leads you toward his car, you go willingly, your hand tightening slightly in his as the reality of everything settles around you, not heavy, not overwhelming, but… shared. And for the first time since that quiet morning in your bathroom, it feels completely, undeniably real.
******
By the time you reach thirty-two weeks, pregnancy is no longer something soft and abstract, no longer a quiet secret tucked beneath your ribs or a distant reality you can fold neatly into your day, but instead something immediate and consuming, something that lives in your bones and your joints and every aching muscle in your body, a constant, undeniable presence that reminds you with every step, every shift, every breath that you are carrying more than just yourself now.
You are tired in a way that sleep does not fix. Your back aches in a deep, persistent way that stretches from your shoulders down to the base of your spine, your feet throb by the end of every shift no matter how good your shoes are, and there is a heaviness low in your body that makes even the simplest movements feel deliberate, measured, as if your body has started negotiating with gravity and is slowly losing.
Still, you work. Of course you do. Because you are you, because stopping has never come naturally, because even now you refuse to be sidelined, and though your pace has slowed and your patience wears thinner at times, you are still there, still moving, still showing up in a way that makes more than a few people quietly shake their heads in something that looks a lot like respect.
Robby, however, is not one of those people. He watches. Always.
Not in the suffocating, overbearing way he did in those first few days after you told him, not hovering over every case or intercepting every task, but something more refined now, something quieter and far more intentional, his attention settling on you in the spaces between, in the way he tracks the set of your shoulders, the way he notices when you shift your weight too often, when you press your hand to your lower back just a second longer than usual.
It is not constant interference anymore. It is constant awareness. And it is somehow worse.
“Sit down.”
You do not even look up from the chart in your hand as the words land beside you, your jaw tightening slightly as you continue writing. “No.”
There is a pause.
Then, “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
You exhale slowly through your nose, finally lifting your gaze to meet Robby standing beside you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his expression calm but carrying that familiar edge of quiet insistence.
“I’m in the middle of something,” you reply evenly, though there is a thread of weariness beneath it now, something that betrays you just a little.
“I can see that,” he says, not missing it, not missing anything, “you’ve also been on your feet for the last four hours.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he counters, just as evenly, and there is no bite in it, no argument for the sake of being right, only a simple statement that lands heavier than you want it to.
You hold his gaze for a moment longer, ready to push back, ready to dig your heels in out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else, but then your back twinges sharply, a quick, unwelcome reminder that your body is, in fact, not entirely on your side right now, and your shoulders sag just slightly in response. Robby notices immediately. Of course he does.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer now, stepping closer, his voice lowering so it does not carry beyond the two of you, “that’s what I thought.”
You open your mouth to argue anyway, because it is instinct at this point, but before you can get the words out, he moves behind you, his hands settling gently at your hips, firm but careful, like he is always acutely aware of exactly how much pressure to use.
“Robby—”
“Just a second,” he says quietly, and there is something in his tone that makes you pause, something steady and grounding, and before you can question it further, his hands shift slightly, sliding under the curve of your stomach, and then he lifts. Not much.
Not enough to startle or strain, but just enough to take the weight, just enough to ease that constant, dragging pull that has been sitting low in your body for weeks now, and the relief is immediate, unexpected, almost overwhelming in its simplicity. Your breath catches.
“Oh,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it, your eyes closing instinctively as your entire body softens, tension you did not even realize you were holding loosening all at once as you lean back into him.
He adjusts slightly behind you, one arm braced, the other steady, holding you there like it is the most natural thing in the world, his chest warm against your back, his breath brushing lightly against your hair.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You let out a quiet, almost helpless laugh, your head tipping back just enough to rest against his shoulder. “Don’t you fucking move.”
He huffs softly behind you, something that might be a quiet smile pressing into your hair. “Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.”
For a moment, the noise of the floor fades, the chaos and movement and urgency slipping into the background as you stand there in the middle of it, held up quite literally by him, and it is such a small thing, such a simple act, but it settles something deep in your chest in a way you were not expecting.
“You should’ve told me it felt like this,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, threaded with something that sounds suspiciously like guilt.
You hum softly, your eyes still closed. “You’ve been busy trying to bubble wrap me.”
“Still am,” he mutters, though there is no real defensiveness behind it, only a quiet admission.
You smile faintly, your hand drifting back to rest over his where it supports you. “I noticed.”
There is a pause, a shift in the air between you, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, more serious.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he says, the words low and deliberate, like he has been holding onto them for a while, “not to me.”
Your chest tightens just slightly at that, because you know what he is really saying, what he has been saying in a hundred different ways over the past few weeks, and for once, you do not argue. You just lean into him a little more.
“I know,” you whisper.
And for now, that is enough.
******
By the time your shift ends, the exhaustion has settled deep into your bones, the kind that makes your movements slower, heavier, your patience thinner, and though you try to brush it off, to maintain your usual rhythm, there is no hiding it from him. There never is. You barely make it through your front door before you are kicking off your shoes with a quiet groan, your bag dropped unceremoniously by the couch as you press a hand into your lower back, eyes squeezing shut against the dull ache that has taken up permanent residence there.
“Sit,” Robby says from behind you, already moving past you toward the kitchen, his tone leaving very little room for negotiation.
You glance over your shoulder, too tired to argue this time, and let yourself sink onto the couch with a soft exhale, your body practically melting into the cushions as the weight finally comes off your feet. There is the sound of him moving around the kitchen, the quiet clink of dishes, the low hum of something being heated, and it is oddly comforting, grounding in a way that settles your frayed edges as you rest your hands over your stomach, absentmindedly tracing the curve of it.
“Hey,” he calls a moment later, his voice softer now, “you need anything?”
You shake your head slightly, even though he cannot see you. “Just you.”
There is a pause.
Then, softer, closer now, “You’ve got me.”
You do not realize you have drifted until the sound of him setting something down pulls you back, your eyes opening slowly as he crouches in front of you, his gaze scanning your face with quiet concern.
“You fell asleep,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Five minutes,” you mutter, your voice thick, though you do not bother denying it.
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, his touch gentle, familiar. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m pregnant,” you correct softly, though there is no real disagreement in it.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, his hand lingering just a moment longer before he pushes himself to his feet. “That too.”
“It’s all your fault.” You groan.
“I believe you participated in the act of making this child too,” Robby laughed.
You glanced up at him before reaching out and smoothing his beard down in a sweet caress.
Later, the apartment is quiet. The lights are low, the city outside muted to a distant hum, and you are half-asleep, curled slightly on your side in his bed, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting protectively over your stomach as you drift somewhere between waking and dreaming. Robby is beside you, one arm slung loosely over your lower waist, his breathing slow and steady against your back, and for a while, everything feels still. Safe.
Something shifts. It is subtle at first, a strange, unfamiliar sensation low in your body that pulls you from sleep slowly, your brow furrowing as you shift slightly against the sheets, trying to place it. And then it happens again. Stronger this time. Your eyes snap open.
“…Robby,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep as your hand tightens instinctively over your stomach, your body going very still as awareness crashes in all at once.
He stirs behind you, his arm tightening slightly around your waist. “Mm?”
You swallow, your heart suddenly racing as you shift again, feeling it unmistakably now. Warm. Spreading.
“Oh my—” you breathe, the words catching as your pulse spikes, your entire body jolting upright as you look down, the realization hitting you full force, “Robby.”
He’s awake instantly.
“What?” he asks, already pushing himself up, his voice sharp with alertness as his hand comes to your shoulder, turning you toward him, “what’s wrong?”
You look at him, wide-eyed, your breath coming a little faster now as your hand grips his arm.
“My water just broke.”
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and electric, and for a split second, he just stares at you. Processing. Then everything moves at once.
“Okay,” he says quickly, too quickly, already pushing the covers back, his movements suddenly urgent but controlled, “okay, alright—”
You watch him, a strange mix of nerves and disbelief bubbling up in your chest even as adrenaline starts to kick in, your hand still clinging to his as he moves.
“Robby—”
“I’ve got you,” he cuts in immediately, his voice firm now, steadying, his hand tightening around yours as he meets your gaze, grounding you in a way only he can, “we’re okay.”
Your heart pounds, your body caught somewhere between fear and something else entirely, something bigger, something that feels like the edge of a moment you cannot quite wrap your mind around yet. Because this is it. And as Robby helps you to your feet, his hand steady at your side, his presence unwavering, you realize with a sudden, breathless clarity, You are not doing this alone. Not for a single second.
******
The drive to the hospital feels both impossibly fast and unbearably slow, the kind of warped stretch of time where everything sharpens and blurs all at once, and you are dimly aware of the city lights streaking past the windows, of your hand gripping the door handle a little too tightly, of the way Robby keeps glancing at you every few seconds like if he looks away for too long something might change.
Another contraction hits halfway there. It is not like the movies, not some immediate, all-consuming pain that drops you to your knees, but it is stronger than before, deeper, pulling tight across your abdomen and low in your back in a way that steals your breath for a moment, your fingers tightening instinctively as you lean your head back against the seat.
“Okay,” Robby says immediately, his voice shifting into that tone you know so well, the one that is calm and controlled and entirely focused, “talk to me.”
You exhale slowly through your nose, riding it out, your free hand pressing into your stomach. “It’s… stronger.”
He nods once, quick, already adjusting his speed just slightly, not reckless but urgent, every movement precise. “Timing?”
You let out a breath that turns into something dangerously close to a laugh. “I was asleep, Robby, I didn’t start a stopwatch.”
“Fair,” he mutters, though there is a faint huff of relief in it, like grounding himself in something normal matters right now, and then his hand reaches over, finding yours over your stomach without hesitation, squeezing once, firm and steady.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter this time, but no less certain.
And somehow, despite everything, you believe him. By the time you reach the hospital, things are moving. Fast. Not in a chaotic way, not out of control, but with a kind of controlled urgency that hums through the halls as Robby walks you in, his hand at your back, his presence unmistakable as heads turn, as the night shift team clocks in on you both, clocks the situation immediately, as someone calls ahead without even needing to ask.
It is strange, stepping into your workplace like this, shifting roles in an instant, from the one who moves through the chaos to the one at the center of it, and for a moment it feels disorienting, like the ground beneath you has shifted just slightly off-balance. Robby does not let you drift. He stays anchored to you, one hand always on you somewhere, your arm, your back, your hand, his voice cutting through everything else as he answers questions, as he gives information, as he transitions seamlessly between doctor and partner in a way that is almost seamless, almost effortless, except you know him well enough to see the edges of it.
To see the way his jaw tightens just slightly. The way his eyes flick over you again and again, checking, assessing, grounding himself in the fact that you are right there.
“Vitals are stable,” someone says, and you feel hands on you, guiding, moving, the familiar becoming unfamiliar in the strangest way.
“Of course they are,” Robby replies, almost automatically, though his hand tightens around yours just a fraction more, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin in a rhythm that feels intentional, grounding.
Another contraction hits. Harder this time. Your breath stutters, your body tensing instinctively as the pressure builds, stronger and more insistent, and you feel your grip on his hand tighten sharply.
“Hey,” he murmurs immediately, stepping closer, his free hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, forcing your focus back to him, “look at me.”
You do. Because you always do.
“Breathe,” he says softly, his voice low and steady, anchoring you as the wave crests, “in through your nose, slow, and out.”
You follow him, because it is easier than thinking, easier than letting yourself get swept up in the intensity of it, your breath syncing with his as he stays right there, unwavering, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he rides it out with you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, quieter now, softer, “you’re doing so good.”
The praise lands somewhere deep in your chest, unexpected and grounding all at once, and when the contraction finally eases, your body sagging just slightly as the tension releases, you let out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than anything.
“Yeah,” he echoes, his hand still steady against your face, his eyes locked on yours, “okay.”
Time stops meaning anything after that. It stretches and folds in strange ways, marked only by contractions and brief moments of rest in between, each wave pulling you deeper into something you cannot quite describe, something raw and consuming and entirely beyond your control, and through it all, Robby is there. He does not leave your side. Not once.
He moves with you, adjusts with you, his presence constant and unwavering as he balances everything, his medical mind sharp and precise as he tracks your progress, as he speaks quietly with the staff, as he ensures that everything is exactly as it should be, but always, always returning to you.
“Drink this,” he says at one point, pressing a cup gently to your lips, his hand steady as you take a few small sips, your throat dry, your body aching in ways you did not know were possible.
You nod faintly, too focused on the next wave building low in your body to say anything more, and he sees it immediately.
“Alright,” he murmurs, setting the cup aside, his hand finding yours again just in time as the contraction hits, sharper now, stronger, pulling a strained sound from your throat as your fingers tighten around his.
“I know,” he says softly, his voice right there, steady and sure even as yours falters, “I know, stay with me.”
Your head tips forward, your forehead pressing briefly against his shoulder as you breathe through it, your entire world narrowing down to the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand, the rhythm of your breath.
“I can’t—” you start, the words slipping out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in immediately, not harsh, not dismissive, but firm in a way that leaves no room for doubt, his hand tightening around yours, anchoring you, “you are, you already are.”
You shake your head weakly, overwhelmed, the intensity of it crashing over you in waves that feel too big, too much, and for a moment you feel like you might get lost in it.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his hand coming back to your face, grounding you, pulling you back to him, “look at me.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his, and there is something there that steadies you instantly, something unwavering and fierce and entirely focused on you.
“Stay with me,” he repeats quietly.
And you do.
******
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. You cannot tell anymore. Everything blurs together into a cycle of pain and breath and his voice, always his voice, guiding you through it, grounding you when you feel like you might slip, holding you steady when everything else feels like it is spinning.
“You’re close,” he tells you at some point, his tone shifting, something like awe threading through it now, something that makes your chest tighten even as your body strains, “you’re so close.”
“I don’t feel close,” you manage weakly, your voice strained, your body trembling with the effort of it all.
He huffs out the faintest hint of a laugh, his forehead pressing briefly against yours. “I know, but you are, I promise.”
Another contraction builds. Stronger than anything before it. Your grip on his hand tightens painfully, your body bearing down instinctively as the pressure becomes something else entirely, something that demands everything you have.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice right there, unwavering even as the moment peaks, “that’s it, just like that—”
You let out a strained sound, somewhere between a cry and a breath, your entire body focused on pushing through it, on following his voice, his guidance, his steady presence.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, louder now, firmer, his other hand bracing you, supporting you, “you’re doing it, stay with me—”
And then everything shifts. There is a sudden, overwhelming release, a sharp inhale that tears from your lungs as the pressure breaks, your body sagging forward as the world seems to tilt for just a second, your ears ringing faintly as everything catches up.
For a moment, there is nothing. And then….
A cry. Sharp. Strong. Real.
Your eyes snap open, your breath catching as the sound cuts through everything, through the exhaustion, through the haze, through the disbelief, and you look at Robby immediately, your heart pounding. His expression is something you have never seen before.
Something open. Something undone. Something so full it almost doesn’t fit on his face.
“You did it,” he breathes, the words rough, almost disbelieving as his gaze flicks from you to the baby and back again, his hand still wrapped tightly around yours like he cannot quite let go, “you did it.”
Your throat tightens, emotion rising fast and overwhelming as you let out a shaky breath, your entire body trembling now not from effort but from something else entirely.
“Is—” you start, your voice barely holding, “is—”
“They’re perfect,” he says immediately, his voice steady again, but softer now, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache, “he’s perfect.”
Tears spill over before you can stop them, your vision blurring as relief and disbelief and something so much bigger crash over you all at once, your hand tightening in his. Robby leans down, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his breath uneven now for the first time since this started.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, softer than before, like a promise he intends to keep long after this moment fades.
And this time, it is not just about getting through it. It is about what comes after. And as the sound of your baby’s cry fills the room, you realize with a breathless, overwhelming certainty, You never had to do any of it alone. Not for a single second.
******
The room is quieter now, though not silent, because silence no longer exists in the same way it used to, replaced instead by softer sounds, the steady hum of machines, the distant movement of staff in the hallway, and most importantly, the small, uneven breaths of the tiny life now resting against your chest, warm and impossibly real.
You feel different. Not just physically, though your body is heavy and sore in a way that settles deep into your bones, every muscle reminding you of what it just did, but something deeper than that, something harder to name, like the very center of you has shifted and expanded all at once, making room for something you did not fully understand until this moment. Your hand trembles slightly as it rests over the baby’s back, your fingers barely moving, almost afraid that too much pressure might somehow break the fragile perfection beneath your palm, and yet at the same time you cannot seem to stop touching him, grounding yourself in the reality that your baby boy is here. That this is real.
“He’s got your stubbornness already,” a quiet voice murmurs beside you, low and warm and achingly familiar, and you turn your head just slightly to find Robby sitting close, closer than he has been allowed to be for most of the last hour, his posture angled toward you like he cannot quite bring himself to create any distance.
You huff out the faintest, tired laugh, your eyes flicking back down to the baby as he shifts slightly, a small, soft sound escaping them that makes your entire chest tighten. “That’s not a trait I’m eager to pass on.”
He hums quietly, his hand coming up to brush lightly over the baby’s back where yours rests, his touch careful, reverent, like he is still calibrating the reality of it. “Might come in handy.”
Your lips twitch faintly at that, though your eyes sting just slightly, the emotion still sitting too close to the surface, and for a moment neither of you speaks, both of you simply… looking. Taking it in. You do not realize how quiet he has gone until you glance up at him again, and when you do, something in your chest shifts.
Robby is not looking at the baby. He is looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly, but with a focus so intense it almost takes your breath away, his eyes tracing your face like he is memorizing it, like he is trying to commit this exact moment to memory in a way that will never fade.
“What?” you murmur softly, your voice still rough around the edges, the word barely more than a breath.
He shakes his head slightly, like he does not quite trust himself to speak right away, his hand sliding from the baby to your wrist, his fingers curling gently there, grounding himself.
“You…” he starts, then pauses again, his jaw tightening just slightly as something flickers across his expression, something raw and unguarded and entirely unlike the composed control he holds everywhere else, “you were incredible.”
The words are simple. But they land like something heavier. You let out a small, breathless laugh, shaking your head faintly as you glance back down at the baby, your fingers adjusting instinctively to keep them close.
“I cried in a parking lot like three months ago because you held my stomach for five seconds.”
He huffs softly, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth, but it fades quickly, replaced by something steadier, deeper, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin where he still holds your wrist. “That doesn’t change anything.”
You swallow, your throat tightening as you look back up at him, really look at him now, at the exhaustion lining his face, at the faint crease between his brows that has not quite smoothed out, at the way his eyes are still just a little too bright.
“You didn’t leave,” you say softly, the realization settling more fully now that everything else has quieted, that there is space to feel it, to acknowledge it.
He blinks, like the statement catches him off guard, like it had never even occurred to him that it might be noteworthy. “I wasn’t going to.”
“I know,” you whisper, and that is the thing, the part that makes your chest ache in a way that feels almost too big to hold, “I know, I just… you didn’t.”
Through every contraction, every moment you thought you might break, every second where the world narrowed down to pain and breath and survival, he had been there, steady and unwavering, never once stepping back, never once letting you drift too far from him. You feel your eyes sting again, emotion rising up fast and sudden, and you let out a shaky breath as you shake your head slightly, overwhelmed in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
“Hey,” he murmurs immediately, shifting closer, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye as if he can physically catch the tears before they fall, “none of that.”
You laugh weakly, the sound catching in your throat as a tear slips free anyway.
“I just—” you trail off, your voice faltering, because there are too many things, too many feelings, too many words that do not quite line up the way you need them to.
He does not push. He never does. Instead, he leans in just slightly, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his hand still steady at your face, grounding you in a way that feels instinctive now, familiar in the best possible way.
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs quietly, his voice softer than you have ever heard it, stripped of everything except the truth of it, “I know.”
And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. You are not entirely sure. Because your chest tightens painfully, your hand tightening instinctively over the baby as a soft, broken sound escapes you, and before you can think better of it, before you can overanalyze or pull yourself back, you lean into him.
Really lean. Your forehead pressing harder against his, your free hand reaching for him, gripping at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto as everything else shifts and settles around you. For a second, he stills. Then his arms come around you. Careful. Deliberate. One arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other bracing gently at your back, mindful of the baby between you, but pulling you close all the same, anchoring you against him in a way that feels both protective and grounding all at once.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, the words quieter now, softer, but no less certain, his cheek brushing lightly against your temple as he holds you there.
You breathe him in, the familiar scent of him cutting through everything else, steadying you in a way nothing else could, and for a moment you just stay there, the three of you caught in this small, quiet pocket of time that feels separate from everything else. Eventually, you shift slightly, enough to look back down at the baby, your hand moving instinctively to adjust the blanket around them, your fingers brushing lightly over their tiny arm, their impossibly small fingers curling instinctively in response. Your breath catches.
“He’s really here,” you whisper, the words almost disbelieving, like you are still trying to catch up to it.
Robby’s hand settles over yours, covering it completely, warm and steady.
“Yeah,” he says softly, his voice laced with something that sounds a lot like awe, “he is.”
You glance up at him again, something quiet and certain settling into your chest now, something that feels different from everything before it, deeper, steadier.
“We did this,” you say, your voice stronger this time, more certain.
He meets your gaze, something shifting in his expression, something that mirrors what you feel in a way that makes your breath catch just slightly.
“Yeah,” he echoes, his thumb brushing lightly over your hand, his grip tightening just enough to remind you he is still right there, “we did.”
There is a pause. A quiet one. And then, almost without thinking, you lean in. Your lips brushing his. Soft and gentle. Not urgent, not desperate, but something else entirely, something grounded and real and filled with everything you cannot quite put into words, your hand still resting over the baby between you as you kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Like he always does. Like he needs that half a heartbeat to catch up to you. And then he melts into it. Careful of you, careful of the baby, but there all the same, his hand tightening slightly at your back as he kisses you back just as softly, just as deliberately, like he understands exactly what this moment is.
When you pull back, it is not far. It never is. His forehead rests against yours again, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment neither of you speaks. There is no need to. Because everything that matters is already there. In the way he holds you. In the way your hand covers the baby. In the way the three of you exist in this small, quiet space, the world outside momentarily forgotten.
And as you close your eyes, your body finally beginning to relax, the exhaustion pulling at you now that everything has settled, you feel his hand tighten just slightly around yours, his presence steady and unwavering at your side. Exactly where he has always been. Exactly where he always will be.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising
Word Count: 12.7k
A/N: Lots of italics in this one… uhhhh and uhhhh a lot of implied love here, but they don’t actually say those three words… yet.
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/Pinterest. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Pahina by Cup of Joe, How You Get The Girl by Taylor Swift, and I Love You, I’m Sorry by Gracie Abrams
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4 MONTHS LATER…
CRUISE SHIP — DAY
The sea does something strange to grief. It doesn’t erase it or cure it. But it loosens its grip enough for a man to hear himself think again. And for the first time in years, Michael Robinavitch lets silence exist without trying to outrun it.
He takes Jack’s advice, actually takes it. Not the spirit quest or the endless highway.
A cruise. A ridiculous, almost embarrassing cruise Jack had half-joked about in Trauma One. He can still hear Jack Abbot saying it—Go on a cruise, man.
Somehow—he did. The first week, he hates it, all the floating buffets and retirees line dancing at sunset, the aggressively cheerful steel drum music. He feels like a man haunting a vacation brochure.
But then, eventually, something changes. Maybe it was the salt air or the mornings he drinks coffee on the deck before dawn, wrapped in a windbreaker, watching the horizon bleed pink. The long, anonymous miles of ocean where nobody needs anything from him.
No trauma calls or overhead pages. No alarms and no dying. Only water, the sky, and breathing.
He starts sleeping, albeit at first in pieces. Then in real hours. He starts meeting with a therapist over Zoom from the ship’s wifi, awkwardly balanced in a tiny cabin while the ocean rolls outside the porthole.
At first, he treats it like a consult, detached and clinical. Then one day, he says too much, and doesn’t die from saying it. So he keeps talking about his mother, the abandonment, the dead, the guilt that clings to survival.
About how being needed became indistinguishable from being alive. Eventually, as time goes, he begins to talk about you. He doesn’t say your name at first. Then he does, and once he starts—he can’t seem to stop.
He writes in the journal every day because he promised you. At first, it was only scraps. Room numbers. Coordinates. Bad drawings of ports. Finally, it all bleeds out, his thoughts, and confessions. Things he never says aloud. He tapes postcards inside, and buys you souvenirs at every stop.
So far, he has a pile of trinkets accumulated for you. A pressed flower bookmark in Lisbon. Sea glass earrings from Santorini. A tiny painted saint medal in Naples—ridiculous fridge magnets. A fountain pen in Marseille because you once complained hospital pens were instruments of torture.
He buys things with your laugh in mind, with your hands in mind, and with imagined futures in mind; he still does not trust himself to name. And when he finishes the last page—truly finishes—months later in a small cabin while rain needles the window—he remembers.
Your voice.
If you finish all the pages, there’s something for you at the end.
His pulse stutters. At the back sleeve—taped carefully—there’s a letter. His fingers begin to shake as he unfolds it, and your handwriting, immediate as touch.
He reads:
If you’re reading this, you kept your promise. Now keep one more.
Check the false bottom of the box.
He freezes.
The box, the one you made him swear to keep. The one still tucked in his bag this whole time. Because he kept his word, and you made him do so. He pulls it out, turns it over. Studies it, and there—almost invisible—a seam. A hidden panel. His breath catches as he pries it loose, and beneath it is another journal.
Yours, more worn and lived in. It’s recent, and incredibly personal. For a long moment, he only stares in such a way that touching it may alter reality. He opens it, and everything changes.
He reads one page, then another, and then all of them. Through the night, until dawn. He reads about stairwells and panic attacks. About wanting him and pretending not to. Watching him unravel and loving him anyway. His laugh and his hands. His damage and his cruelty to himself, and his goodness.
There are pages where he is barely discussed and pages where he is the whole subject. Entire entries written after shifts he barely remembers—and you remembered all of it. He finds lines underlined so hard they nearly tore paper.
I am more afraid of losing him for the rest of my life than losing his affection.
It may seem desperate and pathetic, but this is love, too.
Another, in your writing, “He keeps trying to save everyone but himself.”
He stops reading, stands up, and walks to the cabin sink to stare at himself. He laughs once in disbelief, before he cries, truly cries. Because—holy shit.
He was on every page, as he had been living inside your heart and never really knew. All those glances and almosts. Moments he thought he imagined are real. He goes back and reads every word… twice.
At some point, whispers to the empty cabin, “Jesus Christ, Ducky.” As it were, hymns or grief or wonder. Like regret arrived all at once, and when he reached the pages about the last few weeks of June, early July, and New York. About the thoughts of leaving and the offers you’ve received… and his stomach drops.
No. No no. He grabs his phone. Calls immediately, and it went straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again.
The number you have dialed is not in service…
He hangs up. Redials, again, and again, then every day after that. Ports. Airports. Hotel rooms. Layovers. Morning. Night. Always, voicemail, or disconnected silence.
He leaves messages anyway. At first, it’s awkward. “Hey… it’s me.” Then, desperate and raw. “Please, pick up. I read it.” His voice shaking, “I should’ve known.”
Then the one he says with tears on a hotel balcony in Barcelona: “I love you.”
Words he has never said to you, not once. Spoken to a machine, and still no answer.
He starts carrying both journals together. Yours and his, bound by a rubber band. Presumably, if it were something sacred, and entirely unfinished. For the first time in years, Robby doesn’t want to run. He wants one thing… one person. To get back and find you. Ask around where you are, if you’ve left. To tell you, he read every word. Admit it to you, he has been in love with you, too—terribly. For longer than he understood.
Somewhere over open water, holding your journal against his chest, he realizes with a kind of awe that terrifies him—the trip did not save him.
You did, and now you are gone.
DANA’S HOUSE — DAY
November comes to Pittsburgh in shades of smoke and rust. The trees have changed color, leaves skitter across sidewalks in little dry spirals, gathering in gutters and along curb lines. Tiny ghosts appear in between words when people talk outside.
After four months away—after sea salt, foreign ports, therapy sessions whispered over unstable Wi-Fi, after sleepless nights rereading your journals until the spine softened from use—Robby comes home.
He comes back firmer, a little darker from the sun, and less haunted in some places. The tan does something unfair to him, makes him look healthier than he feels. But the exhaustion sits too deep in his face to hide.
The first thing he does—before going home and unpacking. Before even stepping foot in the hospital, is for him to drive to Dana’s. Because if anyone knows where you are, it’s her.
Inside, a kettle whistles, and a sitcom plays low in another room. The house smells faintly of coffee and toast with cinnamon. Domestic and warm. The sort of warmth Robby has spent years orbiting but never quite entering.
Dana is in the kitchen when the knock comes, and Benji looks up from the paper. “I’ll get it,” she says. Wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes. She opens the door—and just stares.
Because there he is, on her porch. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer, bearded, still graying. Windblown, and eyes hollowed out with something close to panic. And before she can even smile, he says, “Where’d she transfer to?”
Zero preamble, just straight to the point.
Dana blinks, then folds her arms. “Well, good morning to you, too, Robinavitch.” A beat passed before she added, “Welcome back. How was your sabbatical?”
His jaw works, impatience barely leashed. “Wonderful.” He thrusts a paper bag at her. “Here. Souvenirs. For your family.”
She takes it, peeks in, and there are little trinkets and magnets. A toy for Benji’s niece. Very him, somehow, and very not him, too.
And before she can thank him—
“Where’s Ducky?”
The words come out rough, as though he’s been holding them through the whole drive. Dana stares at him, sees too much at once, the desperation, the sleeplessness. The man who has clearly come straight here because he couldn’t bear one more minute not knowing.
Because she’s Dana, tenderness usually arrives in sarcasm first—she steps aside and says, “Come in before the neighbors call the cops.”
He obeys automatically, as if being ordered into an exam room. Inside, he hovers in the entryway instead of sitting. Still wearing his jacket, ready to leave whenever.
Dana shuts the door and turns, studies him, “You check her apartment?”
He laughs once, humorless. “Locked. No answer, and her mailbox stuffed.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I called every day.” His voice cracks around every.
Dana’s expression shifts and softens despite herself while Benji pokes his head in from the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He grins. “The ER cowboy returns.”
Robby barely manages a nod, distracted, his eyes already back on Dana. “Dana.” That tone. Please. She hears it and feels it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the leather journal. It’s yours. Then, he sets it on the hall table like evidence. “I found this.”
Dana looks at it, then at him. Oh. Oh. Now she understands. “You read it.”
His laugh this time is broken. “I read all of it.” A pause, quieter, “She wrote about me on every damn page.”
Dana exhales through her nose, almost smiles. “Well. About time you caught up.” He ignores that, or can’t process it, while his voice drops, raw. “Did she transfer?”
Dana leans against the wall and lets him squirm for a second. Maybe because he deserves it, and because she’s enjoying this slightly, she needs to see how much this matters.
He steps closer. “Dana.” For once, not attending to charge nurse. Not friend to friend. Simply, a man begging. “Where is she?”
The room goes still, and even Benji quietly retreats, sensing this is sacred territory. Dana looks at him for a long time. At the journals he has now tucked under his arm and at the panic in his face. At the love, he somehow managed to miss until it nearly left him.
She says carefully, “What exactly are you planning to do when you find her?”
Robby stares, as if the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know. I just…” He stops, and swallows, then starts over. “I need to see her.”
Dana catches it, and she raises a brow. “Why?” And this—this is the test. He could joke, deflect, or run. Well, the old Robby would. Instead, he looks wrecked enough to confess, because he is.
“Because I think I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
Silence. Then—so quietly it nearly disappears, “I think I’m in love with her.”
Dana’s mouth opens, then shuts. Because after years of wanting to shake both of you, there it is.
Fuckin’ finally.
She mutters toward the ceiling, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Then points a finger at him. “You listen to me… You do not get to show up after a sabbatical tan and emotional breakthrough just to screw this up.”
He almost looks offended. “I’m trying not to.”
She squints, and then, finally, mercifully smiles. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Starts dialing, and Robby frowns, confused. “Who are you—”
Without looking up, “Shut up, Robinavitch.” And somehow he does, which makes Dana snort. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Then—pickup.
Dana lifts it to her ear, “Hey.” A second ticked by, then, casually, like she isn’t detonating his entire nervous system, “Robby’s here at my place.” His head snaps toward her. “What—”
She lifts a finger at him. After a moment, there’s a burst of voice from the other end, too fast to catch, and Dana’s grin widens, then she taps the speaker, and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the kitchen: your sister, your terrifying older sister.
“Spit it out, Robinavitch.”
Robby freezes. “Oh shit.”
Dana folds her arms, far too pleased. Benji peeks from the kitchen, sensing blood in the water. Robby straightens unconsciously, like he’s been called into an attending review. Because your sister has always somehow had that effect. The woman once threatened to break his fingers when you pulled three doubles in a row, and he forgot to make sure you ate.
He clears his throat. “Hi.” Dead silence… before your sister exclaims, “That’s what you got?”
Dana nearly chokes laughing while Robby rubs his face. “I’m trying to find her.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
He shoots Dana a look begging for backup. She gives him none; it’s sink or swim. Your sister keeps going. “You disappear for four months, come back looking like some emotionally improved pirate, and now suddenly you’re here asking about my sister?”
Robby blinks. “…That sounds worse when you say it.”
“It is worse.”
Even Benji laughs; there is no surviving this. Then, he just says it, because apparently, there’s no dignity left to preserve. “I love her.”
Everything stills, and Dana goes silent, even your sister, because he decides to say it plainly. After a long beat, “…You better.” Then she pivots. “She’s at my apartment in Murray Hill, Manhattan.”
His whole body stills. “She is?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” She continues. “My boyfriend and I are in Vermont for a wedding. She’s dog sitting.”
You were dog sitting… didn’t transfer or leave. Relief hits him so hard he has to brace a hand on the wall as your sister keeps talking. “I’ll text you the address.” Then her voice drops. “And Robby?”
He goes still. “Yes?”
“If you fly your ass to New York and hurt her again…” Dana mouths oh boy. “—I will literally find a way to murder you and get away with it.”
Silence. He answers, dead serious, “That’s… fair.”
Dana barks out a laugh, and Benji has to look away, but your sister isn’t finished. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“She cries over you, I bury you.”
He nods before realizing she can’t see. “Understood.”
“And don’t make me regret giving you my sister.”
His voice roughens. “I won’t.” A pause. Then unexpectedly, she adds, “She loves you, you know.” His eyes close, and hearing it hurts. Like he has wanted and feared those words in equal measure. “I know.”
Maybe he didn’t, not fully. Not until missing you hollowed him out. But now—he knows. His phone buzzes. The address, and he stares at it as if it might vanish. Dana leans in. “Well?”
He’s already moving, but Dana catches his sleeve before he bolts. He turns, and she fixes his collar like he’s sixteen, or heading into battle. “Don’t say anything stupid.”
He looks wounded, “That narrows my options considerably.” She smacks his arm. Then softer, “Go get my girl.”
A part of him in his expression breaks. He feels open, young, terrified, and… in love. He turns for the door… but stops, looks back at Dana. “Thank you.”
She waves it off before she gets emotional. “Go.”
Cold November air rushes in when he opens the door, sharp and alive. He steps onto the porch. Heart pounding like a trauma alarm. Already halfway to LaGuardia in his mind. Behind him, through the speaker, your sister calls out one last time. “Robinavitch?”
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“If you make me come home early to kill you—”
He laughs, pure actual laughter. “I won’t.”
He runs down the steps. Into the cold, toward you, who’s in Manhattan, somewhere above the city lights, probably walking a spoiled dog, completely unaware the man you love is coming.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — NIGHT
It had been one of those strange New York nights where the weather seemed to lose its mind. One minute, the city had been holding itself together in damp November cold—taxi lights smeared gold against wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic drifting up through Murray Hill.
Next, it rains biblically hard. Rattling against the tall windows of your sister’s apartment in sheets. The kind of rain that made the city feel submerged.
Inside, soft music played from your phone on the counter, it’s low and aching and warm. The apartment lamps were dimmed. The dog—Bowie, spoiled rotten and aware of it—was sprawled across your feet while you folded laundry in sleep shorts and an old, oversized shirt. Devoted and quiet, the sort of peace you only ever borrowed.
Then—a knock. You freeze. At this hour? Another knock, then Bowie lifts his head and barks. “What the hell?”
You shuffle to the door in your house slippers, confusion knitting your brow, one hand still absentmindedly rubbing sleep from your eyes as Bowie trails after you, toenails clicking over hardwood. You unlatch the door and pull it open, and the breath leaves you.
Robby stands in the hallway, soaked to the skin, rainwater running from his hair in slow rivulets down his temples, dripping off his jaw, his jacket and backpack blackened and heavy with storm. His chest rises too fast, too hard, as if he ran all the way through Manhattan just to get here before he lost his nerve.
For a second, you only stare because your mind cannot make sense of him standing on the other side of your sister’s door like something pulled from longing. As if misery hallucinated a man.
His eyes move over you just as stunned, and stop. Not at your face first, but your arms. The half-healed scabs near your wrist, and the angry little crescents where nails had broken skin, faded silver scars older than tonight. Evidence of all the anxious picking and scratching you never managed to hide from him, though you always tried.
Something fractures in his demeanor as it changes shape.
It’s not pity, but recognition. He sees every quiet war you fought while he was gone, and he hates that he wasn’t here for any of it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the marks before lifting back to your face, and there is something almost devastated in his eyes.
That undoes you more than if he’d touched you. Your heart knows him before your thoughts can catch up, and then it comes out of you in a breathless rush, “Are you insane?”
It comes out half laugh, half gasp.
He looks wrecked, beautifully wrecked. Water pooling at his boots and somehow—hopeful. “How did you even get in here? There’s a doorman.”
His mouth twitches. “Your sister called ahead.”
Of course she did. Traitor.
His voice goes rough. “Please come back.”
The words hit you square in the ribs. Too raw, and because crying at the door feels risky, you grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Can you get inside first, Jesus fucking Christ.”
The door shuts behind him, the storm mutes, only rain on glass now, and both of you breathing. Bowie circles him immediately, tail wagging hard enough to take out furniture.
Robby crouches automatically, wet and smiling for the first time. “Well, hello.”
The dog all but climbs into his lap, and you cross your arms. “Unbelievable.” Robby glances up. “What?”
“Even the dog likes you.”
He rises slowly. And for one suspended moment—you’re just looking at each other. Months of distance in one silence, and then practicality saves you. “You’re freezing.”
You move first, pull towels from a closet, and push one into his hands. “Take a warm shower.”
You disappear toward the guest room, rummage through drawers, and return with sweatpants and a cotton shirt. Holding them out, you clear your throat. “My sister’s boyfriend is… a bit shorter than you.” Your eyes do an up and down. “A lot shorter.”
His smile deepens. “I’ll make it work.”
You gesture toward the bathroom. “There are toiletries in there. Toothbrush under the sink.” You add, softer, “Ignore the mess in the room. I’ve been sleeping in there.”
You turn before he can answer. Because being looked at by him right now makes you feel vulnerable. The dog follows you back into the kitchen.
Robby lingers a second.
Watching.
You're wearing slippers over hardwood, and talking to Bowie under your breath. Living in a space that somehow already feels like you. Warm, cluttered, and tender.
He steps into the guest room and sees your half-unpacked suitcase. A pile of sweaters. Books are stacked on the floor. Your new journal on the nightstand. A cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of you everywhere, and something in him wrinkles. Because even your mess looks gentle, as if being let into a life.
He showers, the steam, and silence calm his racing thoughts. Trying to slow a heart that has not been steady since he left Pittsburgh.
When he emerges clean, hair damp, borrowed shirt a little too small—you nearly short-circuit. He looks… dangerously domestic. Seemingly belonging here, which feels somehow more intimate than seeing him half-undressed ever could.
You busy your hands at the stove, heating leftovers, and Bowie sits begging shamelessly. You tear off a little piece of beef and feed him. “Your mom is going to murder me if you gain any more weight, buddy.”
Robby watches you with something almost helpless in his expression. Yeah. That makes sense.
You glance up and try not to stare. Obviously, you fail. “I bet you’re hungry.” You nod toward the food. “They’re leftovers but they’re good.” A pause. “Do you eat rice?”
He almost laughs, “I’ll eat whatever you’ll give me. Your cooking’s the best.” You shrug, trying to hide how much that warms your heart. “Eh. It’s okay.”
He eats, like actually eats, as if he hasn’t in days, all while you sit opposite him at the table. Rain against the windows and the music low with the dog asleep at your feet. It all feels so heartbreakingly ordinary.
Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you ask, “How did you find me?”
He wipes his mouth. “I went to Dana’s.” A beat. “She called your sister.”
You shut your eyes. Of course.
“That bitch.” There’s no venom in the way you said it, only affection. He smiles into it as he finishes eating.
You reach for his plate, but he catches your wrist lightly, declares, “No, I’ll wash.” But you shake your head, replying, “Not a chance.”
“I’ll wash, you dry?”
You arch a brow. “Are you even in a position to negotiate?” He looks up at you—those impossible brown eyes gone soft. “Please.”
And damn him, you melt.
“Okay.”
So you stand side by side at the sink as he washes and you dry. Passing plates back and forth. Shoulders brushing. Tiny accidental touches that are electric every time. Neither of you speaking.
Because the silence is saying too much already. Water runs, and rain falls. The dog snores. And in the small domestic hush—with dish soap on his hands and your fingers warm around a towel—it feels almost impossible that two people who nearly lost each other can stand here now arguing quietly over plates like this was always where they were meant to end up.
Robby breaks the silence first, barely above a whisper. “I read the letter… and your journal.”
Your hands stop, and the plate in your grip goes still, damp dish towel forgotten between your fingers.
The room somehow grows quieter than silence. Outside, thunder rolls over Manhattan, low and distant. Inside, your heart does the same. A storm answering a storm.
You don’t turn around right away. Because you knew this moment would come the second you hid that false bottom in the box. Still, knowing doesn’t make being seen any less terrifying.
“I know,” you say after a beat, too casually. A small shrug. “Well… I figured.”
His breath catches like he wants to say ten things at once. “I—”
You cut him off too quickly. Coward, or self-preservation. Maybe both. “How do you feel about hot chocolate?”
It startles him enough that he blinks. As if you’ve changed the subject so violently he can’t find the road back. “…I’d like that.”
You nod once, grateful for something ordinary and something safe. “Go wait for me in the living room.” You force a small smile. “I’ll make us some.”
He obeys. Because of course he does. And maybe because he senses you’re buying time. Maybe because he needs it too.
Eventually, you’re both sunk into opposite ends of the couch, mugs warming your hands. Rain threads down the windows, the dog sleeps with his chin on your foot and the apartment hums softly around you.
It feels almost too intimate.
Steam curls from your cocoa, and you stare into it as if answers might rise there. You clear your throat as you say, “I didn’t transfer.”
The words sit between you, while Robby goes still. “What?” He turns fully toward you. “But I thought—”
“No.” You shake your head. “I got offers… and I came close… really close.” Your thumb traces the ceramic rim. “Especially after the Fourth of July shift. I thought maybe leaving would fix something.”
You give a crooked little laugh. “Go to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Start over.” Then softer, “But I couldn’t.”
He watches you like moving would break the moment.
“I liked the Pitt too much.” A sad smile. “As fucked up as that is.”
You huff out, “There is definitely something wrong with me.”
That finally pulls a smile from him.
You continue. “I like the people there.” A beat. “I…” Your throat tightens. “I liked having somewhere I belonged.” His expression changes at that, into something wounded. Because he knows exactly what you mean.
You take another sip. “I just took leave. Needed it anyway.” You look toward the rain-smeared windows. “It’s nice coming back here. During November, the Fall… Y’know, with everything changing. It’s nice.”
Robby opens his mouth. “I just thought I—”
You shake your head gently. Don’t let him say whatever apology he’s building. Not tonight. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now.”
He looks almost startled.
You stand, mug in hand. “You’re exhausted. Probably crashing from enough adrenaline to kill a horse.” A small attempt at humor.
You fail to hide concern. “We can talk about the letter. And the journal. And… everything else. Tomorrow.” Your words feels kind, merciful.
He studies you, as if trying to decide whether you’re sparing him—or yourself. You clear your throat. “I can change the sheets in the guest room.”
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, because he’s very sure. What he doesn’t say is that those sheets smell like you. Laundry soap, skin, everything that makes you home. You don’t know that, or maybe some part of you does. “Okay…”
You glance around, “I need to find another pillow for you. One sec.” And you disappear down the hall, leaving him alone in the living room.
He looks around at the life around him, and all the places you exist. Little trinkets on shelves, ceramic birds, books with your dog-eared tabs, and a candle burned halfway down.
Somehow—even in your sister’s apartment—he can tell where your hands have been. You are all over this place. There’s a framed photo of you and your sister at a beach. Younger, with wind-tangled hair and salt-happy. Laughing so hard the camera caught you mid-collapse.
He stares too long, and there’s another—you grinning beside an alpaca at some animal sanctuary, with your arms wrapped around its neck. Ridiculous joy.
He laughs softly under his breath. Of course. There are photos of you with dogs. One kissing your cheek and one asleep in your lap.
He feels something ache open in him. Then, paintings on the walls. He knows your signature, recognizes the small mark in the corner. Your hand in every brushstroke. And scattered among them are photos of your sister in foreign cities.
There are award ceremonies, mountain ranges, conference stages. A whole life. Big, brilliant, and threaded through all of it—you.
Loved and included, completely held.
He sees it instantly, that your sister loves you fiercely, as fiercely as you love her. And for some reason that undoes him. Because he had spent so long imagining you alone. Waiting. And instead he sees something far more precarious. A life full enough without him; a life he may have to ask permission to enter, and he wants to.
God.
He wants to.
You come back carrying a pillow and catch him staring at the beach photo. “That was Cape May.”
He looks up, saying, “You look happy.”
You pause, then smile, “I was.”
The words come soft, almost shy, and linger in the room longer than they should. Robby keeps looking at you. Not at the photograph anymore, but at you. As if he’s trying to memorize the version of you standing here now against lamplight and rain.
You hand him the pillow, and your fingers brush his. A small thing, but not small at all.
You clear your throat, suddenly awkward in a way you haven’t been around him in years. “Um…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “I’m gonna sleep in my sister’s room, so—”
You mean to say goodnight, you really do mean to keep this simple. But his voice stops you. It’s tentative, almost boyish, and fragile in a way you’ve never heard from him.
“Can I…” He swallows, and looks almost embarrassed asking. “Can we… hug?”
The question lands so gently it nearly breaks you. Not may I hold you. Not even I need you. But… Can we.
As if it belongs to both of you and he’s asking permission to need comfort.
Your throat tightens, and you nod before you can trust words. Then manage, barely above a whisper, “I’d like that.”
For a second neither of you moves. Then he does, slowly. As if approaching something sacred, and then his arms are around you, and yours are around him.
Full body, no polite half-embrace or brief goodbye squeeze. A real one. The kind people fall into when they’ve been starving. His chest against yours and your cheek at his shoulder.
His arms wrapping so fully around you it feels less like being held and more like being gathered up and kept. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, and the other at your waist, secure, and protective. As if he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even slightly you’ll disappear again.
You feel his breath leave him against your hair, shaky, relief hurts. And God—he smells like soap and rain and borrowed cotton. You clutch the back of his shirt, and fist the fabric, without meaning to or pretending anymore.
Neither of you lets go as seconds stretch, then keep stretching. Until time feels embarrassed to intrude. And somewhere in it—you realize neither of you is comforting the other. It’s that you’re both being saved a little.
His chin brushes your temple, you feel it when he exhales. Feel his body soften into yours. As if this simple human closeness has taken some unbearable weight off his spine.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither, and the hug just slowly becomes less desperate. Less clinging, though not by much.
When you finally pull apart, it feels wrong. Like surfacing too soon. Your hands linger at his arms, while his stay at your waist a second longer than they should. Eyes meeting, with too much in them and a lot unsaid.
You manage a smile, small and tender, as you say, “Goodnight, Robby.”
His answer comes roughened, he knows sleep won’t touch him for hours. “Goodnight, Ducky.”
You turn before staying becomes all too much. You walk down the hall, and don’t look back. Because if you do, you might crawl into bed beside him and never recover.
The bedroom door closes softly behind you, and he stands there alone in the living room for a long moment. Touching the place on his chest where you had been. As if checking it happened.
Then he moves to the guest room, well your room, tonight.
He shuts the door, dim lamp, and rain still tapping glass. He sits on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion crashes over him all at once, but he doesn’t lie down immediately. Instead looks at the traces of you everywhere, it feels impossibly intimate, as if being let into worship.
He finally lies back. And the pillow—fuck. The pillow smells like you, not perfume exactly. Something softer, skin, laundry soap, your shampoo, warmth, it’s all… you.
It undoes him, actually undoes him. He turns into it before he can stop himself. Presses his face into the pillow like a man half feral with relief. A little pathetic. He’d be embarrassed if anyone saw.
Instead he rubs his cheek there, eyes shut, breathing you in as though scent could anchor him. As if he were some lovesick dog, and maybe he almost laughs at himself. But then his chest tightens, because for the first time in months, even maybe years—he doesn’t feel like running.
Tomorrow exists, and that tomorrow has your face in it. Your voice. Coffee maybe along with hard conversations. Possible forgiveness, and maybe even something more sincere.
Hope.
He lies there in your scent and lets that thought settle over him, not as fantasy, but as possibility.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — DAY
Morning arrives quietly, not with alarms or trauma pagers or overhead codes. But with light. Thin gold November light spilling through linen curtains, the kind that makes dust look holy.
You wake slowly, tangled in blankets, confused for one suspended second by the unfamiliar softness of the bed—then remember.
Robby.
Your chest gives a startled little thud, memory returns in fragments. His rain soaked jacket, his face in the doorway, and the hug.
The way he asked Can we hug? like asking for mercy.
You stare at the ceiling a moment, almost afraid last night was grief dreaming. Then you smell coffee, and something buttery.
Your brows knit.
What—
You drag yourself up, hair a mess, sleep shirt wrinkled, shuffling half-awake down the hall with the peculiar little waddle of someone not yet fully vertical. Mentally you’re already cataloguing the morning.
Feed Bowie, then take Bowie out and figure out breakfast later.
Pretend not to be catastrophically aware there is a man you love sleeping under your sister’s roof. You round the kitchen corner—and stop.
Robby is already up, at the stove in a gray borrowed shirt with sleeves pushed up. Making breakfast, actually making breakfast. Eggs, toast, and there’s coffee poured. Your coffee, with exactly the amount of cream you take.
How—
He glances over his shoulder, and smiles softly, “Morning.” You blink at him, because your brain needs evidence. “…You can cook?”
He gives you a look, deadpan. “I live alone.” A short pause. “Of course I can cook.”
You stare harder, skeptical and a little suspicious. Almost offended by how domestic he looks. Who is this man and what has he done with Robby?
“You’re messing with me.”
He snorts. “Nope.”
There is something so unfamiliar about this version of him—gentle. Rested, almost playful—that it leaves you slightly disoriented. Similar to handling a creature you thought was wild only to find it purrs.
You move to the pantry in a daze, scoop kibble for Bowie, and the dog circles your legs, ecstatic.
While you’re pouring food, you ask a little too casually, “Do you have a flight back or…”
Robby flips something in the pan. “It’s next week.” You pause and turn. “What? You just got back. How’d you get time off so soon?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious, “Chief emergency physician attending perks.” Then, with a crooked smile, “Besides, Jack said he’d cover for a little bit.”
You stare, “He knows you’re here?”
Robby grins. “Yep.” A beat. “Pretty sure everyone in the ED knows by now.”
You close your eyes, “Jesus.”
Of course they fucking do.
You move instinctively toward the stove, “I can help—” He points with the spatula. “Go sit.”
You laugh. “Are you sure?”
“I can—”
He cuts you off. “Go sit there…” His eyes flick over you. A dangerous little pause. “…and look pretty.”
Your whole face goes violently hot at that as you just stand there. Broken, because what the hell is that.
He smirks, knows exactly what he did. And you—who have stared down crashing patients and violent psych holds—cannot survive one flirtation over scrambled eggs.
So yes, you obey.
Mostly because your knees forgot how to work.
You sit at the table and watch him, which somehow feels even more intimate. His shoulders move as he cooks, the ease in his body. The ordinary miracle of a man you almost lost making you breakfast barefoot in a Manhattan kitchen.
You could cry over it, but instead, Robby plates everything and says, quieter, “I have a question.”
You look up. “Mm?”
He hesitates before asking, “Why weren’t you answering your phone?” A pause. “I tried calling but…”
Your stomach drops. “Oh.” And you look down, embarrassed. “My phone got stolen a few weeks ago.”
His face changes, almost offended on your behalf. “What?”
You nod. “Yeah. All my stuff wasn’t backed up.” You grimace before your voice softens. “And I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
That last part hangs there because it reveals too much. That you knew he’d worry and maybe some part of you hoped he would. He says nothing for a moment, only looks at you, and he quietly adds, “I did.”
Two small words, but they’re huge. You look away first, because your heart cannot be trusted.
You eat, and the food is actually good, annoyingly, and you point with your fork. “This is suspiciously decent.”
He looks offended. “Suspiciously?”
“Very.”
He laughs, and the sound settles into the kitchen like sunlight.
Bowie barks, demanding his walk, and you glance down. “Well.” You stand and you clip the leash, and look up at Robby, trying to sound casual but failing. “Wanna go for a walk with me?”
He doesn’t even pretend to consider. “Yes.”
You smile before you can stop it, and he catches it. You reach for your coat, but he reaches for yours first and holds it open for you.
You freeze, again. Fuck, this man is a serious risk.
You slip into it mutely, and he helps adjust the collar, his knuckles brushing your neck. A tiny touch with catastrophic consequences. You lend Robby a coat, and he laces up his shoes while Bowie whines impatiently.
Eventually, Robby hands you the leash, “You ready?”
You look at him, morning light in his hair and Coffee still warm on the table. Your whole life somehow suddenly feels… movable, and you answer softly, “Yeah.”
For the walk… and for him. Maybe for something else too. Outside, New York hums awake, and for the first time in a long time—neither of you is running.
PETER DETMOLD PARK — MORNING
The East River glints silver beyond the railing, restless and bright under weak November sun. Wet paths shine beneath your sneakers. Leaves skitter over the promenade in little bursts whenever the wind rushes through. Somewhere, a ferry horn moans low over the water.
Bowie pulls ahead on the leash like his life depends on reaching every smell before another dog can.
You and Robby walk side by side through the quiet of the morning, not speaking much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. The kind of silence that breathes.
Your shoulders brush now and then, while his hand swings close enough that once, his knuckles graze yours. An accidental touch, too brief and electric. He pulls his hand back almost immediately. As if he touched something sacred he hadn’t earned.
You notice, and you notice too, the way, a few minutes later, his hand drifts close again before he deliberately hooks his thumb into his coat pocket instead. Restraining himself, because he’s trying to do this right, and that softens something in you.
At one point, Bowie attempts to drag you toward a man eating a bagel. “Absolutely not,” you scold.
Robby laughs. “He has criminal impulses.”
“He gets that from me.”
He looks at you sideways, “That worries me.” You smile before you can stop yourself, and walking beside him begins to feel terrifyingly natural. Maybe you’d once imagined this and forgot.
Then the dog run appears, chain-link fencing. It’s complete chaos, along with happy barking and tennis balls flying. The familiar corner of Peter Detmold Park Dog Run buzzing with neighborhood regulars.
You unclasp Bowie’s leash, and he launches into the pack like a torpedo. Immediately making reckless social choices.
You and Robby move off to the side by the fence, watching. His shoulder almost touching yours. Then, you hear your real name get called. You turn and Mia waves with Evie beside her, both with their dogs.
You brighten, and pull them into quick hugs. Dog chatter along with morning gossip. Evie’s eyes flick immediately to Robby, then to you and then back. A knowing smile.
“Well,” she says. “This is interesting.”
You mutter, “Don’t start.”
Too late.
Connor arrives with Paris, a giant golden retriever who crashes into Bowie like a linebacker, and then Alex enters in with Fern.
Alex with his rolled sleeves and easy smile and vaguely insufferable handsome-neighbor energy. He spots you and lights up. “There she is.”
Robby goes quiet beside you, very quiet as Alex strolls over, ablivious. “Thought you abandoned us.”
You laugh. “Temporary exile.”
He leans casually near you. “So… you owe me coffee for disappearing.”
Mia nearly bites through her lip, and Connor looks ready to explode but Alex keeps going. “I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab some this week.”
And Robby—who has clearly reached some invisible threshold—thinks: absolutely the fuck not.
One smooth motion, his arm comes around your waist. It’s every bit warm and certain. Not tentative or friendly. Possessive enough to announce itself, as his hand settles at your side as though it belongs there. As though it has always belonged there.
You forget how breathing works and Alex finally notices. “Oh.”
Robby nods politely, “We’re catching up.”
We.
Your stomach flips, but Alex recovers admirably. “Well. Good for you.” Then to you, with a small smile, “Coffee offer stands.”
Before you can answer, Robby says mildly, “She’s pretty booked.”
Connor chokes laughing, while Evie literally turns away, and Mia looks heavenward.
Alex grins, message received. “Got it.” He backs off with Fern trotting behind him. The second he’s gone, you hiss, “What was that?”
Robby blinks. “What?”
“You just claimed me like a Victorian duke.”
He looks almost offended. “He was flirting.”
“Yes.” A second ticked by. “And?”
He looks down at you, very serious. “I didn’t care for it.”
God help you—you laugh, can’t help it. And because you lean into him laughing—his arm tightens. Just slightly, as if it were instinct.
Connor calls across the run, “Doc got jealous!”
Robby without missing a beat replies with a flat, “Yep.”
Everyone erupts, even you. When the teasing fades, the dogs resume their chase. The river moves beyond the fence, and the world narrows strangely. Just the two of you. His hand still warm through your coat.
You murmur, almost teasing, “You jealous?” He leans close, mouth near your ear and voice low enough only you hear. “Yes.”
You turn your head, meet his eyes. Brown gone almost gold in winter sun. Too open and soft. And for one suspended second—everything pauses.
Then Bowie slams muddy paws into both of you, breaking it… well, sort of. And Robby laughs. Real laughter, his head tipped back. And you think—you could get addicted to making him sound like that.
Beside the East River, dogs barking, cold wind cutting through the morning—his arm still around your waist—it feels absurdly, terrifyingly like the beginning of something.
EAST RIVER ESPLANADE — DAY
Eventually, the dog run empties around you. Mia and Evie head off. Connor leaves with Paris, dragging him like a hostage. Even Alex disappears with Fern, though not before giving Robby a long, amused look that makes you want to evaporate.
Bowie, gloriously mud-streaked and smug, is leashed again, and somehow the morning keeps unfolding. As if neither of you wants to be the first to say it should end.
So you walk down toward the river. Past iron railings and benches slick from last night’s rain. The East River churns beside you in gray-blue ribbons, sunlight breaking over the water in shards. Across it, Queens hums, behind you, Manhattan clatters on, indifferent.
Ahead—a bench. Half in the sun. Half in shade. You sit with Robby beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Bowie settles at your feet, apparently committed to people-watching as a spiritual practice.
For a while—nothing. Only gulls, wind, and a cyclist passing, along with the city breathing. You look out at the skyline. Glass towers rising, steam drifting from rooftops. November light is soft over everything.
Robby is looking at you. Not the skyline. You. You feel it before you turn, and when you do, he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
It isn’t rushed or defensive. Not one of those apologies meant to end discomfort. A real one. Heavy and earned. You hold his gaze and somehow smile. “I know.”
His mouth twitches, as if he expected punishment, but you decide to give him mercy instead. After a beat, you ask, “How was your sabbatical?”
He leans back, looks out at the water. “Good.” A breath. “Saw a lot of places. Took a cruise.”
You grin, “As Jack suggested.”
He huffs as he clarifies your statement, “As Jack aggressively insisted.” You look him over, the sun-browned skin, the softer edges in his face, the rest in him. “Good. I’m glad.” And you add quietly, “Nice tan, by the way.”
That gets a laugh.
“You seem like you got some rest.”
He studies you. Maybe hearing more in that than you meant. Then you ask, a bit too casually, “Did you meet anyone special while you were off sailing the world?”
A jealous question wearing a joke’s coat, and he hears it exactly as intended. His mouth softens, and he shakes his head. “No.”
Instead, unexpectedly, he shares, “I met a couple of Filipino families.”
You blink. “What?”
He smiles, “On the ship. One big extended family. Loud and really friendly.”
You laugh, “Oh no.” He nods solemnly. “They basically told me to get my head out of my ass. In a very loving way.”
You laugh harder, “Sounds right.”
“They fed me, scolded me, and then one Lola threatened to haunt me if I let you go.”
Your hand flies to your mouth. “No.”
“Yes.” He looks down, almost embarrassed. “I kept talking to strangers about you.” The wind seems to pause, as he says, “And then I read your letter.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”
“And then I read the journal.”
His voice roughens. You glance from the corner of your eye—and realize he has fully turned toward you. Body and soul, facing you. And before you can think, his hand lifts. Touches your face, cups your cheek, warm palm, rough thumb, gentle enough to ruin you.
You lean into it before pride can intervene. Instinct that something in you has waited years. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his voice lowers. “I was too afraid to tell you what I wanted.” He swallows, as he admits, “Because you deserve so much better than me.”
You shake your head already, but he keeps going. “Someone without all this fucking baggage. Someone younger and less broken.” His mouth twists. “You deserve more than some worn-out old man.”
Suddenly, your eyes burn because he believes this, still, even now. Then his voice breaks. Because some part of you has been braced for years against never hearing those words, and now they’re here.
Your mouth parts before you know what you mean to say. “I…” Your voice shakes, then you laugh once, helplessly, through tears. “I kept telling myself maybe I deserved someone else.”
A pause. “But…” You look at him fully then, no hiding and no more cowardice. “I always wanted you.”
You watch it happen as his whole face changes. He looks almost shocked. Breathless. As if he has spent so long preparing for rejection he has no idea what to do with being chosen.
A small, aching smile trembles at his mouth. It's lovely enough to cause pain and sad enough to destroy you. And then—God—his eyes fill. He laughs once under his breath like he can’t believe what he just heard. “You…” He shakes his head. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You’re trembling, and he is too. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that your breaths keep tangling.
“There’s… something I need to show you.” His hand slips from your cheek but lingers at your jaw, unwilling to leave. He looks suddenly nervous. “In the apartment. I brought something for you.” A crooked little smile, self-conscious. “Before you decide I’m too old and damaged and emotionally catastrophic to keep around.”
You let out a wet laugh, and he almost smiles wider. Then, quieter, he adds, “Before you decide what to do with me…” His voice nearly breaks there. “…I want you to read what I wrote.”
He looks down for a second, then back up. “I need you to know who I became when I was away from you.”
His thumb brushes once under your eye, catching a tear. And in a whisper that sounds almost ashamed to want this much, “I came all this way to ask if there’s still a place for me with you.” Your chest throbs so hard, you can barely speak. And all you manage is, “Show me.”
And the way he looks at you then, like a condemned man offered pardon, makes your knees weak.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
The apartment is quiet when you come back. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood in long gold bands, warming the rugs, catching on dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, the muffled pulse of Manhattan carries on—horns far below, a siren in the distance, somebody laughing on the sidewalk.
Inside, it feels suspended. Bowie is asleep in a patch of sun, twitching through some dream, and Robby stands near the dining table with that look he gets when he is about to do something emotionally reckless and medically unadvised.
He disappears briefly into the guest room, and when he returns, he is carrying the journal you gave him before he left. Only now it hardly looks like a journal anymore. It looks lived in.
Its leather cover is softened and worn, swollen with tucked papers, postcards, folded notes, and photographs jutting from the edges. The spine bows from overuse. It looks like something carried close to the body.
But that isn’t all.
In his other hand is a small wooden chest—weathered, carved, no bigger than a shoebox. Something old-fashioned and improbable, like it belongs in an attic or a ship’s cabin.
He sets that down first, almost shy. “I, uh… this too.”
You look at him, confused, and lift the lid. Inside, you find a life gathered in fragments. A pressed flower bookmark from Lisbon, still holding the faint ghost of summer. Sea glass earrings from Santorini, pale blue and green, catching the light. A tiny hand-painted saint medal from Naples. Ridiculous fridge magnets—a goat from Crete, a crooked lighthouse, and one that simply says Wish You Were Here.
A fountain pen from Marseille, heavy in the hand, because once during a night shift, you’d cursed hospital pens as instigators of pain, and he remembered.
A little tin of tea. Foreign coins. Shells. A folded map with certain ports circled. Polaroids banded together with twine, and tucked at the bottom, a few postcards unsent.
All of it collected for you. Not random souvenirs, but offerings. Proof he had been thinking of you in every strange corner of the world.
Your chest tightens so suddenly it hurts. “Oh my God,” you whisper. His mouth twitches. “I might have overdid it.”
You laugh through the twinge rising in your throat. “You think?”
But then he lifts the journal, and that changes the air. He holds it almost reverently, as if it’s something alive and afraid to hand over. “I… wrote in it.” His voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper.
He offers it to you. “You don’t have to read it now.” A beat. “Or at all, really.” His eyes drop. After everything I did. After what I put you through. He doesn’t say it outright, but it lingers there.
He forces himself through it anyway. “I just…” An exhale. “I hope you do.”
You take it with your hands that are shaking, and then you sit. Open the first page, and the breath leaves your body. Because there—written across the top—is your name. Not Ducky or a shorthand of some nickname to soften the feeling.
Your real name, written slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. And beneath it are polaroids, a sunrise at sea. A crooked Lisbon street drenched in gold. A ferry ticket pressed flat. Foreign stamps. Postcards. Receipts. Small scraps of living.
And every page—you. Mentions of you. Thoughts of you. Things he wished he could text. Observations, memories… and confessions.
There are entries from good days to bad days. Days he almost turned around and came home early. Pages where the handwriting goes jagged with grief. Pressed too hard into paper, ink blotting where he must have stopped.
Other pages lighter… looser and healing. And through all of it—you. Intertwined through everything.
You, a compass point. His north star.
Your vision blurs, and tears spill before you can stop them.
One page reads:
“Today I heard a woman laugh in Naples and thought of the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.”
Another:
“Bought a postcard she would’ve liked. Kept it because I didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to give it to her.”
Another:
I am beginning to suspect loving her has been the healthiest instinct I have.
Your mouth trembles, and you crumble. Silently crying over pages and over ink. The unbearable intimacy of being loved in handwriting, of being studied this closely. Remembered this faithfully.
Robby does not interrupt or explain. He leans against the kitchen counter across the room, arms folded loosely, watching. Waiting. Because he understands this moment belongs to you now. To both of you.
There is something almost unbearably vulnerable in how he stands there letting himself be read. As if he has taken his ribcage apart and handed it over. This is bigger than apology, and larger than romance.
This is witness, repair, and devotion in paper form.
You turn another page.
One entry is after therapy. “Today I admitted I love her.”
Your breath catches, you go completely still. Another page writes, “I thought distance might make me less ruined for her. Instead it taught me every beautiful thing I see turns into wanting to show her.”
Another says, “Bought sea glass earrings because she would call them mermaid trash and then wear them anyway.”
A wet laugh escapes you. Then, on another page, tucked there is a tiny pressed bougainvillea bloom. Below it says, “There are women I have admired. Women I have wanted. There has only ever been one I have wanted to come home to.”
You cover your mouth, sobbing now, and yet you still keep reading. Because now you can’t stop. Pages on therapy. On grief. On the things he has never told anyone. His mother leaving. His shame, fear, and loneliness.
Then it’s you again… everywhere.
“She makes bright hospital lighting look merciful.”
“She scratches at her arm when anxious and I keep wanting to catch her hand.”
“I think she sees every broken thing in me and stays anyway.”
Your tears fall onto the paper, and you don’t wipe them. Let them stain the ink, and somewhere across the room, his voice comes quietly, almost afraid.
“I thought if I wrote it down…” He stops, swallows. “…I might finally deserve to say it out loud.”
In every page that fate has ever penned, it's you—it's always you again. The chapter he keeps returning to, on and on.
You lift your eyes to him, through tears, and he looks almost undone by being seen. Suddenly, you understand—he didn’t bring you back a travel journal. He brought you the record of becoming a man brave enough to return to you.
How do you sit still after that? How do you keep reading when the person who wrote every trembling word is standing only feet away, breathing like he’s waiting to be sentenced?
You can’t.
Your hands close the journal gently as you set it down. And before you can think better of it—you’re moving. Crossing the room, as if you two were magnets.
Robby barely has time to straighten before you are in front of him, and then your arms are around him. A full-body collision of longing.
You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a sound that almost isn’t a sound at all—something punched out of him. His arms come around you hard, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his hold, you’ll disappear again.
And then he actually folds into you. His face presses into your shoulder, your cheek against his neck. His hands spread over your back, trembling.
You can feel the shake in him, the breath hitching. The way he’s trying and failing not to cry. And then you realize—you are both crying. The kind of crying that comes from surviving too much, and that wrings a person out.
His chest heaves against yours, and warm tears slip into the collar of your shirt. You feel them, and somehow that undoes you more.
Because this man—this stubborn, impossible, guarded man—is letting himself break in your arms. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt, holding on. As though you are trying to keep every fractured piece of him together with your hands.
His voice comes rough against your shoulder. “I thought I lost you.” The words are so small. Nothing like the man who runs trauma rooms.
You pull back just enough to look at him; his face is wet, eyes red, nonetheless beautiful and wrecked.
You cup his face with both hands, your thumbs catching tears. “You found me.”
That almost makes him cry harder. He gives this breathless, disbelieving laugh through tears. His forehead drops against yours. And for a while—that’s all there is.
Foreheads touching, shared breath along with the city humming beyond the windows. The dog lifting his head from the rug and settling again. The soft clink of a radiator. And two people who have wanted this for too long finally no longer pretending otherwise.
His hands slide up your back, gentler now, one settling at the nape of your neck. Seemingly, he still needs proof you’re real.
He whispers, voice cracking, “I wrote all that because I didn’t know how else to tell you.”
You shake your head, crying again. “You told me.”
A pause. Then, so honest it hurts, “I felt every page.”
His mouth trembles, and he presses his face briefly into your hair. Breathes you in, similar to relief or prayer.
This is not one of those dramatic reunions that people write about, you know, now. This is more subdued, even more destructive. Because it feels like coming home after assuming home was gone. He holds you as though grief itself might steal you if he lets go. And you let him.
You see, true love might occasionally look just like this. Standing barefoot on wooden floors, two weary individuals sobbed in each other's arms because one of them had returned.
Once it is spoken—or maybe not even spoken so much as finally allowed—everything changes with a softness neither of you had expected. The aftermath is the strange, almost miraculous easing of something that had been tight for too long. It’s two people setting down heavy things at the same time.
After years of orbiting each other in careful ellipses—glances held too long, feelings swallowed at the nurses’ station, almosts stacked atop almosts—there is suddenly no need for tiptoeing.
No more pretending not to reach or disguising tenderness as banter. No more acting like longing is a private wound. It is out in the open now, and because of that, bravery starts looking ordinary. The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes the little things feel enormous.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
By the second morning, the apartment has taken on that lazy, lived-in softness that only comes when people have stopped performing around each other. Coffee gone half-cold on the counter, a dish towel over your shoulder, and Bowie asleep in a stripe of sunlight.
Robby is standing in your sister’s kitchen in an old, faded T-shirt that fits him just a little too snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up, looking absurdly serious over a cutting board.
A trauma attending preparing for an onion-related catastrophe. You hand him garlic cloves and point the wooden spoon at him. “Okay. Rule number one.” He glances up. “There are rules?”
“There are many rules.”
He braces himself.
You narrow your eyes.
“Don’t disrespect the garlic.”
He stares.
Then deadpan—
“I didn’t know garlic had civil rights.”
You choke out a laugh. “It does in Filipino households.”
“Noted.”
“It can tell when you’re lazy.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It absolutely isn’t.” You bump his hip as you move past him for soy sauce. “We excommunicate people over bad adobo.” He lifts a brow. “That feels extreme.”
“That’s because you’re white.”
That gets an honest laugh out of him—warm, startled, unguarded enough that it makes something in your chest loosen. God. You love that sound. It’s not the dry, tired huff he gives coworkers over bad jokes in the ED or the sharp, amused exhale he gives when Jack says something ridiculous. A real laugh, full-bodied and alive. It makes the whole kitchen feel brighter.
You’re making chicken adobo because the day before he had looked genuinely scandalized—personally offended, even—when he realized he had known you this long and never learned how to make a single Filipino dish.
As if this were some ethical failure on his part.
“I can’t believe,” he had said, hand to chest in mock injury, “I’ve gone this many years without adobo.”
Now he is here, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be sous-chef while mostly getting in your way. The chicken simmers low. Soy, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves deepening into something dark and glossy. Steam curls up into the warm kitchen air as the scent wraps around both of you.
It’s savory, sharp, and every bit comforting like a memory. As if somebody’s grandmother should be here… and maybe that’s what moves you a little. How food can cross oceans, or care can take shape in different forms.
You may not always come from the same language. But warmth—sweetness—the instinct to feed someone you love—that has always been universal.
You scoop a little sauce over a piece of chicken, blow on it once, then turn toward him. “Taste.”
He leans obediently toward the spoon, then pauses, raises an eyebrow. “You feeding me?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m definitely making it weird.”
“Robby.”
But he opens his mouth anyway. Takes the bite and freezes, while his whole face changes. Brows lifting, eyes widening, as he chews slowly. Like processing revelation. Then a gasp, “Oh.”
You blink. “What?”
He points at the pot. “That.” A brief pause. “That is outrageous.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s adobo.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head like you’re underselling a miracle. “That is a religious experience.”
You laugh. “There he goes.” He reaches for another bite before you can pull the spoon away. You smack his wrist lightly, chastising, “Patience.”
He looks wounded. “I’m in love.”
“With the food.” You say, but he looks at you, very deliberately. “Didn’t specify.”
Your face heats instantly, and you busy yourself stirring. But too late, he saw. You hand him another taste just to survive the moment. He takes it and closes his eyes. “Oh, I’m ruined.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“This is what people write poetry over.”
You snort at that, and he opens his eyes, and there is that look again. That soft wrecked one. You try to roll your eyes and fail.
And before you can turn back to the stove, he steps in, very gently, and touches your wrist, waits, as if asking. Then leans down and kisses the tip of your nose. Barely there, light as breath.
A stupidly tender little kiss.
You freeze entirely, brain gone. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the smile he gets—God. You melt so fast it should be medically concerning.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Because nothing useful comes out. He looks entirely too pleased. “What was that for?”
He shrugs. “Chef’s kiss.”
You cover your face. “Oh, my fucking God.”
He laughs.
You’re completely doomed. And later, while you plate adobo over garlic rice and eat with your knees bumping under the table, you realize something almost frightening in its sweetness—this is how people fall in love in kitchens. In spoonfuls held to lips, teasing, feeding each other, and maybe a nose kiss that nearly stops your heart.
BATHROOM — NIGHT
By evening, Bowie needs a bath. Or rather—you decide Bowie needs a bath.
Bowie, however, clearly believes this is a state-sponsored betrayal. The moment you so much as turn on the tub, he knows. His ears flatten, and he backs away. Suspicious, offended, and a little traumatized.
Robby folds his arms and watches this mutiny unfold. “I just want the record to show,” he says gravely, “I opposed this operation from the start.”
You point at him. “You literally offered to help.”
“I was misled.”
“You volunteered.”
“I was coerced.”
Bowie makes a break for it, and Robby barely intercepts him. Holding a forty-pound wriggling dog like unstable trauma equipment. “Oh my God,” he grunts. “Why is he so strong?”
“Because he senses fear.”
“I sense fear.”
You are laughing before this has even begun, and somehow that only gets worse. Because once Bowie is in the tub, everything devolves immediately.
There’s soap everywhere, water on the floor, and your shirt sleeves were drenched. Robby is on his knees beside the tub, trying to rinse shampoo while Bowie acts as though he’s being waterboarded.
“This was your idea,” Robby mutters.
“It was our idea.”
“No.” He points. “This was all on you.”
You snort, and he looks at Bowie. “I trusted you.”
Bowie shakes violently, and it’s a tidal wave that both of you take full force. Robby gets blasted in the face. His hair drenched and shirt soaked through. You laugh so hard you have to grab the tub, as he wipes water from his eyes. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a car wash.”
He narrows his eyes. “This is how you treat a man trying to win you back?”
“Oh, you have so much more groveling to do.”
He looks at you, actually considers it. Then, dead serious, “Okay.”
And before you can process that, he leans down and starts kissing an apology into Bowie’s wet forehead. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”
You wheeze laughing. “They?”
He nods solemnly. “You’re management.”
Then Bowie escapes, a wet missile, launching out of the tub, and bolting down the hall.
“No no no—”
“Oh my God, grab him!”
Bare feet slap hardwood as you and Robby chase a flying, dripping dog through the apartment, laughing so hard neither of you can breathe.
Robby almost eats shit turning the corner while you’re bent double. Bowie circles the coffee table. Slides and you lunge, only to miss. At one point, Robby catches Bowie, loses Bowie, and mutters, “I’ve had easier trauma codes.”
Then Bowie darts between your legs, and you stumble backward, straight into Robby. His arms catch you, hard and instant, with your back against his chest, with his hands at your waist.
Water dripping, both of you breathless and panting. Laughing, fading into something else. Everything slows with his mouth near your ear, warm, close enough to ruin you. “You okay?”
Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves immediately, and then, very quietly, Robby says, “I’m really sorry.”
It takes a second to realize he doesn’t mean the dog.
You turn slightly. “What?”
His arms don’t leave your waist. “For hurting you.”
The room goes still, even wet dog chaos recedes.
“I know I’m joking around and trying to be charming and—” He exhales. “But I am sorry. Every hour.”
Your chest tightens, but before you can answer—Bowie barks, loud and indignant. Spell broken, and you both dissolve into helpless laughter again.
Later, Robby insists on blow-drying Bowie, horribly. Like a man operating unfamiliar machinery. “You’re fluffing him wrong.”
“There’s a wrong way to fluff a dog?”
“There absolutely is.”
“You are ruthless.”
“You’re welcome.”
And he just looks at you, so openly adoring—you have to turn away. Because otherwise you might kiss him.
LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
Eventually, Bowie is dry, overfed with apology treats, and asleep like a prince between you on the couch.
A movie plays that neither of you is watching. You’ve curled against Robby almost without noticing, with his arm around you as naturally as breathing. His thumb traces absent little patterns over your shoulder repeatedly. Enough to make your eyelids heavy, your body soft, sleepy, and safe. He notices before you do, how your head keeps tipping and your blinks grow slow.
He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV quietly. Darkness settles except for the city light through the curtains.
Bowie hops down to his bed, circles twice, and drops.
Robby doesn’t move or want to disturb you. Because you look so peaceful, and he isn’t used to seeing you at peace. His eyes drift to your forearm, where faint old scars and fresh healing scabs mark where you’ve scratched yourself raw. His fingers hover, then very carefully trace near one faded line. It’s not intrusive, but almost reverent, a question he doesn’t yet ask.
Something in him stings because he can’t stand imagining you hurting where he wasn’t there. His mouth brushes your temple, as a thought, barely spoken, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”
You murmur something half asleep, and nestle closer, and his heart nearly gives out. He pulls the throw blanket over both of you and tucks it around your legs, letting you fold into him. Eventually sleep takes him too, curled around you on the couch.
You wake tangled together, morning light gold across the room, with your cheek against his chest. His arm heavy over your waist, and one of your legs thrown over his.
For one blissful second, you don’t move, because neither does he. “I’m awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile against his shirt. “So am I.”
“I’m sorry.”
You lift your head, snorting, “Jesus.” He looks sheepish. “What?”
“You apologize in your sleep, too?”
He laughs, but is serious again, “I mean it.” His hand moves to your hair as he says. “I’m gonna spend a long time making up for what I did.”
You squint. “That a threat?”
“Promise.” He kisses your forehead. You realize that he is groveling, in the way grown men do. Consistency, tenderness, and showing up for someone.
So, when he disappears later and returns from the corner bodega carrying coffee and flowers, you nearly choke. There he is with a messy bouquet, it has peonies and whatever else the guy sold him. Held awkwardly in one hand, as if he’s sixteen. “These are for you.”
You stare. “You bought me flowers?”
He clears his throat, nervous. “Yeah.” Then, almost formal, “Would you let me take you on a date?”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish's. He rushes out, “A real date, dinner. Where I wear a clean shirt.”
You are smiling so hard it hurts. He looks terrified. “Ducky…” He steps closer, with flowers between you. “Let me do this right.”
Somehow, that wrecks you more than every confession. Because this brilliant broken man is asking, not assuming. You take the flowers and smell them before looking up, “Yes.”
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for months, and grins devastatingly, “Tomorrow?”
You tuck your face into the flowers, trying not to melt, agreeing. “Tomorrow.”
End Notes:
Why did it take Robby finishing the journal for all of this to happen? Why didn't Ducky just tell him that she loves him at the end of S2?
Because as much as love can be used as a tool to help someone, it can also be weaponized. She didn't want him to get better just for her. She wanted him for himself; to want to get better. Put in the work without her. To figure himself out. Literally want to live and to love. Want to be open to new experiences. Good and bad. (And that's still in progress every day.)
Because Robby finished the journal, it means he did it for himself. You help nudged him in that direction, but he wrote in that thing, not really knowing what your letter would be.
We cannot fix him. God knows we tried. Love cannot save you, but it will hold on and cling for dear life as you save yourself.
Lelele, why so slow burn? Cause mental illness does that to ppl… well for me personally anyways. I genuinely felt insane at one point in my life and felt so unlovable. It took me 6 years to finally feel okay and not hate myself. :D So four months is like spare change lol
We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think.
Robby has given his life to try to save people when no one was able to save him. :,)
Lowkey… this chapter was horrifying to publish. I didn’t want it to seem like Ducky forgave him right away, but I also wanted to show that you are capable of compassion and understanding. That you are willing to see the work Robby has done and will continue to do.
But for those who want more groveling etc… don’t worry, we still have HR to deal with lol
When I say I am giggling and kicking my feet. This was incredible. I LOVED IT SOOOOOOO MUCH 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍 like a whole new world to be explored. Genuinely had a smile on my face the whole time while I was reading. Thank you for blessing us!
Chapter Thirty-One: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Fireworks, Shouting,
Word Count: 14.3k
A/N: Did I lowkey wait for Noah Kahan to drop the album? Yes. Also, did my University take away a lot of my writing time? Also, yes. Welcome to the last episode of Season 2 of the Pitt!!
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/abstractedrobby. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Staying Still by Noah Kahan, Strangers by Ethel Cain, Thousand by Rosie Carney, Lisa Hannigan, Fine Line by Harry Styles, and Free Now by Gracie Abrams
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9:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Robby stands beside Al-Hashimi, one hand braced on the counter of the workstation on wheels as he leans in slightly, reading through her chart.
There’s something different in his posture here—less sharp than earlier, but not softer either. Concern buried under function.
“Baran… is this you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Al-Hashimi doesn’t look away.
“It began after a bad case of viral meningitis when I was five,” she says evenly. “They tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.” A small pause. “No one’s ever noticed before. They just think I’m thoughtful.”
Robby exhales quietly through his nose, processing. “Are you driving?”
“I couldn’t,” she answers. “Not until I had laser ablation to my left temporal lobe twelve years ago.” Her voice stays clinical and practiced. “Between that and the Keppra, I’ve been seizure-free. Neurology cleared me. Driving, practicing—everything.”
He nods once, eyes scanning the screen again. “How long between the seizure you had today and the last one?”
“It’s been well over a year.” She hesitates slightly. “But I had two today.” Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before she steadies it again.
“I don’t know why. It could be sleep deprivation. Stress from the new job.” A breath. “I haven’t had to deal with Peds cases since Afghanistan.”
Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He knows what that means.
“What are your options now?” he asks.
Al-Hashimi shifts her weight, folding her arms loosely. “Up my Keppra,” she says. “Or try one of the newer anti-seizure medications.”
“And if that doesn’t work…” She swallows. “Temporal lobectomy. Which could impair my speech. Or a neuromodulation device. It can sense and stop the seizures almost immediately.”
Robby nods slowly, “You need to disclose this.” There’s no accusation in it, only fact and responsibility.
“I know,” she replies. “I have a plan.”
The door cracks open behind them.
“Hey, Robby.” Olive steps in, slightly out of breath from moving too fast through the department. “Ducky and Dana are looking for you. They’re in Peds.”
Robby straightens slightly at the mention of you, already shifting gears again. “Yeah. Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Al-Hashimi gives a small nod, already stepping back. “Sounds like you’re needed in Peds,” she says. “And I have patients to see.”
There are no lingering or extra words. She exits through the opposite door, disappearing back into the rhythm of the department.
For a second, Robby stands there alone. Between rooms, between responsibilities. Between everything he just heard— and everything still waiting for him.
Another voice cuts in before he can follow the thought any further. “Robby—” Vivi pokes her head through the doorway, urgency already in her tone. “Pregnant woman with severe headache on her way in by ambulance.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Find Abbot or one of the night shift residents.”
By the time he turns back, Al-Hashimi is already gone. The conversation unfinished. Filed away, another thing added to the list of things he’s carrying, whether he wants to or not. He rubs a hand over his face, then he moves out of Central 8. Toward Peds… toward you.
PEDES — NIGHT
Pediatrics feels like a different world, quieter, and softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.
The lights are still luminous—but warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.
Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.
You’re standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.
Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. “Cutest patient we’ve had all day.”
You don’t notice him at first, but he notices you. There’s something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. It’s not polished or composed. Your hair’s coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tired—really tired—but still soft in a way that feels… lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. It isn’t logical or something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.
A future that doesn’t look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything that’s breaking. A life where your hands still move like that—gentle, certain—but not because something’s wrong. Because something’s yours.
It’s gone as quickly as it comes.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.
You glance up, but Dana answers first. “Oh—false alarm,” she says, waving a hand lightly. “We thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.”
She huffs a laugh. “You know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.”
Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t look at me.” Then, more seriously, he asks, “Hey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?”
Dana’s expression shifts immediately, “Why?”
“Uh,” Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesn’t want to explain, “because I think she’s tired.” A small shrug. “And I don’t want her to make any mistakes.”
Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. “Oh, great advice,” she mutters. “Maybe you should take it.”
You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure she’s settled before stepping back.
“Yeah,” Robby says, already moving again. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”
Dana snorts. “Grab some for me while you’re out there.”
He doesn’t miss a second. “Your lungs wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Screw you!”
Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, “In front of the baby? Nice.”
Dana scoffs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns and leaves. Back toward Central— into everything.
You watch him go before deciding. “I’ll go try and check in with him,” you say, quieter now. “He also looks tired.”
Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, “Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it.”
You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, “Shut up.” But you’re already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means he’s pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.
You stop when you realize what’s happening, and immediately snort. Because—oh no. Not this.
Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jack—of course, Jack—taking it as if you had handed him doctrine.
At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And then—somewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.
Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, “We are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”
In unison, “We are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”
Jack grins. “That is right. And tonight…” He gestures around the ED. “They are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.”
“Hooah!”
The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.
Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.
Abbot winces. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I—I was thinking,” Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. “Doubt PTX.”
Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, “You’re supposed to be leaving.”
Robby doesn’t turn, “I am.”
Jack folds his arms. “You know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.” Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, “Everyone’s gonna be fine without me. And it’s hardly a spirit quest.”
Jack follows. “Whatever it is, you’ve given people the impression you might not be coming back.”
Dana appears beside you, silent. You don’t have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.
Robby says, too casually— “Well… who knows what the future has in store for any of us?”
Jack exhales sharply, “Yeah, saying shit like that isn’t helping.” His voice lowers. “People are worried about you.”
Sophie appears from South. “Dr. Abbot? The patient in South 21—Digby—he’s missing again.”
Jack barely looks over, “Sounds like a day shift problem.”
Robby deadpans, “Not if he was handed off already.” And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.
You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.
You follow, again.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
You stay near the doors, hidden enough not to be obvious. Close enough to hear while Duke is by the motorcycle. “Best I can do under the circumstances.”
Robby shakes Duke’s hand, “Thank you.” Then quieter, “Hey. Don’t leave before I get back, yeah?”
Duke smirks, “Hell, I feel like I live here now.” He passes you on the way in, sees you, but says nothing. Instead, he gives you the faintest knowing smile. As if he knows exactly why you’re lurking here, and protects it.
Jack nods toward the bike, “Your friend fixing it?”
“Ambulance clipped it while it was parked here today.”
Jack stares. “Jesus Christ. That’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”
Robby’s face pinches. Then Jack shifts, more serious. “Here’s the thing.” He steps closer. “When people worry about you…” His voice softens. “…it makes me think I should be worried about you. And I don’t like worrying about things.”
Robby scoffs, “Ooh. Now you’re a shrink?”
Jack doesn’t bite, “No. I’m trying to be your friend.” A pause. “You got— you got Dana convinced that you're gonna hurt yourself.”
His eyes sharpen. “And Ducky—” he glances toward the doors, unknowingly near where you stand— “—thinks you’re withdrawing. Shutting everybody out.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Dana’s got her own issues. So does Ducky.”
Jack lifts a brow, “That sounds like projection.”
And there it is, the spark. Robby turns, voice rising. “Are you seriously trying to have this fucking conversation with me right now, man?” He gestures at him. “I’m not the one who spends his free time getting shot at.”
Then, mockingly— “Hooah.”
Jack actually looks offended, which would be funny if it weren’t so bad.
Before either can escalate, ambulance doors open. “Hey, Dr. Robby!” Medic Nguyen is already unloading. “This is Judith Lastrade—thirty-six weeks pregnant. Two days of headache, now ten out of ten with blurred vision. BP one seventy-four over one twenty, pulse ninety-two. No relief with fentanyl.”
Jack steps in first, and the conversation with Robby is put on pause. “Judith, I’m Dr. Abbot. Any weakness in your arms or legs?”
Robby’s fingers press over her ankle, checking for edema. “Pitting edema with severe preeclampsia.” He looks up sharply. “Where are you doing prenatal care?”
The woman grimaces, “Nowhere.” A breath. “It’s a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
Jack and Robby exchange a look, a whole conversation in one glance.
Oh no.
You choose that exact moment to step through the doors— making a show of only just arriving. “Oh—what’ve we got?” As if you weren’t just listening to them tear at each other outside.
As if your heart isn’t still pounding, like you didn’t hear every word. You grab the gurney rail to help steer her inside, moving with them.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Trauma One is bright in that punishing way trauma bays always are—too white, too loud, too awake. The room hums with layered urgency: monitors chirping, paper ripping from packaging, the hiss of oxygen, shoes squeaking over tile.
You’re helping position Judith when Mateo throws you a look over the monitor. A long one. The kind coworkers give when they know you’re pushing too hard. “You sure you wanna get in on this?” he asks. “You’re going on hour fifteen.”
There’s concern buried under the teasing, and you shrug like it’s nothing. “Bridget texted me. She’ll be here soon.” You secure the belts over Judith’s abdomen, hands steady. “I’ll help with this and then go home.”
You adjust the transducers and glance at the tracing, “CTG is on.”
Judith turns her head weakly toward you. “CTG?”
At the foot of the bed, Robby and Jack look toward the monitor. Robby answers automatically, “Cardiotocography.” His hand gestures toward the machine. “Measures the baby’s heart rate and checks for contractions.”
Jack glances at the screen, “Fetal heart rate 128.” He looks toward Nazely. “Normal range?”
Nazely answers immediately, “110 to 160.”
Judith’s eyes dart, “So the baby’s okay?”
Crus, stethoscope still hanging around his neck, checks her as he answers, “Right now, yes.” He nods toward the tracing. “One twenty-eight is reassuring.”
Mateo calls out from the pump. “BP one seventy over one nineteen. Six grams magnesium running in.” Magnesium sulfate dripping to prevent eclamptic seizures, heavy medicine for a heavy diagnosis.
Out of the corner of your eye, Robby is staring through the glass doors. Not looking through them, past them, gone somewhere for a second. Spacing out. Again.
It catches in your chest. But then— Jack’s voice pulls him back. “Your next move, Crus?”
“Twenty of labetalol,” Crus says. “IV push over two minutes.”
Judith looks panicked now. “What’s happening?” Nazely steps closer. “You have a condition called preeclampsia.”
Judith blinks rapidly. “And how did it happen?”
Robby rubs a hand down his face before answering. He looks tired enough to disappear. “Uh…” A breath. “Nobody really knows, actually.” He gestures gently. “It affects about ten percent of pregnancies. High blood pressure. Headaches. Protein in the urine. Swollen ankles.”
Judith looks stricken. “Okay, well… it’s a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care.”
Robby’s head tilts, something almost incredulous. “Then why are you here?”
Her lip trembles, and then she starts crying, clearly scared, “I just need to get rid of this headache.”
Robby and Jack exchange a look, one of those silent attending conversations.
You take this.
I know.
Jack steps in, gentler. “Well… if we don’t lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium…” He chooses his words carefully. “There can be problems.”
Judith whispers, “Like what?”
Crus doesn’t sugarcoat, “Seizures, bleeding, even death.” He glances at her belly. “For you and the baby.”
Her face crumples, “Oh my God.”
The door swings open, and Dana is there, “Robby—your VIP’s ready to go.”
Robby nods, “Ok, I'll be right there.” Dana nods and walks off. He then looks to Jack. “You good?”
Jack nods, “Yeah, I’m good.” A crooked grin. “I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won’t.” He shrugs. “Maybe one eye.” He clicks his tongue and winks at you. You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it.
Then Jack turns. “Hey—” To say something else to Robby. Maybe something important or not. But Robby’s already gone, out the door as if he couldn’t stand still another second.
And you, for one impossible second, find yourself staring at the door Robby just disappeared through. With a feeling you can’t quite name, only recognize.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re adjusting Judith’s tubing, checking the IV line hasn’t infiltrated, smoothing slack from the blood pressure cuff tubing where it catches beneath the rail, when Nazely leans in toward the stretcher. “How’s the headache?”
Judith’s face is pinched tight with pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Still a ten.” Crus looks up from the medication tray. “More fentanyl?”
Jack is near the glass doors, though he’s only half paying attention to the question. The other half of him is scanning, watching. Looking through the doors. Looking for Robby. Making sure he didn’t just disappear into the night, again.
“Yep,” Jack says absently.
Crus nods, “BP’s good. Another fifty.” He pushes medication with practiced calm. Judith winces, breathes, doesn’t relax.
“Hey, Abbot.”
Jack turns, and Sam Garvin enters the Trauma room in pink OB scrubs, already gloved up. “Attending and resident are stuck in the OR.”
Jack gives a crooked grin. “Oh, you’re the next best thing.” Sam arches a brow. “Better, some would say.”
Jack hums. “Mm.” There’s affection in it, familiarity, hospital shorthand for trust. She steps to the bedside. “What do you got?”
Nazely answers quickly. “This is Judith. G1, P0. No prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension.”
Judith barely nods, and Crus reaches for the ultrasound probe. “Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.”
She immediately panics, “No, no, no.” Judith recoils. “Ultrasound can harm the baby.”
Jack answers before anyone else can. “Not true.” Crus, already uncapping gel, “Not doing the ultrasound could end up harming you and the baby.” Judith’s breath catches. Then, smaller, “Okay. Just do it as fast as you can.”
Cold gel, probe to the abdomen, and the monitor blooms gray static into anatomy. Crus concentrates.
Sam watches the image. “Why no prenatal care, Judith?”
Judith looks almost defensive through the fear.“I wanted a free birth.” She says it like a creed. “No doctors. No hospital. No medicine.”
Jack lifts a brow. “You have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No. I don’t need one.” She says it almost stubbornly. “Women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
Jack’s mouth tilts, dry as ever. “Yeah. With an infant mortality rate of thirty percent for most of those thousands of years.”
The monitor blooms gray static into anatomy, while Crus concentrates. “Femur length seven centimeters.”
Sam watches the image. “Thirty-seven weeks.” She glances at Jack. “They’ll probably induce.”
Judith bolts upright as much as the bed allows. “What?” Her fear sharpens. “No. No, no, no, no.” Head shaking. “Absolutely not.”
Jack steps closer, at eye level now. “At thirty-seven weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.” His voice lowers. “We need to get you upstairs so OB can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
Judith looks horrified. “No. No, no.” Her hands clutch the sheet. “Mm-mm.”
Jack looks at you with a brief questioning glance. Like maybe you’ll have the answer no one else has found. His lips quirk to one side the way they do when he’s thinking three things at once.
Something in your chest stumbles, because your mind is suddenly nowhere in Trauma One. It is somewhere older, hotter, and smaller. A maternity ward years ago. Fan blades are turning slowly overhead. Late summer heat clinging to skin. Women laboring behind curtains. The smell of antiseptic, milk, and sweat. A mother screaming. A newborn is crying. Your mother’s hand around yours. Or maybe a memory you’ve spent years trying not to touch.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re at Judith’s side, cuff still cycling on her arm, watching numbers pulse on the monitor. “BP’s 164 over 114.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Another forty of labetalol.” And Crus is already moving. “Mag bolus is in. Now infusing two grams an hour.”
Nazely stands at the workstation on wheels, scrolling through newly posted labs as they populate. “Labs are coming back. Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFTs are sky high.”
Jack looks over, and there’s instant recognition. “HELLP syndrome.”
Crus, half for Judith, half for Nazely, he explains,“Hemolysis. Elevated Liver enzymes. Low Platelets.”
Sam is already on the phone with OB. “They’re cleaning a room. We can bring her up in ten minutes.”
Jack leans toward Judith, “How you doing, Judith?”
Her pupils seem unfocused. Her breathing wrong, as she tries. “I—I—”
Nazely sees it first, “Oh—she’s seizing.” Judith’s body arches, a violent tonic rigidity. Her arm jerks against the rail, jaw clenches, and monitor alarms erupt. The fetal tracing slips.
“Shit.” Jack moves instantly. “Ten of IV diazepam. Have another ten ready.”
You’re already protecting Judith’s head with folded blankets, turning her slightly to keep her airway clear, instinct and training moving before thought.
Sam stares at the tracing, “With all the movement, we can’t get a fetal heartbeat.”
Crus reaches for oxygen. “Putting on fifteen liters by mask.”
The nonrebreather goes on, Judith is cyanotic around the lips for a breath too long. Crus glances up. “Should we intubate?”
Jack shakes his head, “Hold intubation. Let’s try to break this. We don’t want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to.” His mind is moving three steps ahead, he points. “Crus, CTG isn’t reading. Check with ultrasound.”
“On it.”
Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Nazely—what’s the diagnosis?” He’s still teaching even now.
Nazely swallows, “With the seizure… Now it’s eclampsia.”
Jack gives one hard nod.
Crus studies the ultrasound, “Fetal heart rate about ninety.” Sam’s face drops at that, “Way too low.” Another layer of emergency.
Mateo checks pulse ox, “Mom’s sats are going down.”
The monitor confirms it, and Crus looks up again, urgent now. “Time to tube her?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, “Set up for it—but wait.”
He’s still trying to buy her one more chance, “One more ten of diazepam. Push four grams of Keppra.”
Judith’s breathing is becoming shallow beneath the nonrebreather, her chest fighting for air in uneven pulls while the seizure leaves aftershocks through her body.
You glance up at the monitor, and her numbers are dropping. Your stomach drops with them. “Pulse ox is eighty-eight.”
Your words cut through the room, and Crus looks up immediately. “Dr. Abbot? Intubate?”
Jack has both hands braced on his hips, thinking in that fast, layered way he does, processing ten variables at once. Then he’s reached a decision, he reaches for the gloves off the wall dispenser. “Let’s do it.”
He turns to Nazely, “Nazely—what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?”
She answers quickly, nerves showing, “Etomidate and roc.”
Jack gives the smallest tilt of his head. “Mm. Not quite.” He reaches for the airway tray. “One-twenty of propofol. Sixty of succinylcholine.”
He looks toward Crus, “Why is that?”
Crus doesn’t miss it, “Propofol for the anti-seizure effect. Sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.”
Jack agrees. “Exactly.”
Nazely absorbs every word, filing it away. You can almost see the learning happening in real time.
Jack moves beside you, close enough his shoulder brushes yours as he adjusts gloves. Your syringe is ready, hands steady, even if your pulse isn’t. You announce, “Pushing the propofol.”
White medication disappears into the IV line. Judith softens, her resistance melting under sedation.
Sam is already repositioning, “Once she’s flat for intubation, we need to displace the uterus left.”
Jack gestures to Nazely, “That’s you.” He motions with both arms. “Big hug. Both arms.”
Nazely steps in awkwardly but willing, wrapping both forearms around Judith’s gravid abdomen and shifting the uterus off midline.
Jack nods. “Get the baby off the vena cava.”
Mateo glances at the meds, “Sux is on board.” Seconds now, everyone is waiting, and watching as paralysis sets in.
Nazely, still thinking aloud, “But after she’s paralyzed, the seizing stops… right?”
Jack is checking laryngoscope light, “It might look like that.” He looks at her. “But an ongoing seizure will still fry the brain. We monitor with EEG.”
Nazely blinks, “Is there time for that?” Jack’s mouth pulls to one side. “Wait and see.”
Judith’s jerking slows and eventually stops. Jack watches her closely and says, “Paralytics kicked in.”
Crus steps in, “Let’s go.”
The team rolls her flat, bed lowered, and her head positioned, with he airway open. Jack is at the bedside now, every inch attending. He looks at Crus. “Intubate, then EEG to see if her brain is still seizing.” Then his voice lowers. “I need first-pass success.”
Crus replies aptly, “You and me both.”
The tube is secured, and breath sounds are confirmed. Crus moves back to the ultrasound, probe gliding over Judith’s chest while Jack, at the head of the bed, is carefully placing EEG leads along her scalp with deliberate fingers, smoothing adhesive against sweat-damp skin. Even in urgency, his hands are precise, gentle, and almost reverent.
Crus studies the screen. “Good lung sliding bilaterally.”
Sam is still on fetal monitoring, eyes locked to the tracing, “Fetal heart rate borderline at ninety-eight.”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “Roll her to the left again. That can help.”
Mateo’s already at the rail. “One, two, three.” On his count, you move with the team, shoulder to hip, helping roll Judith into left uterine displacement again, easing pressure off the vena cava.
Jack adjusts the EEG leads one last time. “Okay.” A glance to the monitor. “All set here.”
Mateo checks the hookup. “EEG monitor’s good to go.”
Nazely stares at the setup, wide-eyed. “That was fast.”
Jack doesn’t answer; he’s already reading, already worried. Then the small EEG monitor changes. Red screen and white text. Like a warning flare. Crus sees it first, and his face drops. “Still seizing while paralyzed. It’s nonconvulsive status.”
The trauma doors push open. Shen and Ellis. Both already gloving as they walk in. No questions about whether they’re needed.
Shen comes straight in. “What’s she had so far?”
Jack rattles it off from memory. “Thirty of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol.”
Ellis exhales. “Damn.” She looks at him. “What’s your next step?”
Jack turns. “Any ideas? Hmm? Nazely?” He looks at Nazely, and she swallows. “Dilantin? Valproate?”
Jack tilts his head. “Mm.” Not dismissive, but thinking. “Infusion’s too long. So is onset of action. Push one hundred of ketamine. That’s had results with refractory status.”
Crus adds, still watching labs.“She also has HELLP syndrome—hemoglobin only seven, platelets down to thirty.”
Shen already pivoting. “Two units whole blood?”
Jack doesn’t falter, “O-neg is going up on the rapid infuser as we speak.” You hear blood tubing being primed behind you. Pressure bags, fluids.
Ellis is by the workstation on wheels, “Uh, put the AP pads on, just in case.”
Jack nods. “And ten of Decadron IV push.” His eyes never leave Judith. “For the inflammatory storm.”
You push the steroid. Flush. Line patent. The vent breathes for Judith in measured mechanical sighs.
Sam suddenly leans over the tracing. “Fetal heart rate up to one-oh-four.”
A pause as everyone looks over, Jack too. He hums, thinking while Sam is cautiously hopeful, “Little better.”
Shen mutters, “Yeah. She should be upstairs with OB.”
Jack finally looks at him. Steel in his face. “She will be.” A beat. “After we break this seizure.”
The EEG continues its angry red chatter. No break or slowing. Only seizure. Crus stares at the tracing, jaw tight. “There’s been no improvement. Still seizing on the EEG. Neurology has been called.”
Ellis hangs up the phone, almost on top of the words, urgency carrying her in. “OB says send her up. They have an OR ready.”
Jack exhales hard, chest lifting with a frustrated huff, “About time.” But the moment the words leave him, Robby walks into Trauma One, and the room shifts again.
He looks wrecked, drawn pale under the light, scrub top damp at the collar, exhaustion carved into the planes of his face. However, the moment he sees Judith, the bed, and the monitors, his eyes sharpen.
Sam’s voice cuts through. “Baby’s been bradying down a bit more.”
Robby takes in the room in one sweep, “This one looks like it took a turn for the worse.”
Jack doesn’t look away from the monitors. “Eclampsia. Refractory seizures. HELLP syndrome with anemia and thrombocytopenia.”
Shen mutters darkly, “About as bad as it gets.” And then—an alarm screams. Sam’s head snaps up. “V-fib.”
Jack’s voice cracks through it, “Chest compressions, Nazely. Charge to two hundred.” Nazely launches into compressions, and the bed shakes. Robby’s already moving, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call NICU. Start a timer.” Commands flying like sparks.
Mateo at the defib. “Charged. Clear.”
Shock, and Judith’s body jolts. Shen says, “Continue compressions. We’ll check rhythm in a minute.”
Jack is already reaching for sterile gowns. “Gown up.” Then he turns to his best friend, “Robby, it’s you and me.”
Robby nods once, exhaustion and duty welded together. You step behind him, helping him into the sterile gown, tying strings with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Another nurse masks Jack.
The room now split into two resuscitations waiting to happen.
Mother.
Baby.
Both slipping.
Ellis turns to Nazely, who is still doing compressions. “What’s the four-minute rule?”
Nazely, breathless—“Uh… not sure.”
Crus answers over the chaos. “Pregnant patient with a viable fetus—four minutes after maternal arrest to save the baby.”
Jack corrects gently but firmly, “And the mom. We don’t call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It’s a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
Nazely, horrified, “But she doesn’t want medical intervention—”
Robby cuts in. “That doesn’t matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” He looks to the monitor. “Charge to two hundred.”
“One more rhythm check and then Abbot and I are gonna cut.” He pounds once on the glass, signaling McKay from outside.
Come now.
Now.
“Ellis, you and Crus stay on mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. Ok, hold compressions.”
Crus checks. And she’s still V-fib. Mateo announces, “Clear.” Shock.
Ellis scans Judith and sighs, “No change. Resume compressions. Amp of epi.”
Robby takes a breath, then looks at Jack. “Okay, showtime.” And somehow gallows humor barely still survives here.
You secure Robby’s mask from behind. Another nurse does Jack’s.
Jack’s voice low, urgent. “We need to get this baby out right now.”
Nazely rotates off compressions, Mateo takes over when Ellis tells her, “Take a break.”
Robby holds out his hand. “Ten blade.” You place it in his palm, metal to glove. The room goes silent in that strange way chaos does when everyone is hyper-focused.
And as he cuts—he teaches. “First incision from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis…” Steel through skin. “…through skin to linea alba.”
There’s blood, hands, and retractors. And Crus by the infuser. “Units three and four running.”
Robby deeper now, “Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus.”
McKay rushes in. “Where do you need me?” Shen replies, “You’re with the baby. Nazely bags. You’re on suction. Stand by for intubation.”
Sam begins, “Bladder retractors.”
Sophie communicates to Shen and McKay, “Neonatal monitor and pulse ox ready.”
Jack leans in, “Ellis, gentle traction.” Small vertical uterine incision. “Okay, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby.
Ellis hums once in acknowledgment, already understanding, already moving with them, every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the field in front of her.
Jack looks to Robby.
“Got it?”
Robby doesn’t look up.
“Yep. I got it.”
“Okay.”
His gloved hands are steady despite everything.
“Using scissors to extend superiorly.”
Metal slides.
Tissue parts.
Blood glistens under the trauma lights.
Jack leans in, voice calm in the storm.
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.”
Ellis adjusts, and the cavity opens. She glances down, comments, “Amniotic fluid looks good.”
Robby shifts, “Give me some fundal pressure.” Pressure from above, hands working in concert. Then Ellis says it, “Breech position.”
A heartbeat passes. Tiny and endless, then Robby’s voice changes. Softens in spite of himself. “Baby’s out.” Something catches in it, so slight you almost miss it. “It’s a girl.”
And suddenly there she is— wet, blue, small beyond belief, new life slick in blood and amniotic fluid in Robby’s hands. Fragile as a held breath.
Jack works fast, “Milking the cord.”
Sam—“Clamping.”
Jack nods, “Cutting.” And then Robby is turning, already handing her off. “Okay, blue and flaccid. Coming to you, Shen.” A quick glance. “You ready?”
And then—“Yeah. You got her.”
At the warmer, Shen receives the baby. “I got it, yep.” His voice gentles, but becomes clinical again. “Poor tone. No movement.”
McKay steps closer, “Keep the blow-by closer.” Warm oxygen near the tiny face while Nazely whispers what everyone sees. “She’s really blue.”
McKay doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Some blue is normal. But not this much.” Nazely’s fear slips out, “Do we need to intubate?”
Shen shakes his head. “Not yet. They usually pink up with stimulation and blow-by.”
At Judith’s bedside—Robby keeps moving, no room to stop. “Okay, removing the placenta.”
Jack’s hand sweeps. “Sweeping to the left, trying to get it in one piece.”
Sam lifts it, and studies it, nods, confirming, “Looks intact.”
You nod. “It does.”
Robby, breath tight—“Yeah.”
Sam murmurs, “Nicely done.”
As if anyone can hear praise right now. Crus adds, “Ten IV Pitocin to contract the uterus.” Ellis already massaging the fundus. “And lots of massage.” Trying to stop hemorrhage and trying to hold on for dear life.
At the warmer, Sophie calls out, “Heart rate seventy-six.” Shen moves, “Less than a hundred means we bag.”
“Suction first.”
McKay, “Okay.”
Back at the bed, Robby doesn’t even turn. “Hey Jord, charge to two hundred. Stand by for next rhythm check.” Defib charging, blood infusing, and compressions relentless. Everything at once.
McKay, breathless, says, “She grimaced.” Her voice lifts. “Good sign.” While Shen starts ventilation. “Bagging.”
Sophie communicates to the other doctors, “Pulse ox forty-five.” Nazely nearly chokes. “I’ve never seen it that low.”
Shen doesn’t panic. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m more worried about the heart rate. McKay, get ready with an IO in case we need epi.”
“Okay.”
Crus remarks, “Rhythm check.”
“Hold compressions.”
Hands lift, and all eyes to the monitor. Robby stares, “Still V-fib.” Jaw tight. “Okay. Shock it.”
Jack asserts procedure, “Clear.” The shock lands. “Resume compressions.” Bodies return to motion, violence in service of life. Robby calls over his shoulder, “Shen, how’s she doing over there?” And Shen answers, “Heart rate’s up to one-oh-four.”
McKay starts the one-minute APGAR. “Uh, at one minute, she's zero for color, two for heart rate, one for reflex, tone, breathing.” She looks up. “APGAR of five.”
Jack doesn’t waver, still working on the mom. “Five out of ten. Not great.”
Sophie reads off the device, “Pulse ox fifty-eight.”
Nazely asks, “Intubation?” But Shen shakes his head. “Uh, not yet. O-two sat in the sixties is normal at one minute.” McKay watches the monitor, “Her heart rate and pulse ox are trending higher.”
And Shen—God bless him—actually smiles. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing. A little tincture of time.”
Back on Judith—Robby commands, “Hold compressions.” Everything pauses again. Ellis peers at the monitor, “Looks like sinus.”
You check the neck, your fingers press. Search and find nothing. Your voice falls. “Can’t feel a carotid.”
Jack shakes his head, “No.”
Crus reads what everyone fears. “Heart’s barely pumping. It’s PEA.”
Jack gives directions, “Back on compressions.” And the room, which had almost dared hope, feels their heart sink. Like a floor giving way. Crus already escalating, “Two more units. She needs red cells and platelets.”
Robby looks down at the blood flooding the field. “Ongoing blood loss from uterus.” Then to you— “Give me all the lap pads we’ve got.”
You hand over two thick batches. And watch—almost disbelieving—as Jack and Robby begin packing her open abdomen with soaked pads, hands disappearing into blood, trying to hold a woman together by force of will.
Trying—again—to keep death from taking what it came for.
Minutes stretch strangely in resuscitation. Too fast and unbearably slow, measured in compressions. In blood units and alarms. Whether a waveform rises or disappears. The monitors keep singing their anxious electronic chorus while sweat runs beneath gowns and everyone keeps moving because stopping is not an option.
Crus glances at the rapid infuser. “Units five and six are in.” Blood warming through the line. Red cells chasing life back into a body trying to leave.
Ellis has both hands still working at Judith’s abdomen, pressure steady. “Down to a slow ooze here.”
Jack watches the monitor. “Hold compressions.”
Everything stills, and hands lift. The room seems to stop breathing with them. You lean over Judith, fingers at her neck, searching. Then you feel it, thin and thready. But there, your breath catches.
“Looks like sinus…” You press harder. “And I got a weak carotid.”
Robby turns so fast it’s almost a snap. “Okay.” His voice rough, “Cycle the BP.” Crus watches the echo. “Better filling. Better squeeze.”
Ellis checks the EEG; her face changes. “No seizure activity.”
Robby nods, as if he’s afraid to trust it, “That’s progress.” A breath, then again, softer. “That’s progress.” As if saying it twice might make it true.
At the warmer, a whole second miracle is trying to happen. Shen checks the clock, “We’re at five minutes.”
McKay reading monitors. “Heart rate one-thirty-two. Pulse ox seventy-nine.” She glances at Nazely. “The APGAR?”
Nazely, breathless and trying to think, “One off for color… One off for tone… One off respiration with hypoxia…” She looks up. “Total of seven.”
McKay corrects automatically. “Respiration score is for observed breathing, not pulse ox.” Shen nods, “Sat of eighty is normal at five minutes. With no crying…” He glances at the baby. “She still gets one off.”
Nazely, absorbing it, “Yeah.”
And then—it happens, small at first, almost uncertain. A ragged little sound. Then—a cry, thin, sharp, and very much alive. It cuts through the room like light through a cracked door, and every head turns. The baby cries again, louder, indignant, beautiful, and something in your chest breaks wide open. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until it came out shaking.
Because of all the sounds this hospital makes—alarms, compressions, people dying, this might be the first one tonight that sounds like hope.
McKay laughs, actually laughs. “Ah!” She grins. “She just scored the winning point. APGAR of eight is pretty normal.”
Even Jack smiles, and you see Robby across the room smile too. Small and disbelieving. His eyes rimmed red, almost wet. The look of someone who wasn’t sure the universe had one more mercy left in it, and was wrong.
Then the door opens, Pettyfer strides in, takes in the scene, the blood, the open abdomen, and the newborn crying. The whole war zone, he just blurts— “Holy shit. What did I miss?”
Jack, deadpan even now, “Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.”
Pettyfer blinks. “I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section. Got your text twelve minutes ago.”
Jack shrugs, “Shit happens fast down here.” Crus, almost proud despite himself, “Resuscitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds.” Pettyfer stares. “Impressive.”
Understatement of the century.
You check the pressure, “BP one-oh-two over sixty-four.” A pause. “Hemoglobin up to nine.”
Numbers becoming human again. Robby moves to the side, starts peeling off gown and gloves. As if the adrenaline is finally leaking out of him.
He steps aside and removes his mask. Looks suddenly older and spent as he moves toward the glass doors. And with that gravel voice of his, “That’ll do.”
He’s a man pretending this didn’t just cost him something. You and Jack both watch him. Because you both hear what sits under the words. Relief and exhaustion.
“NICU’s sending a team down,” Mateo says.
Pettyfer nods. “We can take Mom.”
Then, looking around the room—blood-splattered, overworked, miraculous, “You guys are rock stars.”
Jack seamlessly, dry as ever. “We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night.”
A few exhausted laughs. Even in catastrophe, there’s room for stupid jokes. Maybe that’s survival, too. Then, for one suspended impossible moment, everyone in the room realizes they may have just pulled two people back from death. Together. With their hands, stubbornness, fear, and skill. With love, maybe, though no one in medicine ever calls it that. And standing there, watching Robby at the glass doors, his shoulders finally sagging.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Life in motion as if a woman hadn’t nearly died twenty feet away. As if a baby hadn’t been cut into the world by emergency. The ordinary always returning too quickly. Robby pauses at the sanitizer dispenser mounted by the wall.
Rubs the alcohol over blood-marked hands that have already been scrubbed, gloved, and scrubbed again. A habit now, or maybe something else. Trying to wash off what the last twenty minutes cost. He exhales long, almost shaky. But enough for you to notice, watching from the trauma doorway as you finish stripping off gloves.
He walks toward Dana with the dazed, post-adrenaline looseness of someone whose body hasn’t realized the crisis is over.
“If you’re not careful,” he says, voice roughened from shouting over alarms, “you’re gonna get stuck here all night.”
Dana is sorting forms, “Nah. Henny said she’d be here in thirty minutes.” Then she glances at him, softens as she leans on the desk, “How’s Mom and baby?”
For the first time all shift, Robby smiles. Worn and disbelieving. Almost boyish. “Whew.” A breath of relief dressed up as a word. “They’re both gonna go upstairs.”
Dana’s shoulders drop, some knot in her unties. “Good.” And quieter—genuine. She studies him a second. Maybe noticing how pale he looks, how spent. “You leaving now?”
Robby leans one hip against the counter but doesn’t really rest. Still vibrating with unfinished things. “Yeah. Pretty soon.” The list starts, “I gotta find Whitaker. I gotta find Al-Hashimi.” He glances toward Trauma One. A flicker of something softer. “I gotta talk to Ducky after she finishes in there… And I gotta find Langdon before I leave.”
All these threads, still trying to tie them. Even now, after nearly cutting a baby out of a dying woman.
Dana watches him like she already knows where this is going. That he’ll keep finding reasons not to walk out. “You missed Langdon. He just checked out.”
Robby freezes, the smile gone, as if someone pulled current from the room. “Shit.”
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
The ambulance bay hums with its own kind of insomnia. Diesel lingering in the damp summer air. Sirens somewhere far enough away not to matter yet. The concrete still holds heat from the day, breathing it back up in waves.
Robby steps out beside Whitaker, the sliding doors hissing shut behind them. He presses a small yellow note into Whitaker’s hand. “My cell phone,” he says, tapping the paper. “And the building manager’s. He can help if there’s any emergencies.”
Whitaker unfolds it like it might be something fragile. “Yeah…” he says, squinting. “What kind of emergencies?”
Robby gives that tired shrug of his, the one that means everything and nothing. “Whatever.” Then, almost as an afterthought— “And follow up with Duke in a couple days, yeah?”
Whitaker nods quickly. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment. Then more carefully—“You, um…” He hesitates. “You sure about this?”
Robby looks at him, past the nervousness and the awkwardness. At the man, he’s spent time teaching, and something paternal flickers there. “I trust you, Whitaker.”
Whitaker seems almost startled by it. As if praise lands harder than criticism ever did. “Great,” he says too fast. Trying not to look moved.
Robby half-smiles. “Any questions?”
Whitaker shifts his backpack higher, “Uh… when are you back, exactly?”
Robby looks out toward the dark road beyond the bay. The open country is already living somewhere in his head. “You know… I’ll text you. I’m trying to keep my dates kind of fluid.”
Headlights cut into the bay, a truck pulling up. Robby nods toward it. “I think this is your ride.”
Whitaker turns. “Yeah—uh, yes.” Then, earnestly all over again, “I promise I’ll check in on your house tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
A pause. Whitaker lingers, because he doesn’t quite know how to say goodbye. Then—“Hey.” The driver’s door opens, Amy steps out, and rounds the truck.
“Hey.” Whitaker opens the passenger side and leans in. A baby boy in a car seat blinks up at him. His whole face changes. Softens. “Okay…” He sets down his backpack. “Hey, Theo. You’re up late, huh? What you got there?”
Amy buckles in. “He’s been fussy all day. I think he’s got another tooth coming in.”
Whitaker lights up, “Aww.” He straps himself in, leans toward the baby. “Right on, big guy. Ready to get funky?” He makes a ridiculous face. Theo blinks, unimpressed, but Whitaker grins anyway. Before the truck pulls out, he gives Robby a little salute.
Robby returns a nod and watches them disappear into the night with music spilling faintly from the truck speakers. For a second, something wistful crosses his face. Domesticity glimpsed through someone else’s windshield, then it’s gone.
Another set of doors opens, and Samira steps out. Phone in hand, lifting it for signal. Searching for a bar or something else.
Robby glances over. “Hey.”
She looks up. “Hey.”
He nods toward the phone. “Any luck picking an elective?”
She exhales, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into geriatrics.”
He gives a small approving hum, “It’s a smart choice.” Subsequently quieter, almost unexpectedly personal, he begins, “I know life can be challenging. Especially when it doesn’t work out the way you expected.”
Samira looks at him now, listening. He stares out toward the lot and says it almost like he hasn’t said it aloud before. “I thought I’d be married by now. Two kids in college. Maybe some property. A pond.” A ghost of a smile. “We’d play hockey on it in the winter.”
He laughs once through his nose. “And yet…” He gestures to himself. “Look at me. No wife. No kids. No pond.”
Samira says softly—“It’s never too late.” And though she says it to him, something in her expression flickers with another thought. Of you, and all the ways everyone can see what neither of you will name.
Robby looks at her. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yeah.” She means it. He studies her. Then—“Only for me… or for you too?”
Samira huffs a little, caught. “Okay.” A tiny smile. “I see what you did there. Was that true… Or something you just said to make a point?”
Robby only shrugs, which is answer enough. An ambulance backs in. Movement surges again. Shen passes them with purpose, already helping the EMTs.
The night swallowing softness whole, but Robby speaks again before it can. “Have you worked things out with your mom?”
Samira’s face closes some. “We’re not talking.” Silence, before she steps closer. As if choosing honesty, too. “I am sorry… that I let it distract me. She was treating me like a child. And I was letting her.” She swallows, and then, with more feeling, “Have a good trip. Please be safe. We need you here.”
A tiny beat, before she adds, “Even if you can be a dick sometimes.” It startles a small laugh out of him.
“Good luck.”
Robby nods, something almost grateful in it, “You too.”
He starts toward the sliding doors, into noise and the place he keeps trying to leave, and Samira watches him go with the look people get when they’re watching someone they care about walk too close to an edge, and hoping somehow he turns back.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Under the fluorescent buzz, you sit beside Jack at a workstation in a squeaky swivel chair, elbows tucked close, eyes shut for only a moment. Not sleeping, only resting them. Trying to ease the burn behind them, not to feel how fifteen hours sit in your bones.
Jack is charting beside you, one forearm braced on the desk, typing with maddening focus. You can hear the soft clack of keys. The occasional muttered, “Come on,” when the system lags.
There’s something oddly soothing about it.
You let your head tip back for one second longer, then hear Robby. “Hey, I didn’t think you were still here.” Your eyes open halfway. Across Central, he’s stopped beside Al-Hashimi. She looks tired— more than tired. Frayed. “I was just talking to the neurologist on call.”
Robby studies her, “And?”
“We had a nice chat,” she says. “She agrees I can work with double coverage.” Something in Robby’s face changes, hardens. You know that look, and Jack notices too. His typing stops while Robby’s voice lowers, too controlled. “That’s not her call to make. You can’t do anything critical where a five-second lapse in consciousness could potentially kill a patient.”
Al-Hashimi’s jaw sets. “I agree.” But already they’re moving, walking toward Central 6, privacy. Which in an ED never means privacy, only quieter conflict.
“But ninety percent of our patients don’t require critical procedures,” Al-Hashimi argues. Robby fires back instantly. “And the ones that do?”
She folds her arms, “They’ll be handled by whoever’s working with me.”
“Unless they’re tied up with a critical patient.” He steps closer, “What if it's a double or triple trauma?”
“Robby,” she says through her teeth, “I can handle it.”
“No.” Sharp, and immediate. “You can’t. And I can’t let you.”
Her voice rises. “I am fully capable of handling—”
“No, you are not fully capable, and you know it.”
Al-Hashimi decides to shut the glass door.
While your body reacts before your mind does, your heart kicks, breath shortening. That old reflex, raised voices. Jack notices instantly, his hand lands warm and firm on your shoulder. “You’re okay.”
You blink hard, then swallow. “What’s going on?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Who’s shouting?”
Jack glances past his monitor. “Robby and Al are going at it in Central Six.” You both look. Through the glass—they are inches from a screaming match.
“What do you want from me?” Al-Hashimi demands.
Robby doesn’t soften. “I want what's best for this department-- patients and staff. Best-case scenario, you get a handle on this, you're seizure-free for six months, you get your driver's license back, you are cleared to work.”
Her anger flashes, “I am cleared for my driver’s license.”
“You shouldn’t be driving at all like this. If you were a patient, we’d have to report you.”
She explodes, “I am not your fucking patient.”
The air goes taut, and Robby fires back louder. “No—but I cannot let you work in my emergency department until you’re fully capable.”
“That is not your fucking call!”
Then he shouts—voice echoing off glass—“You’re fucking-A right it’s my call!” Robby points toward the floor. “I'm trying to protect you and my patients, and you know I'm right about this.”
Al-Hashimi’s face scrunches up in anger. “Oh, ‘my department,’ ‘my patients.’” A bitter laugh. “All you fucking think about is yourself. You didn’t rat out Langdon for stealing fucking drugs.”
Robby doesn’t flinch, but something wounded crosses his face. “No. But I kicked him out of this department until he got the help he needed.” His voice is sure now. “And the same goes for you.”
He points toward her, “You’ve got until Monday to tell administration. Or I will.”
The door rips open, and Robby storms out. Past the workstation. Not seeing you. Too angry to see anything. Jack pushes back from his chair, rising instinctively, tracking him with his eyes.
Dana appears at your shoulder as if she materialized out of the lights themselves. Taps your arm. “Ready to watch the fireworks?”
The word feels surreal after that. Fireworks. As if this whole shift hasn’t already been an explosion. You nod faintly, then look at Jack. “Can you make sure Robby…” You don’t finish, because don’t have to.
Jack understands, always does, and he nods once. “I got him.” Then softer— “You go enjoy the fireworks, okay?” He tilts his head toward you. “And let me know if you get…”
He trails off. But you know what he means, the crowds, noise, the triggers. The Fourth of July has a memory all its own.
You nod, “I will.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze; it’s warm. Then, because he cannot help himself, “Try to have at least one wholesome patriotic moment tonight.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Impossible.”
A ghost of a grin, then Dana loops an arm through yours. Pulling you toward the elevator doors, up to the roof, toward fireworks and a little borrowed light.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Robby steps back into Central looking like a man held together by momentum alone. His eyes sweep the station. “Where’s Dana?” A pause. “And Ducky?”
Vivi looks up from a chart she’s flagging. “Not sure. A bunch of day shift just headed to the roof to watch the fireworks.” She tips her head. “You want me to call her?”
Robby hesitates; there’s a flicker there. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.” He starts walking. Jack sees it and falls into step beside him without invitation.
Of course he does. They move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, past supply carts and linen bins, under lights too bright for the hour.
Jack breaks the silence first. “Yo.”
Robby glances over.
“Thanks for your help in there.” A moment passes. “Almost out?”
“Yep,” Robby says, and without looking at him, “Is this where you try to talk me out of going?”
Jack scoffs. “Me?” He shakes his head. “No, not a chance. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”
Robby pretends not to falter, “Nope.”
Jack lifts a brow, “No?”
“Nope.”
Jack hums. “Don’t have to convince me.” But then, deadpan, he adds, “I mean… it is a little strange the only place you’ve talked about going is somewhere they used to drive buffalo off a cliff to die.”
Robby exhales through his nose, “Here it comes.”
Jack looks at him pointedly, “I looked it up. As far as summer vacations go? It is not exactly a holiday hotspot.” He gestures. “What’s in the fucking gift shop, man?”
That gets the ghost of a smile, “It’s just one place I’m going.”
Jack shrugs, “As long as it’s not the last. Don’t be pulling a Thelma and Louise out there.”
Robby shakes his head, “I am minutes from taking a three-month vacation.” He glances over. “When’s the last time you took any time off, Jack?”
Jack huffs. “Yeah, but I’ve dealt with my demons.” A pause ensued. “It’s a process.”
They reach Trauma One, and Robby pushes through. Jack follows, but something changes. The joking thins and drops.
Jack stops in the middle of the bay. Then says, almost too casually, “You want to know why I never killed myself?” That stops Robby cold, he turns and faces him. Silence. Even the room seems to hold still.
Jack looks away first, then back, and for once, there is no deflection in him. No wisecrack. Only truth. “After what I saw…” He swallows. “What I lived through…” His thumb catches his wedding band, fidgeting with it unconsciously. “Losing my leg.” His voice nearly falters. “Losing my wife.”
He clears his throat, starts again. “Because it comes for all of us, man.” His eyes lock onto Robby’s. “You and I know it more than most. We see it every shift. But we can’t let ourselves succumb to it.” His voice roughens. “Yes, life can suck. It can be unbearable and brutal and ugly and heartbreaking.” Softer, he adds, “But it’s also beautiful. And hilarious.”
A breath. “That woman today? Her baby? They’d both be in the morgue if you hadn’t been here.” He points between them. “That’s us. That’s you and me. That’s what we’re here for.”
Robby nods once, but he’s already breaking. His throat works before words come. “The most important things I’ve ever done in my life…” He struggles. “…have been in this hospital.”
His voice cracks. “Nothing will ever matter more.” A long breath. “But it is killing me.”
Jack says nothing, lets him say it, allows him to confess it. Because that’s what this is, a confession. Robby’s eyes shine. “You know how they say a part of you dies when you lose someone you love?” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not convinced a part of you doesn’t die every time you watch another human being pass.”
His face pinches. “And I’ve seen so many people die…” He shakes his head. “…I feel like it’s leaching something out of my soul.”
His words hang there, terrible, holy, all while Jack lets them. Then he takes a step forward, “Go on a cruise, man.” The impact of his words hit him so absurdly that Robby almost chokes, but Jack presses on. “Knock off this helmetless motorcycle shit. People talk. That’s death-wish behavior.”
And then Robby, finally comes apart, tears, open, and helpless. “I’m tired.” He wipes at his face and it does nothing. “I’m tired of being a role model. I’m tired of feeling like you can’t get ahead. I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.” His voice breaks entirely. “I’m tired of all of it.”
Jack steps closer, not as colleague. But as a Friend. A Brother. “You need to get away for a while, and you need to get some help. You need this place as much as it needs you.” He points to the floor.
Robby’s tears don’t stop. He asks it so quietly it almost disappears, “Am I fucked up?”
Jack nods once, immediately. “Hundred percent.” And then gentler, “But nobody works here as long as you and me and doesn’t get screwed up.” The moment stretched. “You gotta find somebody to help you dance through the darkness.”
Robby blinks, then actually laughs. Wet and stunned. “Did you just make that up?”
Jack squints, “Maybe it’s a song lyric …Maybe my therapist said it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then he truly studies him. “And…” He tips his head. “You already have the partner to dance you through the darkness.”
Robby knows immediately who he means.
You.
His eyes lowered, a tiny broken smile.
Jack snorts. “Or as she would say it— Waddle through the darkness.” That almost gets a real laugh.
Suddenly, Nazely sticks her head in. “Some dude just pulled up. Looks like he blew half his face off.” And she’s gone.
Jack spreads his arms. “How can you not love this place?”
Even crying, Robby shakes his head, unbelieving. Then, Jack steps forward. Grabs him, pulls him into a hug. Hard. Real. The kind men like them almost never give each other. And into Robby’s shoulder— “Don’t make me look stupid.” A squeeze. “You come back to us in one piece.”
He pulls back, points. “I’m still your emergency contact. And I do not want to be contacted.”
Robby laughs through tears.
Jack backs toward the door. “All right, night crawlers,” he calls as he exits into the noise— “What the hell’s going on out here?” Voices answer, and Medics shout report. “Twenty-five-year-old male—no meds, no allergies—”
Robby stands alone in Trauma One for a second longer, breathing, trying. Then takes a deep breath. Wipes his face and walks out. Past the workstation where his black thermos waits. Picks it up. And heads toward the staff room— looking, for the first time all night, like maybe he intends to come back.
PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT
The roof is more crowded than it has any right to be.
Half of day shift has drifted up here in clumps—nurses still in wrinkled scrubs, residents carrying paper cups of stale coffee, somebody passing around vending machine chips like it’s a holiday feast. People lean against railings, perch on utility boxes, stand shoulder to shoulder under the warm July night.
For the first time all day, no alarms, no pages, and no overhead trauma calls. Only breathing. Only sky. Then, the first firework goes up. A sharp whistle, a pause, and it blooms.
Gold breaking open over the city. Someone cheers, and someone else whistles. And suddenly the darkness is full of color. Red. Silver. Blue. Light spilling over faces you know by heart.
The skyline flickers, and glass buildings catch the reflections. For a moment, Pittsburgh looks almost enchanted. There’s music drifting from somewhere below—faint and warped by distance, some patriotic brass band or maybe somebody’s rooftop radio. It reaches you in pieces. And the fireworks keep coming, snap, crack, pop. As if the sky is splitting open over and over.
You try to stay in the moment, you do. But sound has memory and memory has teeth. A particularly loud burst detonates overhead— and your shoulders jump. Before you can stop them, another whistle screams upward, another boom. And your pulse stumbles.
Because suddenly it is not tonight, it is another Fourth of July. Bodies pressing too close. Shouting. The terror of movement with nowhere to go. The crowd surge. Panic thick as smoke. The old instinct returns before reason can catch up.
Your breath turns shallow; you hate that it does. You hate that even beauty can still sound like danger. You stare up anyway, because the sky keeps opening. And something about it hurts. The way beautiful things can.
Your eyes begin to flutter shut between bursts. The fireworks hiss and crack against the dark. Sharp enough to make you flinch now and then. Soft enough, somehow, to make you ache. Because exhaustion has made everything thin-skinned. Because grief has been sitting in your chest all day, with nowhere to go.
Because Robby said what if I don’t come back. Because Jack held you while you cried. Because Jesse is gone. Because Emma was nearly strangled. Because a baby was abandoned in a hospital bathroom.
Because fifteen hours of emergency medicine leaves people a little broken and a little holy. And because— God. You don’t know when you started crying. But you are. Quietly. Tears slipping before you even realize they’re there. The kind that comes from being too tired to keep the walls up.
You close your eyes, only for a second, and through your lids the fireworks flash red-orange gold. Like blood behind sunlight. For one strange moment, it feels almost sacred. As if this were your last night with these people—this impossible, messy, beautiful crew—this would be how you’d remember them. Not bloodstained and exhausted. But here, painted in fireworks. Laughing and alive. Your life has felt, for so long, entirely devoid of fireworks, and here they are. Exploding over you anyway.
Then, warmth, arms around you from one side. You startle, and turn. Perlah. She’s tucked herself against you without asking, chin nearly on your shoulder. No words. Just there, holding. And before you can even react, Dana hooks onto your other side.
Suddenly, you are trapped in a lopsided three-person hug. The next firework erupts huge overhead—white sparks raining down. Everyone on the roof gasps, and you feel Dana press her temple briefly to yours. Perlah’s hand rubs your arm, an absent comforting motion. Almost mothering. And for a moment, the loneliness lifts.
You stand there held between two women who have seen you survive this day. Seen you bleeding and you're afraid. They’ve seen you keep going anyway. And they hold you through the fireworks. As if that is the most natural thing in the world.
And here—for this impossible little pause—you are suspended between grief and celebration. Fear and light. Loss and people who stay. Fireworks reflecting in wet eyes, arms linked, and the sky burning above you.
HALLWAY — NIGHT
Bright lights pool pale over the linoleum, making everything feel a little too exposed. Robby rounds the corner carrying his black thermos, still raw around the eyes though he’s tried to wash it off. He slows when he sees Langdon pass by, bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand.
For a second, neither says anything, so much history packed into a silence. Then Robby said, “Hey.”
Langdon lifts his chin. “Hey.”
Robby then stops, “I thought you’d left already.”
“On my way out.” His voice carries that old carefulness now, the one sobriety has put into him, always watching for land mines.
Robby shifts his weight. “Hey…” He exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t find the time today to have that conversation.”
Langdon gives a humorless half-smile. “Yeah. That’s all right.” Seems like you didn’t really want to.”
Langdon looks almost surprised by the question and then answers plainly. “Uh… yeah.” He steps closer, not confrontational. Intent. “Look, I’m doing the work.” His voice roughens with the effort of making himself understood. “I’ve been sober a hundred eighty-six days. I’m going to meetings. I’m taking the drug tests.”
Robby nods once, “That’s good.”
“And you’re still riding me.” There’s hurt in it now, old hurt. “What would have happened if I’d paralyzed that guy?”
Robby’s jaw works; he doesn’t dodge. “I don’t know. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here today?” He presses on. “You’d still be questioning yourself. Now you know you can do it.” Dry as acid, he tacks on, “You’re welcome.”
Langdon stares at him. “Oh. So that’s how you teach now?”
Robby shrugs. “Sometimes.” There it is, that brittle edge. The one everyone’s been feeling all day. Langdon sees it, and he steps closer again, lower voice now. “You know who I saw in rehab?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
“A bunch of guys just like you. The only difference… They’ve accepted they need help.”
Robby’s expression tightens, but Langdon doesn’t stop. “I think you’re afraid to admit the mighty Dr. Robby isn’t perfect.”
Robby almost scoffs. “Oh, I never claimed to be perfect.”
“No,” Langdon says. “But you expect it of yourself. It’s not realistic, man. How can any of us live up to your standards… if you can’t even do it?” Then, softer—almost pleading, “You need help, Robby. You need help.”
And somehow that sounds more intimate than accusation. Because it is. Concern always sounds dangerous when you’re exhausted enough.
From Pedes, a baby starts crying. Thin and insistent. Baby Jane Doe. The sound threads through the hallway. Both men hear it. Robby lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug, armor back on. “Finished?”
Langdon lets out a breath through his nose, almost sad. “You don’t gotta be honest with me, man.” A pause. “At least be honest with yourself.”
Langdon turns, starts walking, and he doesn’t look back. His footsteps fade down the hall. Leaving Robby alone under hospital lights, still and holding too much.
For a second, he doesn’t move, his face does something unreadable. Something cracked. Then he lets out a breath he may have been holding for years. And somewhere beneath all his sharp edges—hurt. Because some truths only sting when they’re true.
The baby cries again, louder now, needful, and alive. Robby looks toward Pedes. Toward the sound, something helpless needing tending. And of course— that’s what pulls him. Always. He starts walking toward the crying, and there’s something almost unbearably tender in it— that even after everything, after confessions and fractures and death wishes whispered into trauma bays—he still goes when someone cries.
As if some part of him cannot help answering suffering, cannot help being who he is. He disappears into Pedes, and the hallway empties, leaving only the hum of lights. The fading echo of Langdon’s words. The feeling that something important just passed between them, too painful to call forgiveness, too honest to be anything less.
PEDES — NIGHT
Robby steps in still carrying the ache of the conversation with Langdon like something tender under the ribs, but when Tim looks up from the warmer, he smiles anyway.
And Tim smiles back.
“She’s due for a new bottle,” Tim says quietly, glancing down at Baby Jane Doe. “I was hoping to get her some formula before I clock out.”
Robby nods. “I’ll stay with her.”
Tim looks relieved. “Thanks.” He moves for the door. Robby adds, almost absentmindedly, “Why are you—” then corrects himself. “Will you hit those lights on your way out?”
“Yep.” Tim slips out, and the door shuts, lights dim further, and the room falls into hush.
The baby fusses, a little wounded cry, small, outraged sounds. Robby moves closer, “Why are you crying?” His voice softens into something almost unfamiliar. “Why are you crying, little one?”
He sanitizes his hands and removes his stethoscope from around his neck and lets it hang by the warmer. Then pulls out his phone, and a song starts low through the speaker. Fragile notes, almost a lullaby.
He leans in. “You’re okay.” A hand under her tiny shoulder blades. “You’re safe.” He gathers the blanket. “Yeah… You’re not alone.” His fingers move with surprising care as he refolds the swaddle. “Do you need to be swaddled again? Is that it?”
A crooked little smile, “I can do that.” He tucks one corner. Then another. Looks almost proud. “Aww.” He exhales softly. “I wish somebody would swaddle me.”
A broken joke, half true. “Yes, I do.” He lifts her and then settles her against his chest. And something in him goes unbearably gentle. “You got off to kind of a rough start, didn’t you, little one?”
You pass Pedes on your way down the hall, and you meant to keep walking. But through the glass, you see him. Head bowed over the baby. The song drifts, and you stop.
Because his shoulders are shaking, you hear him through the door. Voice cracking. “Yeah, you did.” A breath catches. “Well… That makes two of us.”
Your hand rises to your mouth. Because you have never heard him sound like this. A man saying something too heavy to survive alone. “I got abandoned too.” His eyes close. “When I was eight. But I got through all that.” A tear slips down his face. “And so will you.”
His thumb strokes the baby’s back. “I got a good feeling… you’re gonna be just fine.” His voice trembles. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. You got so many wonderful things to see. So many people to love ahead of you.”
He repeats it like he’s trying to convince himself too. “So many wonderful things to see, people to love ahead of you. Shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
And then he cries harder. Still rocking her and soothing her. As if even heartbroken, he can only comfort, and you recognize the song. The one you sent him months ago.
When you told him music had carried you through grief when nothing else could, and he remembered. Of course, he remembered. Something inside you caves as you decide to push the door open quietly.
He stiffens when your arms slide around him from behind. Only for a second. Then knows, it’s you. And melts. Actually melts. Lets himself lean back into your hold. You tuck your face between his shoulder blades.
Breathing him in. Salt, soap, and hospital. And softly—almost without thinking—you sing with the song. Barely louder than breath, your voice shaking, along with his, too.
You both sway, just a little. Side to side, as if grief has made its own rhythm. He holds the baby in one arm. Reaches his free hand back for yours. Finds it and clings. And you think—this might be the saddest, most beautiful thing you have ever known.
After a while, he guides you toward the little chair and makes you sit. Places Baby Jane Doe into your arms. Shows you the swaddle again, like he needs an excuse to keep his hands near yours.
The baby settles against your chest. Tiny, warm, and trusting. Robby kneels slightly beside you and looks at you in awe. Hair has fallen loose. Tired eyes. Bruises are still yellowing on your throat. A baby in your arms, and something almost dangerous passes through him. A thought so soft it terrifies him.
Home.
He sees it and hates how much he wants it. A life with you, one he thinks he does not deserve. Not yet. Maybe never. But he sees it and can’t unsee it. He clears his throat, “So…”
You look at him.
“You want to have that talk?”
You whisper. “In front of the baby?”
His mouth lifts. “Well…” He nods toward her sleeping. “She seems pretty content.” Then lightly—“You could foster her for a bit. Take her home.”
You smile sadly.
“I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom yet.” A pause. Then truer—“Maybe one day… If I were lucky. If life was kind. With the right partner…” Your thumb strokes the baby’s hand. “I’d want that. But I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”
Something catches in his face. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Me too.”
There’s a full silence. Then, you ask, “Still going on that road trip?” He exhales. “Not sure.” A little shrug. “Might take Abbot’s advice. Go on a cruise instead.”
“That sounds nice,” you say. “I’ve always loved the ocean.”
He looks at you, a little too long. Suddenly, he asks, “Wanna come with me?” It hits so unexpectedly, you laugh, softly, and almost teary. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
You shake your head, “I don’t get paid as much as you, Michael. Or have three months of leave.”
He smiles, but neither of you misses what sat under the joke. Then it deepens, the inevitability. You look at him at the fatigue he wears like skin, and you begin, carefully. “I heard what you told Duke.” His face stills, but you go on anyway. Because loving someone sometimes means stepping into the wound. “Everyone reaches that place at least once. The place where it feels like the whole world turned its back.”
You swallow. “Sometimes people say they don’t want to be here anymore…when what they really mean is… I don’t know how to stop hurting like this.”
His eyes gloss, and yours do too.
You lean closer. “Depression…” You search. “…it’s weather. Some days it storms so hard you think sunlight was invented for other people. Some days it clears. But storms pass.” A brief pause ensued before you continued, “I don’t want to be someone asking you to stand under my umbrella while I stay dry.”
You shake your head. “I want to stand in the rain with you. If it pours… Then we get drenched together.”
His breath catches while you touch his face. “There are times you need somebody else’s help. That isn’t failure. That’s being alive. And time…” You smile sadly. “Time matters. But how you use it matters more.” He looks wrecked now, beautifully wrecked. As if someone finally seen.
“I’m far from healing,” he admits, almost ashamed. “I know.” You answer immediately. “And I’m not asking you to be finished. Just… come back.”
His eyes shut, as if those words hurt. Because they heal and they ask him to live. And maybe no one has asked plainly enough. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers to you, “I’m scared.”
It is the most honest thing he has ever given you. You cry at that, because untouchable men do not say they are scared. Broken ones do, the real ones do.
You kiss his temple, “I know. I’m scared too.” A beat. “But isn’t that the point? It means you’re alive.”
The baby sighs in her sleep as the song ends. Neither of you moves. Outside, fireworks bloom somewhere over the city. Silent from here. And in that soft glow, holding a child neither of you can keep, talking a man you love gently back toward life—you realize sometimes love is not confession. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in the dark until they decide not to leave it alone.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
Somewhere beyond the hospital, fireworks still crackle in the distance—faint now, ghostly. The city sounds far away, as if only leaving you and him.
Robby walks beside you through the sliding doors, helmet tucked under one arm, black thermos looped through two fingers, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks lighter somehow, and unbearably breakable.
You stop him before he gets to the bike, as your fingers fumble in your bag. He watches, curious. “What’re you doing?” he asks.
You pull out a box wrapped simply, no ribbon, just brown paper and tape, small enough to fit in his hands. You hold it out to him. “I know you didn’t want a cake, or a party, or whatever…” You give a little shrug, trying for casual and failing. “So I got you this instead.”
He blinks, actually surprised. “For me?”
You nod.
His mouth twitches as he asks, “Can I?”
A soft laugh escapes you, “Yeah. Open it.”
He sets the helmet on the bike seat and carefully lifts the lid. Inside is a blank, dark, worn brown leather journal. Soft at the edges, it’s the kind made to be carried. Used and lived in. He runs a thumb over the cover, says nothing for a second, and somehow that silence feels louder than words.
“It helps,” you say quietly. “With… everything.” You look away for a second. Because saying more might undo you. “I don’t care what you use it for. Thoughts. Maps. Postcards. Pictures. Things you don’t know how to say.”
His eyes lift to yours, something in them shifts.
You swallow and add, softer, “If you finish all the pages… There’s something for you at the end, in the back sleeve.”
He studies you, “At the end?”
You nod, “One last page.”
A secret or confession, a thing too frightening to give him now. You hold up your pinky. Childish but earnest. “Promise me you won’t read it until you fill the whole thing.”
His expression almost breaks, as he hooks his pinky with yours immediately. No teasing or hesitation. “Okay. I promise.” His hand lingers, warm. Then you tighten your hold on his finger.
“One more thing.”
He tilts his head as you nod toward the box, saying, “Keep it with you.”
He looks confused, “The box?”
“The journal. All of it. Don’t leave it behind.”
His brow furrows; there’s concern there now. “Why?”
You shake your head. “I can’t explain right now. Just promise.”
He looks at you like he wants to press, but something in your face stops him. So, he nods. “I promise.” He adds, gentler, “Not gonna tell me?”
You almost smile, “Gotta write in that thing to find out.”
That gets a breath of laughter from him. Low and a little disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
Silence folds around you again, and then he reaches for his helmet. Pulls it on, fastens the strap. The motion feels unbearable, as if watching departure become real. He swings a leg over the bike, the engine hasn’t even started yet and already your chest aches.
“I’ll call,” he says.
You are trying so hard not to cry, “Okay.”
His gloved hands rest on the handlebars. He looks at you as if trying to memorize. “I’ll see you soon, Ducky.”
Your throat tightens. “Okay.” You nod once. Then— “Michael, I—”
He pauses, helmet visor still up. “Yeah?”
And God, his eyes. Under the bay lights, they look almost blue with grief.
You almost tell him about New York, the offers. That you could be leaving too. That you may be gone when he comes back, and you are terrified if you tell him now, he’ll leave, carrying one more reason not to return. But fear wins, cowardice dressed as mercy, and you lie.
The lie tastes metallic, almost like blood. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Something flickers in him, relief, or trust. Maybe both, he nods. As if taking that with him and believing you, and it nearly kills you. He lowers the visor and starts the bike. The engine growls alive, deep-throated. Duke had been right.
You step back, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebar in a small salute. Then he rides. Out of the bay and into the night. Taillight shrinking. Smaller, and then… eventually, gone.
You stay there long after the red taillight disappears. Long after the sound of the motorcycle has been swallowed whole by the city. As if, if you wait enough seconds, enough breaths, the dark might give him back. But it doesn’t, there’s only a humid night. Only the distant crack of fireworks fading over rooftops. Only the ache between your ribs he leaves behind.
A smile trembles onto your mouth anyway, small, broken at the edges. Hopeful in spite of itself. Ruined, too. “Goodbye, Michael Robinavitch.”
The words drift out and dissolve into exhaust and warm July air, too soft for anyone but the night to hear. And standing there in the aftermath of him, you understand something that hurts. Sometimes loving someone is not holding on tighter. Love is loosening your grip before you drag each other under. It is making peace with becoming a place someone survived. A harbor they passed through. A light left on in a window they may never return to.
Some people are not ours to keep, only ours to witness. To carry for a while. And then with shaking hands—to let go. Because love that is only longing will turn into mourning if you feed it forever. And you are so tired of starving on almost.
You love him. God, you love him. In the quiet, terrible ways. In the ways that asked nothing. But somewhere inside all that grief is a gentler truth rising: you are ready to be loved in return.
Not waited for, or a maybe. Not someday. Loved, chosen, and held without hesitation. And because of that—you have to let him go. Not because he means less, because you finally know you mean something too.
Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, and the screen blurs. You wipe your face with the heel of your palm before hitting call. It rings once. Twice. Then the call connects.
“Hi?” Your sister, and something in you, nearly folds.
Your voice breaks and steadies all at once. “Hi, Ate.” A breath. Then the words leave before you can stop them. “I’ll be there in November.”
Silence. A stunned little silence. Then she says, “Really?” Her voice cracks around the word. As if she doesn’t quite believe you.
You look at the empty road where he vanished, at the stretch of black asphalt still holding the shape of goodbye.
And answer almost to yourself, softly. “Yeah.” A pause. Then with a sad little smile no one sees— “See you soon.”
Your sister says something through a laugh that sounds almost like crying. But you barely hear it. Because something inside you, something clenched for years, has loosened. As if maybe leaving can be its own form of mercy, or maybe departure is not always abandonment.
Sometimes it is a jumping-off point to get to somewhere else. And under a sky still smoking with spent fireworks, with your heart split open and strangely lighter, you turn toward the streetlights—toward one ending, toward another beginning, and walk.
End Notes:
ALEXA play Free Now by Gracie Abrams!!! ON BLAST.
This ain’t the end of these two just yet… we have a couple more chapters of pain, and then it’s all good vibes from here.
“Wait, he doesn’t know about New York? D:”
Yes, he doesn’t… yet :P HEHEHEH
Now… DID SOMEONE ORDER A LOT OF GROVELING??? TEHE
And how do we feel about him chasing after you? ;)
a/n - ok i get rlly into births i actually think they're rlly fucking interesting, like just yesterday i learned about paravaginal births and??? why is that an option??? but dw it doesn't happen here. i had to include the miss congeniality easter egg, bc i started this yesterday (apr 25th) benjamin and shawn are my sister wives. samira doesn’t leave the pitt, she just leaves the day shift, obv. i had a lot of fun with this, and i hope you do too!!! time to find out if it's a ronan or isadora! phoebe or phoebo! <3
♡♡♡
Your nursery colors were green and yellow. It was calming, and neutral but not gray. There were little dragonflies embroidered into the curtains, and flowers on the rug, and vintage children's book art hanging on the walls. Jack kept his nephew’s first ever hockey stick leaning against the bookshelf, barely two feet long, determined to get your little baby out on the ice as soon as possible.
You liked it in there. It was nice. You could sit in the cushy armchair with your feet up, breeze blowing in through the open window, making the dragonflies fly. It was a right side better than suffocating on your back in a sweltering bed under the weight of your baby. And sometimes, on hard days, you looked over into the empty crib and pictured a little red haired infant, fast asleep under the galaxy mobile.
Jack often found you asleep in there. Sometimes he found you awake, and you would say, “Oh, hun, now that you’re here, mind folding these hand me downs we got from Dana?”
But not anymore. The nursery was done, painted, dried, decorated, and stocked with anything you could need. The cot in your room was set up, along with a cart of midnight postpartum essentials, of which you got a list from every childbearing woman in your life. You had pounds of frozen meals ready in the freezer. You had decided on names. You had deep cleaned and decluttered the entire apartment from head to toe. You were absolutely ready.
In every way but the physical, of course. Every appointment you had, it was firm, undilated cervix, sitting high, and perfectly healthy. You were incredibly grateful the baby was healthy, but by week forty, you would have been almost as grateful to hear any note of progress.
But nada. Zip. No action.
You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself how lucky you were to be making it to term. Hadn’t you seen dozens of preemies in your line of work, who needed extensive, invasive care or worse, who didn't make it at all?
No matter how guilty it made you feel, though, you couldn’t quite help the annoyance that crept into your brain more and more with each day you spent still pregnant. You were truly becoming the stereotype of the angry pregnant lady, waddling around with a scowl, complaining about sweat, and not being able to see your toes.
“I hate this,” you said, two days after your due date. “The baby is healthy, the baby is ready, I’m certainly ready, so what’s the fucking hold up?”
You had had your forty week check up just that past Wednesday, where Jill was too happy to report that your cervix was wide, thick, and hard as a rock.
“I’m sorry,” said Dana, looking up from her charts. “Sometimes the baby just comes on their own damn schedule. You better get used to that.”
You grunted, pulling at your scrubs. Dana’s lips quirked in sympathy.
“Why don’t you head home?” she said. “There’s only an hour left in the shift, and you can start your maternity leave at forty weeks, can’t you? I’m sure Gloria couldn’t fault you for that if she got a look at you.”
“No way,” you said, slamming your computer keys harshly. “Jack’s taking twelve months off when the baby comes, only three of those are paid, and I need to save.”
“You’re fine,” Dana dismissed. “Jack has spent the last decade and a half making doctor money, taking overtime, and never taking a day off. He buys the same t-shirts and jeans every few years, toiletries, food, and that’s pretty much it. I know that guy’s got savings.”
“Yeah, I know, but I still —” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp.
Your muscles were tightening, cramping more than you’d ever felt before. Dana took off her glasses.
“Woah,” you said, as the pain spread from the front to your back. “That’s new.”
“Braxton hicks?” asked Dana cautiously.
You shook your head.
“I don’t think so,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “No, this is — worse.”
Dana rolled her chair right up next to yours, swiveling you to be knee to knee. She had an excited glint in her eye.
“Do you think, possibly, it could be…?”
You tried not to smile too wide. The pain was worse than it had ever been, but you could still talk through it.
“I don’t know, maybe,” you said. “D’you think?”
“Why not?” she said. “Start timing them!”
You pulled out your phone, fingers shaking slightly in excitement.
“Sixty-two seconds,” you said when it was done. “It lasted sixty-two seconds.”
“Good start,” said Dana, patting your knee. “Keep track of ’em, and who knows. The betting board might be cleared by this time tomorrow.”
It took everything in you not to squeal from pure excitement. You rested your phone open next to your computer, trying to focus back on work. Your eyes frequently flicked over to it, checking the time. It was five, ten, fifteen minutes before anything else happened. The same clenching pain, spreading from front to back, rolled over you.
“Another minute,” you said happily to Dana when that too had passed. “Sixty-four seconds, that time.”
“Want anything, kid?” she asked. “Heating pads, tylenol?”
“No thanks,” you said. “They’re not too bad yet.”
By the third contraction, Jack was walking through the door.
“Jack!” you said loudly, attempting to jump up, getting halfway through the motion, and sitting back down. “Jackie, a contraction!”
His face changed instantly from warm fondness, to worried shock. He picked up his pace, hurrying around the partition to kneel in front of you. His eyes were wide.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long?”
“One minute, with fifteen in between,” you said, showing him your phone. “What do we do? Should I go home now?”
He took your phone, thinking.
“Why don’t I give you a ride,” he said finally. “You can shower and eat, in case this is the real thing. How’s that sound?”
You thought it sounded good, starving and grimy as you were, so you gave everyone your excited goodbyes, loaded into his car, and went home. It took some convincing to get Jack to leave you. You had to remind him that he was scheduled to work in about fifteen minutes, and Robby wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there for shift change, before he kissed you goodbye.
You almost relished in the ache as you started your shower, positioning your phone right outside the door. You were so desperate for this pregnancy to end, you could work through the pain. As you were rinsing conditioner from your hair, another contraction started to hit. But as you reached through the glass door to document it, you saw that the timer read twenty minutes and counting.
Twenty minutes. The contractions had gone from fifteen minutes apart, to twenty. That wasn’t that unusual, was it? Things could be irregular in the beginning, but it would even out, right? But as you heated up some pasta for dinner, the increments between episodes became longer and longer. When a whole hour had passed without one, you knew it had been a false start.
Your heart was sinking as you texted Jack.
Contractions slowed down :( I don’t think it’s happening
His bubble popped up almost immediately.
I’m sorry honey. Want me to bring you waffles from Rosie’s in the morning?
You smiled.
You know me too well
You went to bed that night disappointed, but determined. You were starting to second guess your assessment that the cramps weren’t braxton hicks, but whatever they were, it was a first. It meant progression.
The next day at work you did some home remedy research. Castor oil was a no go, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of non medicinal measures that couldn’t hurt to try.
“Spicy foods, curb walking, uphill sprints,” Javadi read over your shoulder as you showed the list to Robby. “Dates, raspberry leaf tea…”
“You don’t really think any of these work, do you?” said Robby skeptically.
You glared at him.
“Until you have to start wearing adult diapers because you pee a little every time you bend down, kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Michael,” you said, and Javadi tried to stifle her snort. “That just cost you lunch. I require one extra hot jalfrezi with chicken.”
He didn’t dare argue, just snapped his mouth shut and went to make the order with his tail between his legs.
After your eye watering meal, one bite of which had Robby red as a tomato and wheezing into a straight mug of creamer, you decided to take a trip outside. You took Victoria with you, partly because the possibility of falling down and not being able to get back up was high, but also because the terror in her eyes every time you wobbled was slightly amusing.
You walked along the curb in the ambulance bay for as long as you could justify being away from the hub. By the end of it, you were panting, exhausted, and didn’t feel any closer to labor. You huffed and puffed your way slowly back inside, Javadi trailing awkwardly behind you.
“Any luck?” asked Dana.
You could only shake your sweaty head.
“Not yet,” you said, texting Jack, “but you never know.”
Please get dates!!!
A few hours later, when he was awake, he responded.
The fruit?
You rolled your eyes.
Obviously the fruit
He sent you back a thumbs up.
No one was convinced at the efficacy of your little tricks, but they all wished you luck as you waddled out to Jack’s truck. You could tell, as you updated him, that Jack had doubts of his own, but he was smart enough to stay silent while you munched on your dates.
“They’ll work,” you said. “They have to.”
Sure enough, later that night as you bounced on your yoga ball, you felt a now familiar sensation at the base of your belly.
“Fucking finally!” you said to no one in particular, perhaps Romeo where he lay snoozing on the couch.
You called Jack, and he answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Tell Robby he’s an idiot,” you said smugly. “Guess what I’m having right now?”
“A contraction?” he said. “Really?”
“Really,” you said. “It’s only the first one, but I just wanted to let you know to keep your phone close.”
But it seemed you sounded the alarms a bit too soon. The same contractions, now two minutes long, still fifteen apart, kept you up until one in the morning. They were helped by some nasty heartburn, no doubt from your ambitious spice level at lunch, but soon enough, they began to subside.
You groaned as you texted Jack.
Don’t say anything to Robby, the contractions have stopped >:(
He’s still an idiot though
At the very least, you had the day off. The last thing anyone needed was you, forty weeks pregnant, and running on five hours of sleep. By the time you woke up, Jack was beside you, snuffling snores.
The third night you felt contractions coming on, you were hardly as excited. You had Jack time them, but, as you expected, they fizzled out around midnight.
Each night, around seven or eight, contractions would start. Then, like clockwork, between the hours of twelve and one, they stopped. You wanted to pop a pill and go to bed, not bothered tracking something that was surely temporary, but Jack insisted.
“You never know when it could be the real deal!”
But it wasn’t the real deal, night after night. You were a zombie at work, snappy and grouchy, so much so that by the time you were forty weeks and five days, you were kicked out.
“You’re gonna regret this, Dana,” you growled as Jack pulled you towards the parking lot. “You’re gonna rue the day!”
With your newfound freedom away from the hospital, you kept up with your activities. Though, not the spicy food. That you’d learned your lesson from. Your days were filled with curb walking, dates, and teas. At least two hours a day you sat on your ball and pumped. You had even had sex every night, though it was hardly sexy. You couldn’t really move, so Jack had to prop up your hips with two pillows. It was helped, however, by Jack himself. You’d never seen the man so insatiable as when you were pregnant.
By the time you made it to your forty-one week appointment, you were itching for progress. You kept your fingers crossed tightly, hoping against hope as Jill performed her exam.
“You’re about one centimeter dilated,” said Jill apologetically.
You let out a helpless cry. Jack rubbed your shoulders.
“It’s still an improvement,” he reminded you.
“And you’ve softened a bit,” said Jill. “Most importantly, you’ve still got a good amount of amniotic fluid, so baby’s okay. I would like to do an NST, just because you’re past due. I’d also just like to offer you induction. It is typically recommended at this point—”
“No thank you,” you said firmly. “I’ve only heard horror stories, uterine ruptures, infection, hemorrhage —”
“I know you know how unlikely those things are, so I won’t tell you,” said Jill gently. “I figured you would say that, but how do you feel about a membrane sweep?”
“Great, amazing, do it now,” you said, and she chuckled.
The membrane sweep was certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Once it was over, you were strapped in for an NST and Jill tried to reassure you.
“It’ll probably be any day now,” she said. “Hopefully things will progress quickly from here, but if they don’t there are things you can do to help.”
“Curb walking? Spicy foods? Sex? Dates? Yeah, we’ve done them all,” you sighed. “Just tell me — how do I tell the difference between prodromal contractions and real contractions?”
Jill looked regretful.
“Oftentimes, you can’t,” she said. “You just have to keep monitoring, and wait for them to get closer together.”
All in all, it was a blue sort of afternoon. Even a big cookie from your favorite bakery wasn’t able to cheer you up. Upon returning home, you draped yourself over Jack on the couch. He practiced his braiding on you while you watched Law & Order, snacking on dates. You were beginning to become sick of them.
As planned, contractions started rolling in around nine. At first, they were average, easily breathed through. Then, they started to pick up. Not in duration, but in severity. Jack pulled your new braids away from your face as you hunched in on yourself, tense and unfortunately moist.
“Honey?” he asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Bad,” you gasped. “Worse.”
“Okay,” he said, stroking your forehead. “Do you want to sit on your ball?”
You managed a nod, so he helped transfer you over to the blue ball. You started moaning, rolling your hips in great circles while he clutched your hands from his seat on the coffee table. As the clock struck half past one, he dared to speak.
“You know, if it’s this bad,” he said quietly, “maybe —”
“Don’t say it,” you snarled. “Don’t even think it.”
You were past the point of foolish hope. Without at five hours of clear, worsening contractions that reached five minutes apart, you weren’t even considering it a possibility. It wasn’t feasible to prepare every single time.
You were proven right, at nearly three in the morning, when the contractions once again quieted down. You could tell that Jack was struggling. The pain in his eyes was hard to ignore as he watched you curl in on yourself in agony. Hopeless, was the word, and it wasn’t helped by his being a doctor.
“Seven days,” he whispered into your hair as you drifted in and out of sleep. “Can’t be more than seven days.”
It definitely felt like more. You were becoming nocturnal, kept awake by contractions that never led anywhere, and sleeping it off well into the afternoon. It was like being back on night shift, but instead of patients, you got debilitating cramps and sweating.
It appeared that the membrane sweep really hadn’t helped, at the next appointment only three days later. You were still only one measly centimeter dilated. You cried all the way home out of pure exhaustion.
Jack did everything he could to try and help. He drew warm baths, gave food rubs, always had the kettle ready for a hot water belt. But even food was becoming uninteresting to you, with nausea and fatigue plaguing you most of your waking hours.
You tried to stay positive when you started losing the mucus plug, even more so when it appeared bloody. You called Jack into the bathroom and shoved your dirty underwear in his face.
“The bloody show?” you said.
“I think so,” he replied.
It was exciting. You tried to let it be exciting. But some part of you must have known deep down that it wasn’t the time quite yet, and the days crept on. Jack finally decided to start his sabbatical when parting in the evening coincided with your cramps. He couldn’t stand to leave you folded over the kitchen table, swaying side to side in a futile attempt to work through the pain.
He had you drinking protein shakes and walking in circles around the apartment, just to get the bare minimum out of the way so you could spend the rest of the time sleeping. You were more like a zombie than a person at that point. You would wake, but you were never alert. You went through the motions, the routines, but without Jack, you wouldn’t have been any more active than a garden snail.
“Jill, you gotta give me something,” you said at your next appointment, just one day before the forty-two week mark.
You looked horrible. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, unwashed hair, barely able to stay upright for exhaustion. Jack wasn’t great either, mostly from pure stress at watching you being put through the wringer. He looked at Jill imploringly. She sighed sympathetically.
“Unfortunately, I believe the only thing I can offer at this point is Pitocin,” she said. “In fact, I think I need to highly recommend it.”
You leaned back against Jack. He swept your hair back and rubbed your shoulders.
“Do you think you’d be open to that now?” he said in a hushed tone.
You huffed weakly.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I — I don’t like it, but I can’t spend another day like this, I really can’t.”
Jack buried his nose in the crown of your head, trying not to lose it.
“How about this,” said Jill delicately. “We make an appointment for tomorrow evening, give you guys the whole day, and if nothing happens, you come in. You’re almost three centimeters, you have made progress this past week, which means the drip probably won’t do anything drastic. We need to speed you along. How does that sound?”
You weren’t ecstatic, but you agreed. You knew it would be dangerous for both you and the baby to stay stagnant for much longer. Still, it wasn’t exactly what you imagined as you ate your last meal in the afternoon the next day. You expected to wake excitedly in the night, and rush to the hospital. That period of “I think this is it” extending into “this is really happening right now.” All elements of surprise were zapped out of your trip to the ward. You weren’t excited, more morose, as you stared gloomily out of the window.
Jack was clearly excited, under the surface. He gripped your leg tightly on the drive, other hand tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. He tried not to show it, though, for you.
“I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he said as he pulled you out of the car. “But just remember, we’re meeting our baby soon. Right? And then all the pain can be over.”
You took a heavy breath. He loaded up with all the bags. That was at least one good thing about having a planned birth; you could prepare.
“I don’t know,” you said in a glum voice, taking glum steps towards the glum side entrance. “I know he has to come out at some point, but it doesn’t feel real. I think I’ve stopped allowing myself to accept it, after all the false starts.”
You had gone right back to referring to the baby as “he” the past few weeks. Jack didn’t want to talk too much about it, just settled in resolutely to being a boy dad. You had stopped believing in another possibility as well, but it didn’t really bum you out the way it did him.
Jack pressed a kiss to your plump cheek.
“I know,” he said. “But try to believe it, baby. He’ll be in your arms before you know it.”
You grumbled while he let you through the familiar door.
“He better come out fat.”
Jack smiled.
“Yeah? How come?”
“Because he’s gotten so much extra time!” you exclaimed. “He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.”
Jack just chuckled as the two of you made your slow, painful way through the entrance to the ER. You figured you’d be better to cut through to the staff elevator rather than go in through the civilian entrance up on the OB floor, and you might as well say a quick hello-goodbye to the sorry plebs stuck working.
Indeed, you received quite the strong reaction from the hub as you toddled up.
“Look who it is!” said Dana, immediately encircling you in her arms. “Mom and Dad!”
You snorted as the others gathered round, fussing.
“Look how big you are!
“Can you believe today’s the day?”
“Think pink! Baby Princess is almost here!”
Princess squished your belly carefully, looking intense. After a while, she nodded smugly.
“That’s at least an eight-pounder,” she said happily. “Just like I predicted!”
“Well I should think so,” you said. “Two extra weeks of stealing my nutrients should do that.”
Robby stepped forward, looking exhausted, but he offered you a polite cheek kiss anyways.
“Looking stunning as always, Nurse Abbot,” he said, with a hint of jest in his tone. “The glow is overpowering!”
You fixed him with an unamused stare, and at least a week’s worth of sleep gunk in the corners of your eyes.
“Do you want something from me, Robinavitch?”
“Of course not,” he chided.
“What’s your bet?” you asked suspiciously. “Are you counting on me holding out for another three days or something?”
“Oh, no, no one expected you to go this long,” he said. “However, if the baby comes out with your hair, nine pounds, and a boy, I’ll be very happy.”
You rolled your eyes, and Jack started ushering you away from the mob.
“Goodbye Robby, I hope you lose!” you called behind you.
“Good luck!” said Dana.
“You can do it!” said Mel.
“Bring us a baby girl!” said Princess.
You could only wave halfheartedly as the elevator doors closed.
It was easy to be playfully annoyed at Robby downstairs, or sassy in the car, but the second you stepped into your reserved room, your delivery room, the panic took over. There was a large bed, and a convertible chair for Jack to sleep on, just like you pictured. But they wasted no time in hooking you up to a CEFM, and within the hour, a nurse had shoved a suppository up your vagina. You didn’t feel much like laughing at anything.
“And that’s —”
“Dinoprostone,” the nurse answered your boyfriend, while you tried to adjust. “0.3 milligrams. We’ll start the Pitocin in an hour or two.”
You let out a sigh as she left, pulling at your gown. You weren’t happy. Sitting there, sans underwear, on a Chux pad, waiting with anticipation for what would probably be the most painful, agonizing experience of your life, you felt the walls closing in a bit.
You glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost eight o’clock. Robby and Dana were probably just leaving, and Shen and Samira would be taking over. You soured at the thought that they’d probably be cozy in bed again before you had your baby. Hell, the way things had been going so far, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were barely five centimeters by that point.
“You wanna watch a movie, honey?” Jack asked quietly, watching your sullen face.
You rolled your head to the side so you could see his, though it looked much sweeter. You stroked a hand over his scruff.
“Yeah,” you said forlornly. “Miss Congeniality?”
He nodded diligently and extracted his laptop from one of the bags, setting it up in record time. To both of your surprise, you promptly opened your arms for him to join you on the bed. He did so, moving carefully so as to not upset your gown, or your monitor, or you. You weren’t at the point where you were cursing him or hated the sight of his face. In fact, you quite liked him at that moment. Better to take advantage of it before things progressed and he got the luteal phase side of you.
“I love you,” you said.
He sounded a little taken aback in his reply.
“I love you too, baby.”
You fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.
“I just needed to remind us both, before I start hating you,” you explained.
“Of course,” he said.
You sat in the quiet for a while, half watching the movie you knew like the back of your hand. Within a few minutes, Jack’s gentle touch and steady breaths coaxed your eyes closed. On the brink of sleep, only one thing nowadays could really bring you back.
“Contraction,” you mumbled, as Gracie threw Matthews into a headlock.
“Do you want to move?” he asked.
“No,” you breathed, letting the now familiar discomfort wash over you. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” he said, pecking your forehead. “I’m right here. You know who else is here for you?”
“Who?”
“Benjamin Bratt,” he said. “Benjamin won’t let you down.”
You hummed, a hint of a smile on your lips as you forced your eyes open. Benjamin Bratt was your lifelong celebrity crush, and your friends had wasted no time pointing out some similarities between him and the father of your child when you’d revealed it.
“Of course he won’t,” you said, stroking a finger down his face on the screen.
As the usual contractions passed, you couldn’t help but feel a bit foolishly disappointed. Some small illogical part of you hoped that the prostaglandins would be enough of a push for your body to ramp it up on its own; but the pains were no different than they had been all week.
At a quarter to ten, Jill came in and checked you.
“Just about three centimeters dilated,” she said, to your agitation, “but about ninety percent effaced, so, progress.”
You huffed. Even your TV husband couldn’t distract you from the fact that you weren’t getting anywhere, no matter the positive spin Jill tried to pull. She didn’t seem to want to mention that you were also “just about three centimeters” the last time she saw you, over twenty-four hours previous.
“So now you start the drip?” you asked, and Jack squeezed your hand.
“Yes, now we start,” she said, while a nurse prepared the bag to hang. “Just a low dose, and then if nothing happens, we can gradually increase it. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” you said, through gritted teeth.
She provided you with a peanut ball to put between your legs and then you were left in wait. Jack rubbed your back and instructed your deep breathing, while you tried to focus on the screen and not the pain.
To your brief respite, the pitocin didn’t intensify the contractions the way you expected them to. After an hour of absolutely zero action, Jill upped the dosage. Still, while they grew closer together, they felt no different. You could breathe through them quite well, and even talk if you felt determined. Maybe you had a high threshold, maybe you were desensitized after all the sleepless nights, maybe it was a bit of both, but what ended up nagging you the most was the hunger.
“Jackie,” you whispered between contractions, around midnight.
“What, baby?” he whispered back, though you were alone in the dark room.
“Can you go get me a soft pretzel?”
He stopped sponging your sweaty forehead, eyes narrowed in amusement.
“A soft pretzel?”
You nodded innocently.
“With plenty yellow mustard, please.”
He rang the washcloth out over the basin, looking half humorous, half distressed.
“Honey, I don’t think —”
“And a hotdog!” you interjected, eyes going wide. “Just get one of every condiment, actually. And I’m picturing a soft serve in a hat. Chocolate vanilla swirl. Okay?”
He wiped his damp hands off on a clean towel and cradled your face.
“Sweetheart, I will get you all of that and more,” he said earnestly, “just as soon as this baby’s outta you.”
“Oh, okay,” you sniffed. “So you don’t love me anymore. I get it.”
It was such a ridiculous notion, he couldn’t help laughing. You tried to smile back, but your face was suddenly crumpled in discomfort as another contraction hit you. Jack checked his watch, then the monitor.
“Five minutes,” he said desperately. “They’re getting closer together, honey. We’re moving.”
“They’re fine,” you hissed. “They’re only, like, double the pain of a bad period. It’s no big deal.”
Jack sent you a look you couldn’t see.
“Your periods get this bad?” he asked in horror. “Even half this bad? How do you get anything done?”
You couldn’t answer, just shook your head, as if to say what are you gonna do?
There wasn’t much, but damn it if Jack wasn’t going to try.
“You wanna try some massages?” he asked. “Some from lamaze class?”
You shook your head again.
“Okay… how about the birthing comb Perlah gave you?”
You didn’t immediately dismiss it, so he quickly dug into the bag and pulled it out. You opened your hand and he lined the teeth up with the crease of your palm. You squeezed hard. He watched you closely.
You took some deep breaths, massaging the bamboo tines into your tissue. Jack allowed himself some breaths as well, seeing the line between your brows soften a bit. He’d never dare complain after the weeks you’d had, but his brain felt a bit like a wrung out sponge. He could deal with sleep deprivation, he almost thrived on sleep deprivation, but seeing you, in agony, so exhausted you could barely eat a full meal? That was wearing down on him.
“Wait, what time is it?” you said suddenly. “Is it past midnight?”
Jack glanced at his wrist again.
“Closer to one,” he said, “why?”
Your lips turned down a bit.
“Nothing,” you sighed. “It’s just that… Ronan is a Scorpio.”
Jack glanced at his phone with befuddlement.
“Is that bad?” he asked. “Wait, aren’t I a Scorpio?”
“Yes,” you said. “Which is fine, it’s great, but now you’re both Scorpios. Scorpio men.”
He waited for you to explain, but you didn’t, so he just gave you a confused apology kiss.
When the contractions got to be three minutes apart, Jill came in to have a look.
“How are we holding up?” she asked, snapping on gloves, while Jack helped you place your feet in the stirrups. “Contractions manageable?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you deadpanned. “I’m loving how they’re basically back to back now. Real fun.”
“Well,” she said, looking sorry, “you’re still only almost five centimeters, and we’d like you to be closer to seven.”
You guffawed.
“Of course I am,” you croaked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Not even five, almost five, for fuck’s sake.”
“We are moving, hun, just slowly,” she said, patting your knee. “We’re going to break the waters now, though, and things should pick up after that.”
You nodded flatly, unconvinced, at that point, that anything could possibly speed things up. It was mildly uncomfortable as Jill stuck the amnihook up to your sore cervix, but a second later, you felt a small pop and a sudden gush of fluid. You craned your head up to peer over your bump.
“Is that it?” you asked. “It’s broken?”
“That was it,” said Jill, handing the soiled hook and pads off to a nurse. “Now, you’ll probably continue to leak as the baby moves, so we’ll keep this Chux here under you, and don’t be surprised if things pick up quick. Most times mothers start pushing within hours of the amniotomy.”
“Bet I’m an exception to the rule,” you muttered darkly.
However, despite your pessimistic attitude, things did pick up. Quickly, and painfully. In comparison, the early labor felt like child’s play once you had experienced the stabbing sensation that trapped you now. You watched the sunrise from the window, bent at a ninety degree angle with your arms on the sill. You were no longer cracking jokes; you let out rhythmic moans, while Jack squeezed your hips together.
“Let it out,” he said quietly. “You’re doing so good. So, so good, baby.”
You still clutched the comb in your hands, but any effect it had had earlier was now lost. You were slick with sweat and shaking. As the contraction leveled out, you took great, heaving breaths.
“I think I’m gonna puke,” you breathed, and Jack jumped up.
He guided you back to the bed so your weak knees could collapse, and held a bag up to your mouth. You spit into it, that familiar metallic taste flooding your tongue as you prepared. It was mostly bile that came up as you retched, with no food left in your rumbling stomach. When you were done, you sat back on your bum and braced your arms in front of you.
“I’m never… doing… this again,” you panted.
“Okay, love,” said Jack, adjusting your hair where he had tied it back the first time you’d vomited. “You never have to.”
Did he want more kids? Yes. But more importantly, he wanted you happy and safe. If you said you were done, you were done. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he would be up to seeing you in this much pain again. He kissed your warm cheek.
“I need the epidural,” you said. “Can we get that?”
Jack had never moved faster in his life. Once Jill was free, and you were back in position, she checked you.
“Seven centimeters,” she said. “Very good.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Thank you universe.”
Jack all but crushed your hand between his.
“She was wondering about the epidural —”
“Certainly,” said Jill. “We can absolutely get anesthesiology in here, but I should remind you, it could very possibly slow down your progression. Is that a trade you’d be willing to make?”
They both looked at you. You felt about ready to cry. You were finally getting somewhere, would an epidural be setting you up for another twelve hours?
But in the end, you knew, you wouldn’t be able to get through birth without a couple hours of good sleep under your belt. So, you agreed to see the doctor.
It was definitely the right choice, you thought, once the drugs kicked in. Feeling the numbness spread through you was like going to sleep after a double, or sinking into a hot bath in winter time. The relief was palpable.
“Oh my god,” you moaned. “Oh my god, I had forgotten what it was like to not have contractions.”
Jack was relieved too, watching you munch on ice chips, eyes closed.
“You should get some sleep,” he said, stroking your forehead between your eyes. “You need rest.”
“So do you,” you said. “Hey — have you taken your leg off at all since we’ve been here?”
He thought. He had been far too preoccupied with you to notice the dull ache radiating up his right knee. He shrugged, but you were already back to your sass, however sluggishly.
“It’s almost been twenty-four hours, Jack Abbot,” you reprimanded. “Take it off and get in bed.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said lovingly.
He had to admit, it was a relief in its own right, removing the leg and the socks. He hadn’t even realized how much it had been bothering him, but you had always been on top of those things, the things he let fall to the back burner. Just like how he reminded you to eat on stressful days, or prepared hot water bottles when you were on your period. You looked out for each other.
Pulling his other shoe off, he carefully crawled into bed next to you, engulfing you in his arms. You weren’t sure how long you slept. All you knew was that upon waking, Jill was between your legs for a check.
As she covered you back up with the blanket, she could barely contain her smile.
“Ten centimeters. Are you ready to have a baby?”
♡♡♡
You’d thought, somehow, foolishly, that the pushing would be easy compared to the weeks of torture. Especially with the epidural keeping you almost completely numb, how could it be worse?
But now you were approaching your third hour of pushing, and they still couldn’t even see the baby’s head. The pain was barely an afterthought, but every upper muscle in your body was tense and tight from repeated use, and you were running out of energy.
You had Jack holding up one leg, a nurse holding the other, and a third person out of sight was wiping your forehead. You had had to ask, or scream at, someone to remove the ticking clock from above the door. Your eyes kept drifting towards it, and your heart filled with more and more despair as the minutes slid by.
“C’mon, honey, one more push,” Jack was chanting next to you, holding your thigh flush against your chest. “One more, you can do it!”
You fell back against him with a harsh cry as the contraction subsided. Perspiration was dripping down your flushed face, and you were panting like you’d just finished a sprint.
“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t do this any more. It’s not working.”
“The baby is moving,” said Jill from the other side of your bump. “They’re taking their time, but you’re doing really, really well, okay? Keep going, we should be seeing a head soon.”
“Did you hear that?” said Jack soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. You’re so close.”
You felt so close to slipping into sleep, and yet possibly less comfortable than you ever had been before. You felt your eyes beginning to sting. Maybe it was a good sign; throughout everything, you still hadn’t shed a tear. Could the cracks in your exterior mean this was almost at an end? Or were you really ready to give up?
“Here comes the next contraction,” said Jill. “Ready?”
“Big breath,” said Nurse Marta. “Chin to chest — good…”
You bared down with all your might, and the pressure was building.
“Hard, hard hard hard!” said Jill. “Good job, mom! I can just barely glimpse the head.”
Jack pressed a flurry of kisses to your knee, and if your eyes were open you would have seen his already beginning to tear.
“Oh my god,” you muttered as that contraction too passed.
“Can I see?” he asked cautiously. “The head, can I try to see?”
“We lost sight when she relaxed,” said Jill, eyes glued to the monitor. “But on the next contraction, we should begin to crown.”
“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, one more, and we find out who wins, Robby or Princess, right?”
“Better be Princess,” you grumbled.
You ran a limp hand over Jack’s curls.
“You’ll catch him, right?” you said. “When he comes out?”
“Yeah, baby, of course, I’ll be right there,” he said. “I promise. I mean, I love Jill, but —”
You almost laughed, or got as close to it as you possibly could with how winded you were. Jill spoke up, smirking slightly herself.
“Okay, about twenty seconds to the next contraction,” she said. “And I need you to really push hard, okay? Hard as you can.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Alright,” she chuckled, “ready? Go.”
You pushed, and pushed, and pushed. All the blood rushed to your head, and your grip in Jack’s hair only tightened, accidentally bumping his chin against your knee, but he didn’t say anything. It was kind of funny — you were usually in a very different place when you did that.
“You’re so good, you’re so so good, honey,” Jack muttered quickly, unable to keep himself from peering over to watch. “Good, good, you’re so strong, you” — his breath stuttered — “I see the head! Oh, it’s red, the hair — Ronan —”
You let out a strangled sort of sound, half laugh, half cry.
“We’re crowning, I’m gonna need you to stop pushing,” said Jill. “Okay, stop pushing, and breathe, alright? Pant, deep and fast —”
You began to feel a bit lightheaded as you followed her instructions.
“Okay, now push again — good — and relax.”
You groaned, arms shaking and jumping all over the place. Hesitantly, you removed a hand from Jack’s hair.
“Can I feel?”
“Of course,” said Jill. She took your trembling hand and guided it down. “Feel the hair?”
That was it. That was the little push those tears needed to begin leaking from your eyes. It was the most bizarre feeling, not being able to sense touch against your own legs, but knowing that the head you felt was part of you this second. And the next, it would be separate. A whole little human.
“There’s a lot, huh?” said Jack in a wavery voice.
“Jack, if you want to catch, now’s the time,” said Jill, holding out a packet of sterile gloves. “You ready?”
He snapped them on in record time, though was reluctant to leave your immediate side.
“I’m right here,” he said, both for you and for him. “I’m still here next to you.”
“I know,” you said, taking up the hand of the nurse that replaced him.
“Push, mama, push,” Jill chanted from over Jack’s shoulder, watching carefully as he cradled the emerging head.
“You’re doing amazing!” said Jack, fully crying now. “Keep going!”
You did. By the end of the minute, the head was all the way out.
“I see him, I see him!” said Jack frantically. “He’s coming! One more push, just one!”
“Tell me what’s happening, okay?” you asked. “I wanna know.”
“Okay, honey.”
Your nurses pushed you up. It was time for the final contraction. Or, what would hopefully be the final contraction.
“Push!”
You put all your remaining strength behind that last push, tears now joined in the sweat running down your cheeks.
“Here come the shoulders,” said Jack. “Good job! Okay, great job, honey, they’re coming — okay, one, and — c’mon, Ronan, you can do it — c’mon — okay, yes! Yes, yes, yes, so good, okay, and the little arms, and the belly, and —”
There was a sudden release of pressure, and almost immediately, a sharp, strong cry rent the air. You were sobbing in earnest now, but still Jack held onto your baby while they wailed. You couldn’t see them, but you could see his face, transfixed, unmoving. You didn’t like the look. Worry began to creep in.
“What?” you asked wetly. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”
“It’s” — Jack’s breath caught in his throat — “it’s a girl! It’s a baby girl.”
Your anxiety cleared, and you sighed in relief, a full body shudder as he gingerly lifted the little baby, your daughter, to your chest. Your eyes were as wide as his were, staring in awe at the little creature on your bosom.
“Hi,” you whispered, while Jill rubbed her vigorously with a cloth. “Hi, baby. You’re here.”
Jack, now gloveless, and hysterical, wrapped his arms around the both of you. Her whole tiny head was covered in sticky but unmistakable dark red hair. And it seemed Santos was right — she did have her dad’s nose. His everything, really.
“Isadora,” Jack said reverently through his tears. “You’re perfect.”
“You got your girl,” you said to Jack, eyes not parting from your Izzy for one second.
“Everyone’s gonna freak,” he said, stroking her head.
It wasn’t until later, with the cord clamped and cut, the placenta delivered, and the postpartum room moved into, you realized.
“Wait,” you said, watching Isadora curl sleepily into her father’s bare chest. “I just remembered something.”
“Way to go, Izzy,” he said. “First hour on earth, and you’re already beating Uncle Robby’s ass, huh? Atta girl. Just wait til you play him at hockey. He sucks.”
Your eyes, which had never fully dried, were beginning to tear up again. You knew it was to be expected with your hormones out of whack, but he was just holding her, for christ’s sake.
“C’mere,” you said lazily, beckoning him towards your bed. “You wanna call him up? Gloat in his face? I kinda do.”
“Nah,” said Jack calmly, settling in at your side. “I think for now it should just be me and my girls.”
You were sent home the next day, with an appointment for Izzy in the books and relatively minimal soreness, considering. Izzy was quickly proving herself to be a good eater, and a good sleeper.
“There we go, honey,” Jack cooed at her, setting her down in your arms. “All fed, all burped, all changed.”
He perched on the arm of your nursing chair. For once, it was exactly as you pictured. The breeze through the open window making the dragonflies fly, Jack by your side, and a little red haired baby resting in the green and yellow nursery.
Can i request 🫖🍯, where Robby and reader have been in a fwb situation but reader kinda ghosts robby bc she knows about the 7 week itch thing, and he's like super confused on why she's stopped talking to him so he tries to speak with her but she's just really not for being dumped after he has his fun with her
thank u for requesting my love i hope you enjoy!!! michael robinavitch x fem!reader, reader is doing an internal medicine fellowship, age gap mentioned (reader is late 20s/early 30s and robby is early 50s), 18+ mdni established situationship, mentions of them hooking up and robby begins initiating sex at the very end but nothing actually happens <3 1.4k words
1.5k follower fairy garden party celebration ⋆˚ʚɞ you're invited!
If Robby is an expert in any one thing, it's avoiding difficult conversations by any means necessary. One time he exited off the highway when he saw an ex's car because he'd ignored her texts the night before. He's done it to friends, coworkers, lovers, neighbours, if he doesn't want to talk he will find any way to get out of talking.
He's never really been on the receiving end though. This fucking sucks.
You work two floors above him, how the hell is he struggling to find you?
He's not even sure what he's done. Dana asked him after the third day in a row of him being crabby at work and he couldn't give her any answer let alone an honest one. He'd taken you home after work one night, made you dinner, kissed you silly and fallen asleep with his arm wedged under your head. The next morning you'd left early to go back to your apartment to change before your shift and he hasn't caught sight of you or your dark blue scrubs since.
It'd help if Internal Medicine had any sort of rhyme or reason to the way the department was laid out. He didn't know your extension or he would've paged you. That felt a little unprofessional, even for him so he'd made the ascent after his shift hoping to catch you before you left.
You'd taken one look at him standing outside the staff lounge and rolled your eyes. "What do you want, Robinavitch?"
He raises his eyebrows, affronted by your attitude. "Well, hello to you too, baby." Robby laughs slightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Over the last month and a half that he's known you you're rarely further than a couple of feet away from him whenever you guys do get to share a room. You make no effort to cross the room at all. "I'm not contageous."
You sigh, shedding your white coat and tucking it over your arm for something to do with your hands for a moment. "Well I'd hope not, all that hand sanitiser's for nothing."
Robby cracks a bigger smile. "What can I say?" he shrugs. "I'm dedicated."
"You're dry more like it," you grumble, stepping inside the staff lounge. It's different upstairs; lockers line the back few walls. Your name is written on tape on the door of your locker in your looped handwriting. "That big attending salary and you can't afford a decent hand cream?"
Robby leans against the locker beside yours as you shove your white coat inside, shedding your scrub top to reveal the undershirt you'd been wearing instead. "You got a problem with my hands now, baby?" His voice is low. "Didn't have any issues the other night. Did you leave me a Press Ganey?"
You shut your locker with a bang, hefting your bag over your shoulder and shooting him a look that he has the good sense to shut up for. Your nostrils are flared and Robby's not sure if you've ever looked at him with such vitriol.
"What's going on?" He drops the teasing. "Are you okay?"
You look at him like you want to be anywhere in the world than with him right now. "I'm fine, Michael." Oh, Michael. He knows he's in trouble now. "What do you want?"
"What-?" he splutters, hiding it with a cough then hiding the cough with a laugh. "What do I want? I wanted to come see you, you've been avoiding me. I haven't seen you in days and you clearly have an issue with me." He frees his hands from his pockets, opening his palms face up, gesturing between the two of you. "So what's wrong?"
You take a deep breath, trying to control the frustration building in your chest. "You really wanna know what's wrong, Robby?" You shoot him a pointed look. He's gotten fairly good at reading you over the past month you've been each other but he has no idea what this look means. He hopes you'll give him the opportunity to find out. "What's wrong is the fact that you neglected to tell me I'm the fifth girl you've dated from this hospital in the last two years, and that none of those relationships have lasted over two months."
Robby freezes, eyebrows furrowing first in surprised then in confusion. "What?" His voice is careful now, teasing edge gone.
"People talk, Robby." You say, gesturing to the door of the staff lounge, which is shut but still mostly sheer. "I hear things. About your whole... seven week... thing." You gesture to himself. "So, let's just spare us both the humiliation and cut it loose."
Robby knows you're a fair bit younger than him, in the middle of your fellowship, and he tends not to bring that up for both of your sakes. "Are you seriously saying you're avoiding me because of middle school gossip? That's what this is about?"
You let out a short laugh, bitterness in the sound. Robby hates it. "Don't act like you haven't been one foot out the door this entire time. You take me back to your place and you fuck me and you send me home with a pat on the head like a good little girl, and then you're done with me until you decide you're not." You feel your throat tighten. "So forgive me for believing a rumour that aligns almost exactly with how I know you to be."
Robby steps closer, closing the space between you until there's barely any left. He doesn't touch you, much as he wants to. "Baby, you think I don't care about you?"
"You're not the first guy I'd have had pull this kind of shit, Robby." Your voice wobbles but you're trying desperately not to cry in front of your situationship while breaking up with him. "But don't lie to my face about it."
That's the point where he touches you, hand coming to rest on your elbow. "I'm not," he shakes his head vigorously, hunching over his massive frame to look you right in the eye. "I'm not lying to you, baby."
Your eyes search his, trying to find the truth in the shadowed lines of his face. "You haven't been very good at showing it," you admit.
And perhaps that's true. Maybe Robby's been taking you home and wining and dining you and making you cum four ways to sunday but he'll admit that he hasn't necessarily been the most open with you. It's still early days, was the excuse he'd always given himself. You're the first woman he's felt serious about in years - since Heather - and he kept telling himself that any day now he'd start opening up and talking about his feelings.
"That's cause I'm an idiot," he figures a no-punches-held approach will be the only thing that gets you back on side. "I'm an idiot and I've fucked things up a hundred times before but I didn't want to scare you off before this even became anything." Robby swallows, his hand lingering on your elbow and a rare honesty in his voice that bleeds through his usual deflection.
You shake your head, part of you wanting to scream, part of you wanting to just let him take you home. "Robby..." The words feel too fragile, too small for the anger, the hurt, the longing, the affection, lingering inside of you. "I can't be your... safety net while you figure out if I'm worth it."
He steps closer again. "I want you," he says gently. "I don't need to figure it out."
God, he's annoying with his big sad eyes and his huge hands running up and down your arms. "You make it really hard to stay mad at you, Robinavitch." You grouch, looking up at him.
Robby presses a kiss to the side of your face. "I'm adorable."
"You're annoying."
Robby pulls you into him. "I'm sure I'll make it up to you," he says, voice low and so deep that you can feel the gravel in his chest. "Haven't let me have you in four whole days," he lilts directly into your ear. His hands roam over your back, stray fingers coming to fiddle with the strap of your bra through your thin undershirt. "If you ask me I've already been punished enough."
You roll your eyes again and this time Robby's thrilled. "Not a chance."
do you have any soft cuddly robby thoughts? 🥺 sometimes im just baby
cuddles on the couch are a staple with him :( he likes staying in, with a book and a beer, glasses on, hair wet from the shower and then you practically laying on him :((( you like it when he reads to you, sometimes you flip the pages so he can use his other hand to play with your hair or rub your back !!
maybe you're watching your show with your face mask on n you look ridiculous and he already has some on his beard from where you forced him to give u a kiss :) rubs your feet, sometimes kisses them hmm <3
What If I’m Not The Same? - Dr. Robby x Female Reader
Request - could you do one where the reader has carpal tunnel in one hand and has been hiding it and putting it off because she doesn’t want to stop working? Like who is she if she’s not working in the ER and helping people? and Robby finds out, gets upset, but ultimately convinces her to have surgery. happy ending. sorry if this is too long!
By the middle of the shift, you had already lied three times. The first had been to Dana when she asked why you kept flexing your right hand like you were trying to wake it up. You had smiled without looking at her and said you must have slept on it wrong. The second had been to one of the nurses when you fumbled a syringe cap and she gave you a look sharp enough to cut through your bullshit, and you had laughed it off with a muttered joke about too much caffeine and not enough breakfast. The third had been to yourself, which was the easiest and the worst, because you had been telling that particular lie for weeks now, maybe months if you were being honest, and it always came wrapped in the same neat little package. It is nothing. It will go away. You are tired, that is all. You just need a day off, maybe a brace at night, maybe less charting, maybe less phone scrolling, maybe less everything. It is not a problem until it forces itself to become one.
Only now it was forcing. It had started as tingling in your thumb and first two fingers, a weird pins-and-needles sensation that came and went and felt more annoying than alarming. Then it had turned into numbness that woke you up in the middle of the night, your hand dead and heavy at the end of your wrist like it belonged to someone else. Then had come the pain, sharp and hot some days, dull and aching on others, traveling from your palm straight up your forearm until even lifting a coffee cup made your jaw tighten. More recently, there had been weakness, little humiliations that chipped away at you in private. A dropped pen. A chart tablet slipping against your palm. Your toothbrush hitting the sink one morning because your grip had given out without warning. Tiny things. Manageable things. Things that did not matter, except they absolutely did.
You shoved open the trauma room door with your shoulder and stepped inside behind Collins, who was already pulling gloves on while one of the medics rattled off a report from the hall. Teen male, restrained driver, high-speed rollover, conscious at scene, lost consciousness en route, vitals unstable, possible internal bleed. The room sharpened around you immediately, all noise and motion and the familiar electric pull that had always made you feel most like yourself. The monitors, the clipped voices, the rhythm of urgency settling over everyone like a second skin. This was the place where everything inside you usually lined up. This was the place where the static in your head went quiet. This was the place where you knew what to do.
“On my count,” Collins said as they wheeled him over.
You moved to the right side of the bed automatically and reached to steady the patient’s shoulder while Dana cut the shirt. Your hand tingled so hard your fingers almost curled with it. You ignored it. You had become very good at ignoring it.
Pressure dropping. Breath sounds diminished on the left.
“Get me a chest tray,” Collins snapped.
“I’m on it,” you said, and even to your own ears your voice sounded normal, clean, capable.
Because you were. Because you had to be. Someone shoved the tray toward you and you caught it awkwardly with both hands, compensating so fast no one noticed, then set it down and began arranging instruments with practiced efficiency. Your fingertips had that awful cottony numbness again, the one that made touch feel distant and imprecise, as if there were a thin layer of gauze between your skin and the world. You curled your hand once at your side and prayed for feeling to come back before it mattered.
Across the bed, Robby came through the doors like a weather front, controlled and immediate, his eyes taking in the room in one sweep before locking on the patient. “What do we have?”
“Rollover, pressure’s tanking, possible hemothorax,” Collins answered.
Robby stepped in without hesitation, issuing instructions, moving bodies, changing the entire current in the room just by being there. You watched him the way everyone watched him in moments like this, not because he demanded attention, but because he drew the room toward order by sheer force of competence. It was something you had admired before you knew him and loved long before you had any business doing that either. He glanced your way only once, quick and unreadable, then looked back to the patient.
“Chest tube now. Let’s move.”
You passed Collins what she needed, then what Robby asked for, then reached for the clamp and nearly missed it because your hand did not close all the way the first time. Panic flickered low in your stomach. You corrected fast, got it into her palm, kept your face blank.
No one said anything. No one noticed. You were fine.
The procedure went quickly, bloody and intense and then abruptly improving as the monitor numbers began to climb back toward sanity. The room exhaled by degrees. You stepped back to let respiratory in, pulled off one glove, and flexed your fingers where no one could see. A sharp bolt shot from your wrist to your elbow.
“Jesus,” you whispered under your breath.
“What was that?” Dana asked without looking up.
“Nothing.” Another lie.
By the time the patient was headed for CT, the adrenaline had burned off and left your hand throbbing so badly you could feel your pulse inside your wrist. You stood at the workstation trying to type notes one-handed while your right hand hovered uselessly above the keyboard, stiff and uncooperative. The cursor blinked at you like it was judging. You switched to pecking with your left index finger and immediately got annoyed with how slow it was.
“You look ridiculous.”
You did not have to turn to know it was Robby. His voice came from just over your shoulder, dry and low, carrying that familiar edge of amusement he saved for moments when the world was not actively ending. You kept your eyes on the screen.
“That’s romantic.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” He leaned against the counter beside you and looked at the screen, then at your hand, then back at your face. “What are you doing?”
“Charting.”
“With one hand?”
“I contain multitudes.”
That got the corner of his mouth to move, but only briefly. He kept looking at you, and you hated how easily he could do that, how he could stand there in the middle of a busy ER and make you feel like every deflection had already failed before it even left your mouth.
“You’ve been shaking that hand out all day,” he said.
“I’ve been working all day.”
“That is not the same thing.”
You forced yourself to keep typing, though the heel of your palm was burning now and two of your fingers had gone partially numb again. “Are you monitoring my hand movements now, Robby?”
“I’m monitoring the fact that you almost dropped a chest tray twenty minutes ago.”
Your stomach dropped.
You clicked the mouse too hard and the cursor jumped. “I caught it.”
“That is not the point.”
You finally turned your head and looked at him. He was not angry, not yet, but there was something watchful in his face now, something that made your chest go a little tight. Robby did not miss much when it came to medicine. He missed even less when it came to you.
“I’m fine,” you said, and you made the mistake of saying it too quickly.
He studied you for one beat longer than was comfortable. “Sure you are.”
Then he pushed off the counter and walked away before you could decide whether you were relieved or irritated. Both, probably.
******
The rest of the afternoon came in waves. A febrile infant. A psych hold screaming himself hoarse in room nine. A little girl with a split chin and brave wet eyes who let you glue the wound while clutching your scrub top in one tiny fist. An elderly man in rapid afib. Three ambulance arrivals back-to-back. The sort of shift that left no room for self-pity, and you were grateful for that, because self-pity was dangerously close to honesty and honesty was not something you could afford right now.
You managed. You adapted. You used your left hand more. You braced your right wrist against counters when the pain flared. You hid small grimaces behind sips of coffee and pretended not to notice that your handwriting had gotten sloppier whenever you had to fill something out fast. Once, in the supply room, you pressed the heel of your hand against your sternum and squeezed your eyes shut until the burning sensation eased enough for you to breathe through it. Then you went right back out.
There were people who needed help. There were always people who needed help. And that mattered more. It had to.
Late in the shift, after the waiting room had thinned a little and the overhead noise had dipped from unbearable to merely relentless, you found yourself in room twelve with an older woman who had come in short of breath and scared. Nothing dramatic, just frightened enough that she kept apologizing for being frightened, which always made you want to be gentler than usual. You adjusted her blanket, checked the line in her arm, and reached to silence the IV pump when it began its shrill complaint. The button was small, stiff, irritatingly resistant under your fingertip.
You pressed harder. Pain shot through your wrist so sharply that your hand jerked.
The woman noticed. “Honey, are you alright?”
You smiled automatically, the kind of smile that made strangers feel reassured and bought you enough time to hide almost anything. “I’m fine. Machine and I are having a disagreement.”
She smiled back, but her eyes stayed on your hand. Older patients noticed things. They had seen too much life not to. When you left the room, you curled your fingers into your palm and found you could not make a full fist. For one awful second, fear opened beneath your ribs.
Not dramatic fear. Not catastrophe. Just something colder and quieter. The kind that whispered maybe this is not temporary. Maybe this is not a phase. Maybe this is the beginning of something being taken from you. You stood there in the hallway with call lights flashing in your peripheral vision and people moving around you and that ugly thought taking shape in the center of your chest, and you hated how quickly your mind went there. Not to surgery. Not to treatment. Not to rest. Straight to loss.
Because if you stopped, even for a little while, who were you?
The answer should have been easy. A woman. A doctor. A friend. A partner. A person with a whole life outside these walls, however neglected it sometimes was. But that was not how it felt.
It felt like the ER was the truest thing about you. It felt like the part of you that knew how to move, how to decide, how to help, how to matter, only fully existed here. Outside of work, you could be restless, tired, half-present, your mind always snagging back toward the hospital. Here, in this fluorescent chaos, there was no confusion. There was purpose. There was proof.
You were good at this. You were needed. What happened if you could not do it?
“What happened to your hand?”
The voice behind you was so sudden and so close that you flinched before you could stop yourself. You turned and found Robby standing there with two cups of coffee in his hands and a look on his face that told you he had seen more than you wanted him to.
“Nothing happened to my hand,” you said.
He held one cup toward you. “Take it.”
You reached automatically with your right hand, and pain knifed up your wrist hard enough that your fingers opened before they had even properly closed around the cup. You caught yourself and switched hands so quickly most people would have missed it. Robby did not miss it.
His expression changed at once, all the softness gone from around his eyes. “How long?”
You took the coffee anyway because refusing would have been suspicious, then immediately regretted the heat against your palm. “Do not do that.”
“Do not do what?”
“You know exactly what. The voice.”
“The voice.”
“The one you get when you’ve decided I’ve done something wrong and now I’m on trial.”
He stared at you for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, but the edge in him did not leave. “How long has your hand been bothering you?”
You looked away first, toward the nurses’ station, toward the board, toward literally anything else. “It’s not a big deal.”
“That was not my question.”
“It’s sore.”
“Sore.”
“Yes.”
“You almost dropped equipment earlier, you’ve been compensating all day, and you just failed to hold a cup of coffee. That is not sore.”
The last sentence came out low and controlled, which somehow made it worse. If he had snapped, you could have snapped back. But this version of Robby, the tightly reined-in one, the one trying very hard not to show exactly how concerned he was, was harder to fight.
You lifted your chin. “I said I’m handling it.”
“And I’m saying you’re not.”
Something in his face had sharpened now, not just concern but anger, fear threaded through it so tightly they were almost indistinguishable. Your own irritation rose to meet it, hot and immediate, because fear was one thing, but being cornered when you were already exhausted and hurting and trying to keep yourself together was another.
“You do not get to come over here and decide that for me.”
“No,” he said, stepping a little closer, his voice dropping even further, “I get to say something when the person I love is injuring herself right in front of me and pretending it’s fine.”
The words landed hard, not because of the love, that was old and steady and known, but because of the injuring. Because he said it like a fact. Because some part of you knew he was right. Your throat tightened around an answer you did not want to give.
A monitor alarm sounded somewhere behind you. Someone called for transport. A patient laughed too loudly down the hall. Life in the ER moved on, indifferent and relentless, while the two of you stood in the middle of it like the world had narrowed to one painful little secret finally dragged halfway into the light.
You swallowed. “It’s just numb sometimes.”
His jaw flexed.
“And it hurts,” you added, because at this point pretending otherwise felt stupid. “At night. And when I’m typing. And occasionally when I’m doing anything else with my hand.”
“Occasionally.”
You glared. “Do not be an asshole.”
“Then stop giving me answers that sound like you think I’m one.”
That stung because it was unfairly close to true. You looked down at your coffee, at the slight tremor in your left hand now from sheer fatigue, and said nothing.
Robby’s voice changed when he spoke again, some of the steel giving way. “Have you seen anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you even worn a brace?”
“Sometimes.” His silence was eloquent enough that you rolled your eyes and muttered, “Fine. Once or twice.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You bristled immediately. “Do not do that either.”
“Do not do what.”
“Act like I’m being insane for not wanting to be benched.”
His face went still at that. “That’s what this is about.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “What else would it be about?”
He did not answer right away, and that only made your chest hurt worse, because if he had answered quickly maybe this would have stayed an argument about medicine, about risk, about treatment, but the quiet meant he had already found the deeper bruise and was deciding whether to press it. You beat him to it.
“If I say something, they pull me back. Light duty if I’m lucky. Off entirely if I’m not. And then what?” Your voice stayed low, but only barely. “I sit at home and what, Robby? Rest? Heal? Lose my mind? Watch everyone else do the work while I ice my wrist and pretend I’m fine with it?”
His gaze did not leave your face. “That is not what I’m asking.”
“It’s what happens.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know enough.”
Something flickered in his expression then, and for just a second you thought he might reach for you. Instead he stayed where he was, too controlled, too careful, which hurt in its own way.
“You should have told me,” he said.
And there it was, beneath the irritation and the medical concern and the fear. Not just that you were hurt. That you had hidden it from him. Your eyes burned unexpectedly. You hated that. Hated that your body would betray you in more ways than one today.
“I know,” you said, quieter now. “I just… did not want this to become real.”
Robby looked at you for a long moment, the anger in him still there but altered now, deepened by something sadder. Before he could answer, Dana’s voice rang from across the station.
“Need one of you in room four, now.”
The spell broke. You both looked over automatically. The moment folded itself back up, unfinished and tense.
Robby held your gaze for one beat longer. “We are not done with this.”
You wanted to tell him not to start something he could not finish in the middle of a shift. You wanted to tell him he was overreacting. You wanted to tell him to mind his own business and stop looking at you like you were already halfway broken.
Instead you set the untouched coffee down on the counter because suddenly the idea of holding it made your hand ache all over again, and you said, “Then keep up.”
You turned and headed for room four before he could see how badly your fingers had started to shake. But even as you pushed through the door and stepped back into the familiar rush of need and noise and purpose, the conversation stayed lodged beneath your skin, heavy and impossible to ignore, because for the first time since this had started, it no longer felt like a private problem you could outwork.
It felt like the beginning of being found out. And worse than that, as you reached for the bedrail and felt that awful numbness bloom through your palm again, it felt like the beginning of something you might not be able to hide from much longer.
******
The shift did not slow down for you, which in any other circumstance would have been a blessing, because constant motion meant less thinking and less thinking meant fewer opportunities for fear to take root, but now it only made everything sharper, because every task demanded your hands and every demand became a quiet test you were steadily starting to fail. You moved from room to room with the same practiced efficiency, your voice steady, your decisions clean, your presence reassuring, but beneath all of it there was a growing fracture, something small and insistent that kept catching on the edges of your focus, because your right hand no longer felt like something you could rely on and that was not a small thing in a place like this.
Room four was a middle-aged man clutching his abdomen, pale and sweating, pain radiating across his face in tight lines as he tried not to groan in front of you, and you stepped in beside Dana while she hooked him up to monitors and you began your assessment, your questions automatic, your tone calm, your mind already moving through differential diagnoses. Appendicitis. Pancreatitis. Something vascular if you were unlucky. You reached for his wrist to check his pulse and felt it immediately, that horrible dull disconnect between your brain and your fingertips, like the sensation was arriving a second too late, like your hand belonged to someone else and you were borrowing it without permission. You pressed harder.
“Easy,” the patient said, wincing.
“Sorry,” you murmured, adjusting without drawing attention, shifting to your left hand for the rest of the exam, compensating so smoothly it would have been impressive if it were not born out of necessity.
You ordered labs, imaging, pain control, your voice steady even as your right hand hovered uselessly at your side for a moment before you forced it back into action, reaching for the tablet to input orders. The screen felt slick beneath your fingers, your grip uncertain, your thumb tingling so aggressively you almost dropped the device when it slipped against your palm. You caught it at the last second with your left hand and kept going like nothing had happened.
Because nothing had happened. Because nothing could happen. Because you refused to let it.
“You’re favoring it.”
You did not look up this time. You did not need to. Robby’s voice had that same controlled edge it had carried earlier, the one that meant he was watching too closely and seeing too much. You tapped in the last of the orders and handed the tablet off to Dana before answering.
“I’m adapting.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re very repetitive today.”
“And you’re being deliberately obtuse.”
That earned him a look, sharp and quick, but there was no time to dig into it because the patient groaned again and you shifted your attention back, pushing everything else aside the way you always did when someone needed you. Pain control was given, labs drawn, imaging ordered, the rhythm of care moving forward, and for a few minutes you managed to forget your own body again. Until you did not.
The next case came in fast and messy, a construction worker with a deep laceration along his forearm, blood soaking through a makeshift bandage, his coworkers hovering just outside the curtain with wide eyes and dirt-streaked faces. You stepped in without hesitation, snapping on gloves, your focus narrowing to the wound, to the bleeding, to the repair that needed to happen quickly and cleanly.
“I’ll take this,” you said, already reaching for supplies.
Robby was there again, closer now, his presence steady and unavoidable. “I’ve got it.”
“I said I’ve got it.”
Your tone came out sharper than intended, and for a second his eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable passing through them before he stepped back just enough to let you proceed.
“Fine,” he said, but the word carried warning.
You ignored it. You always ignored it when it came to your work. The laceration was deep but clean, a straightforward repair if you did not think about the way your fingers felt like they were wrapped in gauze. You irrigated, assessed, prepped, your movements precise out of sheer habit, your left hand doing more of the work than usual while your right tried to keep up. You picked up the needle driver and adjusted your grip, willing your fingers to cooperate, willing sensation back into them through sheer stubbornness.
“Local’s on board,” Dana said.
“Good,” you answered, positioning the patient’s arm, focusing, breathing, finding that familiar stillness that usually came so easily.
You placed the first stitch. It held. The second followed. Then, halfway through the third, your hand faltered.
It was small. Anyone else might not have noticed. Your grip slipped just enough that the needle angle went off, your fingers failing to close properly around the instrument, the movement jerking instead of gliding. You corrected immediately, but not before the patient flinched and hissed in pain.
“Sorry,” you said automatically, but your voice had changed, tightened at the edges.
“Hey,” the patient said, trying to laugh it off, “you good, doc?”
“I’m fine,” you answered, because of course you did.
Across from you, Robby went very still. You felt it more than saw it, that shift in the air, the way his attention locked onto your hands with a precision that made your pulse spike. You forced your focus back to the wound, adjusted your grip again, and continued, each stitch becoming a deliberate act of will, your right hand lagging just enough behind your intent to make every movement feel like you were working through resistance.
You finished. You dressed the wound, gave instructions, reassured the patient, and stepped back, peeling off your gloves with your left hand while your right hand throbbed so hard you could feel it up your arm.
“Nice work,” Dana said, already moving to clean up.
“Thanks,” you replied, too quickly.
“Hey.”
The word came from just behind you, low and sharp.
You closed your eyes for half a second before turning. Robby was standing there with that same look from earlier, only now it had hardened into something less patient, something closer to anger, and beneath it something worse, something that looked a lot like fear.
“Come with me,” he said.
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re done.”
“I have two more patients—”
“You’re done,” he repeated, and there was no room for argument in it now.
You laughed once, short and humorless. “You don’t get to bench me in the middle of a shift because I missed one stitch.”
“That is not what just happened and you know it.”
“I corrected it.”
“That is not the point.”
“Everything is the point when you’re trying to keep people from bleeding out, Robby, so maybe—”
“Enough.” The word cut through you. “Come with me.”
He did not take you far, which somehow made it worse, because stepping off the floor did not feel like leaving so much as being placed just outside of it, close enough to still hear the monitors and the overhead pages and the constant hum of motion that had always anchored you, but far enough that you were no longer part of it, and that separation pressed against your chest in a way that made it hard to breathe. The consult room door shut behind you with a soft click that sounded far too final.
You turned on him immediately. “You cannot do that.”
“I just did.”
“You cannot pull me in the middle of a shift because of—this,” you said, lifting your right hand slightly like you could minimize it by reducing it to a gesture.
“Because of an injury that is actively interfering with your ability to do your job,” he corrected, his voice even, controlled, but no longer restrained the way it had been out there, because now there was no one to overhear and no reason for him to hold anything back.
“It is not interfering,” you shot back, too fast, too defensive.
“It is,” he said, and there was no hesitation in it, no room for interpretation, just a flat, grounded certainty that made your stomach twist. “I watched it happen.”
“I fixed it.”
“That does not make it okay.”
“It makes it handled.”
“It makes it lucky.”
The word hit like a slap.
You stared at him, something hot and immediate flaring up in your chest. “You do not get to call my work luck.”
“I’m not calling your work luck,” he said, and now there was an edge creeping into his tone, something sharper, something closer to the anger you had been expecting since the hallway. “I’m calling the fact that you didn’t hurt someone this time luck.”
The room went still. For a second, you thought you had misheard him, that your brain had twisted his words into something harsher than he meant, because Robby did not say things like that to you, not like this, not without cushioning the blow, not without acknowledging what you were capable of first. But he held your gaze without flinching, and that told you everything.
“You think I’m going to hurt someone,” you said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended.
“I think you’re already not practicing at your full capacity,” he answered, just as quietly, and somehow that was worse.
Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
“I’ve worked through worse than this.”
“I know,” he said, and there it was, that small shift, that acknowledgment, but it did not soften what followed. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“It makes it reality.”
“It makes it a pattern.”
You let out a humorless laugh and dragged a hand through your hair with your left hand, because your right had started to ache again and you refused to give it the satisfaction of being noticed.
“So what, I just stop? That’s your solution? I walk out there and tell them I can’t do my job because my hand tingles and hurts sometimes?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
The simplicity of it made you want to scream.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am completely serious.”
“That is not how this works.”
“That is exactly how this works when you are injured.”
“I am not injured.”
His jaw flexed. “Do not do that.”
“Do not do what.”
“Do not stand here and pretend this is nothing when I just watched your hand fail you in the middle of a procedure.”
“There it is again,” you snapped, the words hitting that same raw place as before. “Fail. You keep using that word like I dropped the patient on the floor.”
“I’m using that word because your hand did not do what you needed it to do,” he shot back, the control in his voice starting to crack now, frustration bleeding through. “That is the definition of failure in this context.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you are being reckless.”
The word landed hard, heavy with implication, and something inside you snapped.
“I am not reckless,” you said, your voice rising despite yourself. “I am showing up and doing my job like I always do.”
“You are pushing through an injury because you are too scared to admit you might need to step back for five minutes.”
“I am not scared,” you fired back, even as your chest tightened around the lie.
“Yes, you are,” he said, and now there was no hesitation at all, no softening, just a direct hit that landed squarely in the center of everything you had been trying not to name. “You are terrified of what happens if you are not here.”
The words hung there, heavy and unavoidable.
You shook your head immediately, but it felt weak, unconvincing even to yourself. “That’s not—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer now, not aggressive, but intent, like he needed you to hear this whether you wanted to or not. “You’re not just ignoring the pain because you think it’ll go away. You’re ignoring it because if you acknowledge it, you have to deal with it, and dealing with it might mean stepping off the floor, and stepping off the floor feels like losing something you don’t think you can afford to lose.”
Your throat tightened.
“Stop,” you said, softer now, because he was getting too close, because he was saying things you had barely let yourself think, let alone say out loud.
“No,” he said, just as soft, but unyielding. “Not this time.”
You looked away, toward the closed door, toward the faint sounds of the ER bleeding through it, toward the place that had always made everything simpler. “You don’t get it.”
His voice changed then, not louder, not harsher, but deeper, weighted with something that made you turn back despite yourself. “Don’t I.”
The question was quiet, but it carried something real, something grounded in his own experience, in his own long, complicated relationship with this job, with this place, with the way it could become the axis your entire identity spun around without you even realizing it.
“You think I don’t know what it feels like to only feel like yourself in there,” he continued, gesturing toward the door. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to walk out of here and feel… off, like something is missing, like you’re not quite right unless you’re in the middle of it.”
You swallowed hard.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong for feeling that,” he went on, his voice steady now, the anger giving way to something more grounded, more honest. “I’m saying you’re wrong for letting it push you into hurting yourself.”
“I’m not hurting myself,” you said, but there was no heat behind it now, just a tired sort of resistance.
“You are,” he said, softer still. “You’re just doing it slowly enough that you can pretend it doesn’t count.”
That landed deeper than anything else he had said so far, because it did not accuse, it did not push, it simply stated something that felt uncomfortably close to the truth.
You sank back against the edge of the desk behind you, suddenly aware of how tired you were, how much your hand hurt, how hard you had been pushing just to keep up.
“If I stop, even for a little while… I don’t know what I am without this,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
The room went quiet. Robby did not respond immediately, and that silence felt different from the others, not tense, not charged, just… present, like he was giving the words space to exist.
“Baby.”
The word was heartbreaking for you to hear. Right now. In the place you both work. You hated how it snapped you back.
“You’re done.” Robby sighed. “Give Dana your patients and you need to go home.”
“Robby wait,” you panicked.
“Don’t make me force you.”
******
You found Dana at the station halfway through updating the board, her pen moving fast and precise as she toggled between patients, and for a second you just stood there watching her, watching the ease of it, the normalcy, the way she existed inside the rhythm of the shift without thinking twice about it, and the realization hit you all over again that you were about to step out of that rhythm, that you were about to remove yourself from the place that made everything inside you feel aligned. It felt like peeling off your own skin.
“Hey,” she said without looking up. “Room four’s labs are back, I was about to—” She glanced over, finally registering your expression, and paused. “What’s wrong.”
You swallowed, suddenly unsure of how to say this out loud without it sounding like something bigger than you could control. “I need you to take my patients.”
Her brows pulled together immediately. “Why.”
You hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, and that was all it took for her to clock that this was not a casual ask.
“Hey,” she said again, softer now, setting the pen down fully. “What’s going on.”
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to say it cleanly. “My hand’s not right. It’s been off for a while and it’s… getting worse.”
Her eyes dropped immediately to your right hand, and you hated how instinctive that was, how quickly everyone’s focus went there once you acknowledged it.
“Carpal tunnel?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
“And you’ve been working through it,” she said, not quite a question.
You gave a small, tight nod.
Dana’s mouth pressed into a thin line, not judgmental, but not impressed either. “Of course you have.”
“Don’t,” you muttered.
“I’m not,” she said, lifting a hand slightly. “I’m just… not surprised.”
There was a beat of silence, then she nodded once, decision made. “Okay. I’ve got your people. Give me the rundown.”
Relief hit you so abruptly it almost made your knees weak, because this was the part you had been bracing for, the pushback, the questions, the subtle resentment that came when someone had to absorb your workload mid-shift, but it wasn’t there. Dana just adjusted, like she always did, like the team always did when something mattered. You moved through your patients one by one, your voice slipping easily back into that familiar cadence, concise and efficient, your brain still sharp even if your body was not cooperating. Room four pending CT, watch for vitals, possible surgical consult. Room nine psych hold, stable but agitated, security aware. Twelve shortness of breath, improving with treatment, awaiting labs. You handed it all over piece by piece, and with each name, each detail, it felt like you were placing small parts of yourself into someone else’s hands.
“You good?” Dana asked when you finished, her tone softer now.
You forced a small smile. “Define good.”
She huffed quietly. “Fair.”
You nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll… get it checked out.”
“Good,” she said, and there was no hesitation in it. “Before you actually drop something important and make me say I told you so.”
You rolled your eyes, but it lacked its usual bite. “You’re going to say that anyway.”
“Absolutely,” she said without missing a beat, then reached out and squeezed your shoulder once, quick and grounding. “Go.”
You lingered for half a second longer, your eyes flicking over the board, the rooms, the movement, committing it to memory in a way that felt unnecessary and yet completely instinctive, because some part of you still did not trust that you would be back exactly the same.
Then you turned. Walking away felt wrong in a way you could not quite articulate, your steps slower than usual as you moved down the hallway, past the rooms, past the nurses, past the controlled chaos that had always pulled you forward instead of pushing you out. A couple of people glanced your way, some offering quick nods, one or two asking if you were heading out early, and you gave vague answers, deflecting without thinking, because you were not ready for this to become a conversation.
You could still hear everything. The monitors. The voices. The rhythm. It followed you all the way to the locker room, where the door closed behind you with a heavier sound than the consult room had, more final, more isolating.
The quiet hit you immediately. You stood there for a moment, staring at your locker, your reflection faint in the metal, your right hand hanging at your side, still and uncooperative. Then the adrenaline finally let go. The exhaustion came first, heavy and immediate, like someone had pulled the foundation out from under you and your body was just now realizing how much it had been holding up. Your shoulders sagged, your head dropping forward slightly as you exhaled, long and unsteady.
“This is stupid,” you muttered under your breath, though you were not entirely sure what you were referring to anymore.
Your hand throbbed in response. You reached for your locker with your left hand, fumbled slightly with the handle, then got it open and leaned your forehead briefly against the cool metal inside, your eyes closing for just a second longer than you meant to.
You were fine. You were going to be fine. This was temporary. It had to be. The door behind you opened quietly, and you did not need to turn to know who it was.
Robby stepped in, letting the door fall shut behind him, and for once he did not say anything right away. He just watched you for a second, taking in the way you were standing there, the way the fight had drained out of you now that the shift was no longer holding you upright.
“You told Dana,” he said finally.
“Yeah.”
“How’d that go.”
“She didn’t fire me on the spot,” you said, your voice dry but tired.
A faint hint of a smile touched his mouth, but it faded quickly. “Good.”
Silence settled between you again, but this time it was quieter, less charged, more… real. You pushed away from the locker and turned to face him, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, more for comfort than defense. “You didn’t have to come back here.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you.”
He looked at you for a moment, like the answer should have been obvious. “Because you just walked out of a shift you didn’t want to leave, and I wasn’t going to let you do that alone.”
Something in your chest twisted at that, sharp and unexpected.
“I wasn’t alone,” you said, softer now.
“You were,” he replied gently. “At least in your head.”
You let out a quiet breath, your gaze dropping to the floor for a second before lifting back to him. “This feels… wrong.”
“I know.”
“It feels like I’m quitting.”
“You’re not.”
“It feels like it.”
He stepped a little closer, not crowding you, just enough to close the distance slightly. “You’re taking care of something that needs to be taken care of.”
“By not doing the thing I’m supposed to be doing.”
“By making sure you can keep doing it later,” he corrected.
You shook your head, a small, frustrated movement. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple,” he said. “It’s just necessary.”
You huffed out a breath, your shoulders dropping again as the last of your resistance started to wear thin. “I hate necessary.”
“I know.”
“I hate that you were right.”
“I know.”
You shot him a look. “You’re enjoying that part a little too much.”
“Only a little,” he admitted, and that almost made you smile despite everything.
The moment softened, just a fraction. Then your hand pulsed again, sharp and insistent, and you winced before you could stop yourself.
Robby’s gaze dropped to it immediately. “Let me see.”
You hesitated, then sighed and held it out, because at this point there was no point in pretending anymore. He took it more carefully this time, his touch lighter, his thumb brushing gently along your palm and wrist, assessing without pressing too hard.
“You need to get this looked at,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“Soon.”
“I know.”
He looked up at you, his eyes steady. “I mean it.”
“So do I.”
There was a beat of silence, then he nodded once, satisfied enough for now.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”
You blinked. “You don’t have to walk me out.”
“I know.”
“You’re still on shift.”
“I am.”
“And you’re leaving the floor.”
“For five minutes,” he said, like it was nothing. “They’ll survive.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again, because you did not have the energy, because part of you did not want to fight him on this, because part of you was very aware of how much easier it felt not to do this entirely alone.
“Okay,” you said finally.
The doors had barely shut behind you when the quiet settled too heavily, too quickly, and you stopped on the sidewalk like your body had hit a wall your mind hadn’t caught up to yet, your breath coming out uneven as you stared out at the parking lot without really seeing it, your right hand throbbing in that steady, insistent rhythm that now felt less like pain and more like a warning you had ignored for far too long. Robby noticed immediately. He always did.
“Hey,” he said, softer this time, stepping just in front of you, not blocking you, not trapping you, just… there, grounding, steady in a way that made it impossible to keep pretending you were fine.
You let out a breath that shook more than you wanted it to. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“No,” you said, your voice tightening as something deeper pushed up, something you had been holding back all day, all week, longer than that if you were being honest. “I hate how fast it happened. I hate that I didn’t see it sooner. I hate that I let it get this bad.”
“That’s not what matters right now.”
“It does to me,” you snapped, the frustration breaking through, sharp and raw. “Because I should have caught it. I should have handled it before it got to the point where you had to pull me off the floor like I couldn’t be trusted to do my job.”
His expression shifted immediately, something firm and unyielding settling into place. “That’s not what happened.”
“It felt like it.”
“That doesn’t make it true.”
You laughed once, bitter and quiet. “You literally said I wasn’t safe.”
“I said you weren’t at your full capacity,” he corrected, his voice steady but not backing down. “There’s a difference.”
“Not in that moment there wasn’t.”
“There is now,” he said, stepping closer, just enough that you had to look at him instead of past him. “You didn’t hurt anyone. You didn’t make some catastrophic mistake. You hit a limit your body set for you, and instead of ignoring it completely, you listened when it mattered.”
“I didn’t listen,” you said, your throat tightening. “You made me.”
“I pushed you,” he said quietly. “You chose to stop.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come, because some part of you knew he was right, even if you didn’t like how it felt.
Your shoulders dropped slightly, the fight draining out of you in uneven pieces. “It doesn’t feel like a choice.”
“It never does when it’s something you don’t want.”
Silence stretched between you, the kind that wasn’t empty but heavy with everything still unsaid.
You looked down at your hand again, flexing your fingers slowly, watching the hesitation in the movement, the way it no longer felt automatic, and your chest tightened all over again.
“What if this is worse than I think,” you said, quieter now, more honest than before.
Robby didn’t hesitate this time either.
“Then we deal with it,” he said.
“And if dealing with it means surgery.”
“Then you get surgery.”
“And if that means I’m out for weeks.”
“Then you’re out for weeks.”
“And if I come back and it’s not the same.”
That one hung there longer. Because that was the real fear. Not the time off. Not the pain. Not even the unknown. Losing the part of yourself that made you you.
Robby stepped closer again, this time closing the space fully, his hand coming up carefully, deliberately, to rest lightly against your jaw, guiding your gaze back to his when you tried to look away.
“Then we figure out what that looks like,” he said, his voice lower now, steadier, something solid you could lean on even if you didn’t want to. “But you don’t get to decide that outcome before you even try to fix what’s wrong.”
Your eyes burned.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” you admitted, the words breaking out of you before you could stop them.
His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek, grounding, gentle. “You don’t have to be anything else.”
“Then what am I if I’m not here,” you asked, your voice cracking just slightly.
His answer came without hesitation.
“You’re still the person who walks into a room and makes people feel like they’re going to be okay,” he said. “You’re still the one who stays when things get hard, who doesn’t look away, who cares more than is probably healthy half the time. That doesn’t disappear because you take a few weeks to fix your hand.”
Your breath hitched.
“That’s not tied to the building,” he continued, softer now. “That’s you.”
The words landed somewhere deep, somewhere you had been guarding without even realizing it, and for the first time since this started, something inside you shifted, not fixed, not resolved, but… loosened.
You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping as the tension finally started to give way. “You’re really annoying when you’re right.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ve been told that.”
You shook your head, but there was no real heat behind it now, just exhaustion and something softer threading through it.
“Okay,” you said again, quieter this time, but steadier. “I’ll go get it checked. For real.”
He studied your face for a second, like he was making sure you meant it, then nodded once. “Good.”
“And if they say I need surgery…” you trailed off.
“We’ll handle it,” he said.
“We,” you repeated, softer.
“We,” he confirmed.
You swallowed, then nodded once, more to yourself than to him, because this part mattered, because saying it out loud made it real in a way nothing else had.
“Okay.”
He let his hand fall from your face, but he didn’t step away, didn’t create distance, just stayed there beside you, close enough that you could feel it without being overwhelmed by it.
“Come on,” he said after a moment, his tone gentler now. “I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he cut in lightly. “I want to.”
You hesitated for half a second, then nodded, because for once, letting someone take care of you didn’t feel like giving something up. It just felt… necessary. And as you walked with him toward the parking lot, your right hand still aching, your future still uncertain, something inside you finally settled into place.
Not fixed. Not resolved. But decided. You were going to deal with this. Even if it scared the hell out of you.
******
The appointment made it real in a way nothing else had, not the pain, not Robby’s voice in that quiet room, not even the moment your hand had refused to close properly in front of him, because this came with fluorescent lights and a specialist who did not know you beyond your chart and a series of tests that reduced everything you were feeling into measurable responses you could not argue your way out of. You sat on the edge of the exam table while the physician ran through the motions, tapping along your wrist, pressing into your palm, asking you to describe sensations you had spent weeks minimizing, and when he had you hold your hands out in front of you and close your eyes, you already knew before he said it out loud that this was not going to be a “rest and brace” conversation.
“Moderate to severe compression,” he said, glancing at the nerve conduction results like he was confirming something expected rather than delivering something life-altering. “You’ve likely been compensating for a while.”
You huffed out a humorless breath. “That obvious.”
“It usually is by the time people come in,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’re past the point where conservative management is going to be effective long-term.”
The words settled heavy.
“So what does that mean,” you asked, though you already knew.
“It means we can try to manage symptoms temporarily,” he said, “but if you want full function back and to prevent permanent nerve damage, surgery is the recommendation.”
There it was. Simple. Clinical. Unavoidable.
You nodded once, your throat tight, your right hand resting in your lap like something separate from you now, something that had betrayed you in a way you were not quite ready to forgive. “How long?”
“Procedure itself is straightforward,” he answered. “Outpatient. Recovery varies, but you’re looking at several weeks before you’re back to full strength. Light use earlier than that, but no strain.”
Several weeks. Your chest tightened.
“Okay,” you said, because there was nothing else to say.
The rest of the appointment passed in a blur of scheduling and instructions and paperwork you signed with your left hand, your handwriting uneven and unfamiliar, and by the time you walked out into the hallway, the weight of it had settled fully into your bones.
Surgery. Time off. No ER. You leaned back against the wall for a second, closing your eyes, just breathing.
“You okay?” Robby’s voice came from your right, close but not intrusive, and you opened your eyes to find him leaning against the wall beside you, arms crossed loosely, his expression calm but watching you carefully like he had been since the moment you agreed to come here.
“Define okay,” you said, because that seemed to be your default answer now.
He gave a faint, understanding exhale. “What’d they say?”
You looked down at your hand again, flexed your fingers slowly, felt the familiar lag in response, the dull ache underneath it. “Surgery.”
His jaw tightened just slightly, but he didn’t look surprised. “Alright.”
“Alright,” you echoed, the word feeling too small for what it represented.
“When?”
“Soon,” you said. “They want to schedule it within the next week or two.”
He nodded once, processing, already moving into that quiet, practical space he slipped into when something mattered. “Okay.”
You let out a breath that felt heavier than the last. “That’s it. That’s the plan. I go in, they fix it, I sit around doing nothing for a few weeks, and then I come back like none of this happened.”
There was an edge to it, something brittle you couldn’t quite smooth out.
Robby tilted his head slightly. “You’re not going to sit around doing nothing.”
“Oh no,” you said dryly. “I’m going to sit around thinking about how I’m not at work. Much better.”
A small flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it faded quickly. “We’ll figure that part out.”
“You keep saying we like you’re the one getting surgery.”
His gaze held yours, steady, unwavering. “You’re not doing this alone.”
The words landed differently now, less like reassurance and more like something solid you could actually hold onto.
You looked away first, nodding once. “Yeah.”
There was a beat of silence, then he pushed off the wall. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“You have a shift to finish.”
“I have coverage,” he said simply.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
You let out a small breath, too tired to argue, too aware of how much you didn’t want to go sit in your apartment alone with this. “Okay.”
The days leading up to the surgery passed in a strange, suspended sort of time, where everything felt both too fast and too slow all at once, your world shrinking from the controlled chaos of the ER to the quiet, too-quiet rhythm of your apartment, where the absence of noise made every thought louder. You tried to fill the time, reading, cleaning, reorganizing things that did not need to be reorganized, anything to avoid sitting still long enough to let your mind spiral into worst-case scenarios, but it always found its way there eventually.
What if it didn’t work? What if you lost strength? What if you couldn’t come back the same? What if you weren’t enough without this.
Robby showed up often, sometimes with food, sometimes with nothing but his presence, and he never pushed too hard, never tried to force you into conversations you weren’t ready to have, but he didn’t let you disappear into your head either. He would sit beside you on the couch, his shoulder brushing yours, or pull you into something small and grounding like watching a game or arguing over takeout options, and somehow those normal, unremarkable moments became the things that kept you steady.
******
The night before the surgery, the fear finally caught up with you. It wasn’t dramatic at first, just a quiet unease that settled in your chest as you sat on your couch, your right hand resting in your lap, your mind running through everything that could go wrong in a loop you couldn’t quite shut off. You tried to distract yourself, flipping through channels you weren’t watching, scrolling through your phone with your left hand, but nothing stuck.
“You’re doing it again.”
Robby’s voice cut through the noise gently, and you looked up to find him watching you from the other end of the couch, his expression knowing in a way that made it impossible to pretend.
“Doing what.”
“Spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re thinking about every possible outcome and convincing yourself the worst one is the most likely,” he said, not unkindly.
You sighed, dropping your phone onto the cushion beside you. “I just… I don’t like not knowing.”
“No one does.”
“I especially don’t like not knowing when it’s my body,” you added, your voice tightening slightly.
He shifted closer, not crowding you, just enough to close the space. “You’re going to be okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I know you. And I know you don’t do anything halfway. You’re going to do the surgery, you’re going to do the recovery, and you’re going to come back stronger than you were before.”
You huffed out a small, disbelieving breath. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not easy,” he said. “It’s just… straightforward.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s supposed to be true.”
You looked at him for a moment, something in your chest loosening just slightly. “Stay tonight.”
The words slipped out quieter than you intended, but you didn’t take them back.
His expression softened immediately. “Yeah. I was sort of planning on it.”
You felt an ounce better.
The next morning came too quickly. The hospital felt different when you walked in as a patient, the familiarity warped slightly by the shift in perspective, the sounds the same but your place in them completely changed. You checked in, went through pre-op, answered the same questions you had asked countless patients before, and each step made it more real in a way that settled heavily in your chest.
Robby stayed with you through all of it. He sat beside you while you signed forms with your left hand again, his knee brushing yours, his presence steady and grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed until it was there. When the nurse left you alone for a few minutes, the room felt too quiet again, the anticipation building in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You looked at him, your composure slipping just slightly. “What if I can’t come back the same.”
There it was. The real fear. He didn’t answer immediately, and for a second that scared you more than anything else.
Then he reached for your good hand, lacing his fingers through yours, his grip firm and warm. “Then we figure out what that looks like.”
You swallowed hard. “That’s not a guarantee.”
“No,” he said. “But neither is the alternative.”
You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I know.”
A nurse stepped back in then, all efficiency and calm, letting you know it was time, and suddenly everything sped up again, the quiet replaced with motion, with preparation, with the reality that there was no more time to sit with it. Robby stood when you did, staying close as they prepped you, as they moved you toward the OR doors, and for a second you hesitated, your grip tightening on his hand.
“Hey,” he said, stepping closer.
You looked up at him, your breath catching slightly. “Don’t leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said immediately. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
You nodded, because you believed him, because you needed to. Then they were guiding you away, his hand slipping from yours, the doors opening, the lights bright and sterile and overwhelming for just a second before everything softened, faded, and went quiet.
******
When you woke up, the first thing you felt was disorientation, the kind that made it hard to tell where you were or how much time had passed, your body heavy, your mind slow to catch up. The second thing you felt was your hand, wrapped and sore but… different, the sharp edge of pain replaced by something more controlled, more manageable. And the third thing you noticed was him.
Robby was there, exactly where he said he would be, sitting beside the bed, his elbow on the railing, his hand loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your fingers like he had been doing it long enough for it to become instinct.
“Hey,” he said softly when he saw your eyes open.
Your throat felt dry, your voice rough when you tried to speak. “Hey.”
“How do you feel.”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” you muttered weakly.
A faint smile crossed his face. “That tracks.”
You shifted slightly, wincing as your hand protested, and he adjusted immediately, his grip careful, his movements gentle.
“It’s done,” he said quietly.
You looked down at your hand, at the bandaging, at the reality of it settling in.
“Yeah,” you said, softer now.
There was a pause, then you looked back up at him, something in your chest easing just slightly for the first time in days.
“You stayed.”
“I told you I would.”
You nodded once, your eyes closing briefly as the weight of everything finally started to lift, replaced by something quieter, something steadier. You had done it. You were here. And for the first time since this all started, it didn’t feel like you had lost something. It felt like maybe… you had taken the first step toward getting it back.
******
Recovery did not come in a straight line, which you should have expected and yet still somehow found frustrating, because you were used to effort equaling outcome, used to putting in the work and seeing results in a way that felt immediate and measurable, and this was not that, this was slow and uneven and humbling in a way that stripped you of the illusion that you could simply will your body into cooperating if you pushed hard enough. The first few days were the easiest in a strange way, because there was no expectation beyond rest, no pressure to perform, no internal argument about whether you should be doing more, because you physically couldn’t, your hand wrapped and sore and undeniably out of commission, your world reduced to small movements and careful adjustments and the quiet acknowledgment that you had to let yourself heal.
Robby made that part easier without making it feel like you were being handled, which you appreciated more than you ever would have admitted out loud, because he never hovered in a way that felt suffocating, never took over in a way that made you feel incapable, he just… showed up, consistently, predictably, in the spaces where you needed him most. He brought food without asking what you wanted, because he already knew, he moved things within reach without commenting on why, he learned quickly how to help without making you feel like you were being helped, and when frustration crept in, sharp and sudden, because you couldn’t open a jar or hold something steady or even brush your hair the way you were used to, he met it with quiet patience instead of forced positivity.
“You’re allowed to be annoyed,” he said one afternoon when you huffed under your breath after fumbling with a container you couldn’t quite grip.
“I’m not annoyed,” you muttered, immediately proving his point.
“You are,” he said calmly, stepping in just enough to take the container from you and open it without making a production of it. “And that’s fine.”
“I don’t like needing help for stupid things.”
“It’s not stupid if you can’t do it right now.”
“It is when I could do it two weeks ago without thinking.”
He glanced at you, something understanding flickering across his face. “Two weeks ago you also needed surgery and didn’t want to admit it.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re going to keep bringing that up, aren’t you.”
“Only when it’s relevant,” he said lightly, handing the container back to you once it was open.
Which, you were starting to realize, was often. As the days turned into weeks, the hard part shifted, not the physical healing, though that came with its own challenges, stiffness, soreness, the slow and sometimes frustrating return of strength and sensation, but the mental space around it, the absence of the ER stretching longer than you were comfortable with, the quiet of your apartment no longer novel but heavy, the awareness that life was continuing without you in a place where you had always felt essential.
You missed it. Not in a passing way, not in a casual “I’ll be back soon” sort of way, but in a deep, visceral pull that made your chest ache when you thought about it too long, because that place was not just where you worked, it was where you understood yourself best, and being away from it felt like being slightly out of focus all the time. Robby noticed that too.
“You’re quieter,” he said one evening, watching you from the other end of the couch as you stared absently at the television.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bored.”
“I’m not bored.”
“You’re restless,” he corrected, because he always did that, always cut through the first layer of deflection without making it feel like an attack.
You sighed, shifting slightly, your wrapped hand resting in your lap, fingers flexing slowly as you worked through the exercises you had been given. “I just… I don’t like not being useful.”
His gaze softened, but he didn’t immediately jump in to reassure you, which you appreciated more than if he had.
“You are useful,” he said after a moment.
“Not there,” you replied, and that was the part that mattered.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, considering you. “You know that’s not the only place that counts, right.”
“It’s the place I’m best at.”
“It’s the place you’re trained for,” he said. “It’s not the only place you matter.”
You huffed out a breath, not quite ready to argue, not quite ready to agree. “It feels like it.”
“I know it does,” he said. “That doesn’t make it true.”
There was a pause, the kind that sat somewhere between resistance and reflection, and then you looked down at your hand again, flexing your fingers, noticing for the first time that the movement felt a little easier than it had a few days ago, a little less restricted, a little more… yours.
“That’s better,” he said quietly, tracking the same thing.
You nodded once. “Yeah. A little.”
“That’s progress.”
“It’s slow.”
“It’s still progress.”
You let that sit, the idea of slow being enough, of improvement not needing to be immediate to be real.
“Light duty next week,” you said after a moment, testing the words out loud for the first time.
His head tilted slightly. “How do you feel about that.”
“Like it’s not enough,” you admitted honestly. “But also like it’s better than nothing.”
“That sounds about right.”
You glanced at him. “You’re not going to tell me to wait longer.”
“I’m going to tell you to listen to your body and your doctor,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t know how important going back is for you.”
You studied him for a second, something in your chest easing at the balance of it, the way he didn’t push you too far in either direction.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
Going back felt… strange. Not wrong, not entirely unfamiliar, but different enough that you noticed it in every step, from walking through the doors and hearing the noise hit you all at once, the monitors, the voices, the movement, to seeing the board and the names and realizing you were not immediately diving in the way you always had. You were there, but you were not fully back, not yet, and that distinction settled somewhere deep in your awareness.
“Look who decided to rejoin society,” Dana said as soon as she spotted you, a grin pulling at her mouth.
“Miss me,” you shot back, the familiar rhythm of the banter slipping into place easier than you expected.
“Desperately,” she said dryly. “We’ve been a mess without you.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It should be,” she replied, then her gaze dropped briefly to your hand, her expression softening just a fraction. “How is it.”
“Better,” you said, and for once that didn’t feel like a lie.
“Good,” she said simply, and that was enough.
The shift moved differently for you that day, lighter, more observational, stepping in where you could, stepping back where you had to, your hand still not at full strength but no longer unreliable in the way it had been before. It was an adjustment, one that required patience you weren’t entirely comfortable with, but it wasn’t failure. It was… progression.
Robby found you halfway through the shift, his eyes scanning you the way they always did, quick and assessing, and when they landed on your hand, then your face, something in his expression eased.
“How’s it feel,” he asked.
“Different,” you said.
“Good different or bad different.”
You flexed your fingers once, testing, feeling the slight pull but no sharp pain, no numbness, just something healing. “Good different.”
He nodded once, satisfied, but his gaze lingered a second longer, like he was making sure.
“I’m not pushing it,” you added, preempting the concern.
“I know,” he said, and the trust in that was quiet but solid.
You fell into step beside him as he started walking, your shoulder brushing his lightly, a small, familiar point of contact that grounded you more than you expected.
“I missed this,” you admitted, softer now, not just the work, but the movement, the purpose, the feeling of being exactly where you were supposed to be.
“I know you did.”
There was no judgment in it, no “I told you so,” just understanding. The rest of the shift passed without incident, and by the time you stepped out into the evening air again, the difference from a few weeks ago was impossible to ignore. You were still tired, still healing, still not quite at full capacity, but you were not the same person who had walked out of those doors the first time, shaken and uncertain and afraid of what stepping away meant.
You had stepped away. You had come back. And you were still you. You paused just outside the doors, the realization settling in fully for the first time.
“Hey,” Robby said, stopping beside you.
You turned toward him, something lighter in your chest now, something steadier. “Hey.”
He studied your face for a second, like he was waiting for something, and then a small, knowing smile pulled at his mouth. “You’re okay.”
It wasn’t a question.
You let out a slow breath, nodding once, feeling the truth of it settle in your bones. “Yeah.”
He stepped closer, his hand coming up gently, deliberately, to take yours, careful of the healing, his fingers threading through yours in a way that felt grounding and warm and entirely intentional.
“You’re still you,” he said quietly.
You looked at him, then down at your hand, at the way your fingers closed around his without hesitation this time, without pain, without fear.
“Yeah,” you said again, softer now, but stronger. “I just needed you to remind me.”
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, and for a moment, everything else fell away, the noise, the fear, the uncertainty, replaced by something simpler, something steadier.
You had not lost yourself. You had just been forced to step back long enough to see that you were more than one place, more than one role, more than one version of yourself tied to a single identity. And as you stood there with him, your hand in his, the weight of everything you had been through settling into something solid and real, you realized that coming back did not mean returning to exactly who you were before.
It meant moving forward as something stronger. Something more whole. And for the first time in a long time, that didn’t scare you. It felt right.
******
The first full shift back did not break you, which felt like a victory in a way that was quieter than you expected but no less meaningful, because you had braced yourself for something harder, something sharper, some moment where your hand failed or your confidence cracked and everything came rushing back all at once, but it didn’t happen like that, it came in small tests instead, little moments where you had to trust your body again, where you had to slow down just enough to be deliberate without losing the instinct that made you good at this in the first place, and each time you passed one of those tests, something inside you settled a little more.
You still weren’t pushing it. Robby made sure of that, though not in the way you had expected, not hovering or correcting or stepping in unless you needed him to, but watching, always watching, the same way he always did, only now there was something softer threaded through it, something less about control and more about care. You caught him doing it more than once, his eyes flicking to your hand in the middle of a case, checking without making it obvious, and the first few times it had made you bristle, made you feel like you were being monitored, like you had something to prove, but now it just felt… grounding.
He was paying attention. He had always paid attention. You just noticed it more now. By the time the shift finally slowed, the adrenaline had worn off in that familiar way, leaving you tired but steady, your hand sore in a manageable way that felt like use instead of injury, and you found yourself leaning against the counter near the nurses’ station, rolling your wrist slightly, testing the range, the strength, the quiet return of something that had been missing.
“Don’t get cocky.”
You didn’t even look up. “You say that like I haven’t earned it.”
Robby stepped in beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, his presence slipping into yours like it always had, easy and familiar and somehow more noticeable now that you had spent time without it. “You’ve earned being careful.”
“You’re really going to keep saying that forever, aren’t you.”
“Probably,” he said, not even pretending otherwise.
You huffed out a small laugh, but it didn’t carry the same edge it once had, the frustration softened into something that felt more like… acceptance.
“I didn’t mess up,” you said after a moment, quieter now, not defensive, just stating it.
“No,” he agreed, and there was something in his voice, something steady and sure that made your chest tighten just slightly. “You didn’t.”
You turned your head then, meeting his eyes, and for a second the noise of the ER faded into the background, the movement, the voices, all of it blurring at the edges because of the way he was looking at you, not assessing, not checking, just… seeing you.
“I was right, you know,” you said, because you couldn’t help yourself.
“That’s new,” he replied dryly.
“I can do this.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I never said you couldn’t.”
“You implied it.”
“I said you needed to stop before you made it worse,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
You studied him for a second, something softer threading through your expression now. “You were right too.”
He lifted a brow slightly. “Careful.”
You rolled your eyes, but the small smile that followed gave you away. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
There was a pause then, one that felt different from the others, not filled with tension or argument, but something quieter, something that lingered just beneath the surface, waiting.
“You coming?” he asked after a moment, nodding toward the exit.
“Yeah,” you said, pushing off the counter, your shoulder brushing his again as you fell into step beside him.
The walk out felt different this time. Familiar in a way that settled into your bones instead of pressing against them, the doors opening, the evening air hitting your skin, cool and steady, the world outside the ER no longer feeling like something separate, something you didn’t quite belong in. You stepped out beside him, your hand brushing his lightly before he caught it, his fingers threading through yours without hesitation, careful but firm, like he had learned exactly how to hold you without hurting you.
“You’re quiet,” he said, glancing down at you.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
You bumped your shoulder into his lightly. “Shut up.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, and for a second you just walked like that, side by side, your hand in his, the quiet stretching out in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” you said finally, your voice softer now, more honest than you had been all day.
“The ER,” he said.
You shook your head slightly, your grip on his hand tightening just a fraction. “No. This.”
He looked down at you then, something shifting in his expression, something warmer, something that made your pulse pick up just slightly.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You reached his place without really thinking about it, your feet taking you there out of habit more than intention, and neither of you questioned it, neither of you needed to, because it felt natural, because it had always felt natural, even in the middle of everything that had happened over the past few weeks. The door shut behind you, the quiet settling in, but it didn’t feel heavy this time, it felt… intimate. You dropped your bag onto the chair near the door and turned back toward him, your body still humming faintly from the shift, from the return, from everything that had built up and not quite settled yet.
“You did good today,” he said, his voice low, steady, like he wanted you to hear it clearly.
You shrugged slightly, but there was no deflection in it this time. “So did you.”
“I always do.”
You laughed softly. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
You stepped closer without really thinking about it, drawn in by something you hadn’t let yourself fully feel in the middle of everything else, something that had been sitting just beneath the surface, waiting.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.”
The space between you closed slowly, deliberately, not rushed, not desperate, just… intentional, your hand coming up instinctively, your fingers brushing along the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch, grounding yourself in something that felt real and steady and yours. His hand found your waist just as naturally, firm but careful, pulling you just slightly closer, his eyes flicking to your hand for half a second, checking, always checking, before settling back on your face.
“You good?” he murmured.
You nodded once, your voice softer now. “I’m good.”
That was all it took. He leaned in first, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to, but you didn’t, your breath catching slightly as his lips met yours, warm and familiar and just a little bit overdue, because it had been weeks of tension and worry and restraint, weeks of holding back instead of leaning in, and now that it was there, it felt like everything else fell away.
You kissed him back immediately, your hand tightening slightly at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, your body leaning into his without hesitation, without second-guessing, because you didn’t need to anymore. His grip on your waist deepened, steady and sure, his thumb brushing lightly along your side as he kissed you again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was making up for lost time without rushing through it.
“You’ve been a lot,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with something that made your stomach flip.
You let out a soft laugh, your forehead resting briefly against his. “You love it.”
“I do,” he admitted, not even pretending otherwise.
You kissed him again, softer this time, your hand sliding down to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm, grounding you in a way that nothing else quite did.
For a moment, everything else disappeared. The ER. The injury. The fear. All of it fading into the background, replaced by something simpler, something steadier, something that felt like you. You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath still uneven, your chest rising and falling a little faster than usual.
“I’m okay,” you said again, quieter now, but certain.
He studied your face for a second, like he was making sure, like he needed to see it for himself, then nodded once, his hand coming up to brush lightly along your jaw.
“I know,” he said.
And for the first time since all of this started, you didn’t just say it. You believed it. You were still you. Not despite everything that had happened. Because you had faced it. And as you leaned into him again, your hand steady against his chest, your body relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in weeks, it didn’t feel like you had lost anything at all. It felt like you had found your way back.
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: when the day of your birthday rolls around, no one but you seems to know about it. what you'd hoped would be a good day ends in upset when robby lays into you for making a mistake. come the following afternoon, he & jack are made aware of how they screwed up & make strides to set things right.
♡ content: angst, grumpy!robby, they're both pining for reader as always, mohan is a sweetie, you get (1) sad cupcake
♡ a/n: based off this request. ty!
For some birthdays in the Pitt—given people are aware one is upcoming—a couple balloons and a store-bought cake might be brought into the Employee Lounge for all to enjoy in spare moments between the never-ending flow of emergent patients. Granted, a show isn't exactly made out of the celebration with colorful streamers, decorative party hats, and screeching noise makers, but even so, just the possibility of other people making a grand display out of your "special day" is a horrifying thought.
Being the center of attention for even a moment while someone else lies but a few yards away bleeding from a bullet wound? Couldn't be you.
Nevertheless, you can't help but wish for one holiday—personal or otherwise—where a flower delivery or gift box might be delivered to your place of work with a romantic message attached.
Today is no different in you entertaining such wishful thinking when you come walking through the ED's sliding doors.
There's a pin-up in the Lounge with a long list of everyone's birth dates with balloon clipart placed crookedly at the top, so surely someone will have remembered and gotten you a cheap cupcake, or even just a basic card with a couple signatures scrawled within.
As you take a peek inside while passing by, however, you see nothing of the sort awaiting you. Just an empty table, and counter space full of upside down mugs and a coffee machine—same as ever.
Deflating, you mentally shrug and make your way to your locker. It's better this way. Had anyone remembered—or just known in general—then word would spread like wildfire all the way up to reception, meaning you'd have to awkwardly thank every well wisher who crossed your path for the remainder of your shift.
Saves you the trouble.
You're working up an individual who came in complaining of lower back pain and difficulty urinating—which you've pretty well chalked up to most likely being kidney stones—when Robby raps his knuckles against the propped open door behind you.
Glancing to him over your shoulder, you briefly halt your assessment of your patient. "Yeah?"
He beckons you forth with an index finger. "C'mere, something I need to talk to you about." He feigns a smile for the middle-aged man in front of you and states that you'll be back momentarily.
Following him out, Robby pulls you into an empty room and shuts the door after you've entered.
"Is something wrong?" You ask innocently while gazing up at him with furrowed brows.
"Do you remember the woman from earlier? Mrs. Jacobson?"
You nod.
"She's been up in Plastics waiting for an hour to be seen because her chart was never finished down here."
Your stomach sinks. You'd meant to get to that before being side-tracked by needing to use the restroom, and then there'd been a thing with Whittaker's patient vomiting all over the floor, so you'd fetched housekeeping, and then—
"So imagine my surprise when one of their nurses takes time out of her day to come down asking after it and I find out you've already moved onto another patient."
You open your mouth to reply, until he holds up a palm to stop you.
"You know our protocol," Robby says sternly. "If they're being referred to another floor or physician, you make sure their information is up to date and their chart complete before you begin work on anything else." He takes a small step forward, and you shrink into yourself.
With him towering over you like this, you feel like a child being scolded by its parent after it forgot to do an assigned chore on the daily chart.
"So I trust you have a good reason why you didn't do as much," he states while folding his arms.
You blink back tears. "I—I forgot. I'm so—"
He throws his head back, pinches the bridge of his nose, then returns to his previous stance. "That's no excuse for being neglectful. Gloria is up my ass all day long about patient satisfaction bullshit and now this!"
Your chin wobbles.
"Get back in there," he says while pointing at the wall to the right, where your patient awaits your return on the other side, "Finish up with what you're currently doing, then get both charts done. Understood?"
You nod while sniffling. "Y-Yes."
He rolls his eyes, then steps past you to the door. Once he's opened it and waved you out, you scurry past him in a panic.
You keep your head down for the remainder of the day. Figuratively and literally. You're diligent in your work, and hold your bladder so long at one point—just to get a bit more charting done—that you nearly have an accident in the hallway.
When evening time rolls around and your workday is coming to a close, Robby goes in search of you to apologize for his earlier treatment after his temper has cooled, but when he comes into your line-of-sight, you turn and hurry in the other direction.
Thinking he may be able to catch you outside, he makes for the doors to the ambulance bay and only just catches the sight of you speed-walking past Abbot while mumbling a quick 'Goodnight' before marching on.
"The hell did you do to our girl?" Abbot asks while readjusting the strap of the camo backpack that's slung over his shoulder.
Robby sighs and sinks his hands into the pockets of his coat. "She got behind on a patient's chart who went upstairs and I might've been a little hard on her about it because I was already in a mood. She's been avoiding me all day because of it."
Jack glares at him. "So, in other words, you've been taking frustrations with HR bullshit out on our star pupil?"
He shakes his head and goes to step away.
"Do you want her to leave us for Westbridge?" Jack calls from behind him.
Gritting his teeth and looking skyward, Robby huffs in irritation before turning back on his heel. "She isn't that damn fragile, Jack."
He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. But you get snippy with her again and I'll put her on night shift with me."
Robby curses lowly. "It was one conversation. You don't need to jump to extremes just because you want her all to yourself."
Jack purses his lips and Robby smirks. "Since we both know that that's what this whole conversation is truly about—less her and more you."
Turning his back on him, the vet shoots up a middle finger before hobbling inside.
On the way home, you pick up a small cupcake that's your favorite flavor and decorated with pretty, sparkly swirls of icing on top, as well as a small pack of multi-color birthday candles.
Once you're settled in for the night, you save the sugary treat for dessert after eating a filling dinner.
Sitting in the silence of your apartment, you quietly sing 'Happy birthday to me' before blowing out the singular candle stuck in the middle of your pastry before plucking it out and taking a bite.
Somehow by eating it alone, however, it doesn't taste as good as you'd hoped.
"Oh! Oh, Y/N!" Mohan calls from the nurses station.
You glance up from the manilla folder you're currently carrying to Trauma 4 and meet her smile with a raised brow.
"We're playing this game that involves astrological signs," she explains.
Santos shakes her head. "It's stupid. Trust me, you do not wanna bother."
Whittaker grins. "I dunno, I think it's kinda neat."
"What's yours?" Samira asks.
You clutch the folder to your chest and snicker. "No offense or anything, but I don't believe in all that. I just think the definitions are broad enough that you can make things fit if you really want to."
When you make to step away, she shrugs and begins typing. "Well, I could just pull up your employee profile to figure it out for myself."
Your eyes grow wide when you turn back in her direction. Tripping over your own feet, you stumble over to where she sits. "Oh, no, that's fine! I could just tell you what it is. I'm a—"
"Oh," she says with slight surprise.
"What, is she the crab or whatever?" Trinity asks.
Mohan looks up to you with knitted brows. "Your birthday was yesterday."
You don't see it, but Robby, who's standing a handful of feet behind you reading over an EKG, turns to look in your direction over his glasses.
Jack, who's just exited an exam room, meets his gaze and shakes his head. Not because he's disappointed in Robby per se, but rather the both of them for not knowing, or so much as making an effort to keep such an important date in mind.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Mel questions while walking over.
"I..." You grasp for explanation.
"Yeah, we would've gotten you something," Mohan reassures sweetly.
"Maybe Huckleberry could get you a pumpkin from the farm," Trinity adds sarcastically.
"It's just another day on a calendar," you say quietly. "It isn't important." Just another year spent alone, you think.
Jack's heart shatters for you.
"Well that's depressing," Trin commentates before pushing off the counter and getting back to work.
You swallow thickly while taking a step back. "I'm just gonna—" You wave the folder you currently hold in the air before walking away.
"How did you not know?" Jack questions from beside Robby.
Throwing his glasses down on the surface before him, which his elbows rest upon, he runs his hands down his face. "I had other things on my mind, like taking care of patients. Not cake and balloon animals," he says while clasping his palms together and turning his head in Jack's direction.
Jack crosses his arms. "She got you a gift for yours, or have you already forgotten that fact?"
It'd been simple, but handmade. Which made the item mean even more to him: an embroidered piece. The Shema Prayer in Hebrew. When you found him during PittFest in Peds, you'd heard him reciting it. Had gone so far as to ask quietly about it later.
He cried the night he hung it up in his home because you had cared enough to make such a loving gesture in the first place while the others simply purchased a cheap card from a Hallmark store down the street.
"Of course I remember," he says lowly. "I touch it every night when I get home and every morning before I leave. Because she's the one it came from."
You'd pulled him aside that day—had held the tips of his fingers as you led him into the Lounge before presenting it to him with shaking hands.
"The letters might be a little crooked," you'd explained quietly. "But I did my best."
His eyes had grown glassy as he cradled it between his palms.
"Do... Do you not like it? That day... Maybe I've upset you—"
He'd shook his head while sniffling. And then he'd smiled. "No, sweetheart, it's perfect. Thank you...for being so thoughtful."
It'd felt so right when he pulled you against his chest before wrapping his arms around you.
"Then we need to fix this," Jack retorts.
He nods. "I know."
"Hey, doll," Dana calls to you while adjusting her hair clip.
"Yes?"
"Somebody dropped off some snacks earlier in the Employee Lounge. One of those assorted chip boxes. Go grab ya a couple before everybody else takes 'em."
"Oh. Okay."
Heading in that direction, you secretly hope that there's Cheetos. Or maybe white cheddar popcorn. Classic Lays sounds good, too, though.
Alright, so maybe you're feeling just a bit peckish.
Swinging around the corner and into the aforementioned room, you halt in your tracks. Sitting atop the table that's pushed off to the side is a glass vase filled to the brim with soft pink roses and baby's breath. Clutching it is a fluffy brown teddy bear.
It's not... It's not for you, though. You know that.
Glancing around, you fail to spot the box in question. Maybe it's already been emptied?
Sighing with disappointment, you turn to exit, but are stopped by Robby blocking the doorway. Leaning against it with crossed arms, he smiles warmly at you. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
Your eyes flit between his as a lump develops in your throat. "It... It's for me?"
He nods, then glances to it while jerking his chin in the direction of your gift. "Read the card."
Turning around yet again, you wander over to it and pull the item in question from the cardette.
The day of your birth is more than worth celebrating. Without it, we wouldn't be able to look forward to seeing you every day.
Love, J & R
Tears brim in your eyes and you sniffle quietly. Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you keep hold of the item while repeatedly telling yourself not to cry.
You jump slightly when the chair next to you is pulled out and Jack seats himself heavily upon it. "Do you like it, then?"
You nod and a tear slips down your cheek.
Coming to stand at your side, Robby pulls you against the wealth of his chest just like before, which you snuggle contentedly against, appreciating the softness and warmth it provides.
"I always wanted flowers delivered," you whisper. "On my birthday. Or...Valentine's Day."
Jack's eyes flit to Robby, who smirks and gives him a knowing look. Future plans.
"But never had anyone who'd..." You trail off. "Well, never had anyone."
Jack grabs your hand and tugs you down onto his thigh. "Getting a cake delivered last minute was sort of out of the question, but—"
You shake your head. "I got myself a cupcake last night."
Somehow, that makes the pair of them feel impossibly worse about the whole situation: the thought of you at home having just a singular cupcake on your lonesome. They'll certainly be unlikely to forget your birthday next year, if nothing else.
Running his palm down your back, Jack leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. "Happy birthday, honey."
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: broken & hopeless, you let go of the prospect of living. but like so many others who made a heartbreaking decision in a moment of absolute darkness, your mind changes. when jack tries to save you...will he succeed?
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, depression, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, accidental injury with a scalpel
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty! | i also listened to the song 222 by Vyva Melinkolya ft. Ethel Cain on repeat while writing this & i think it's kinda fitting & makes the work impossibly sadder lol
The at times calamitous ambience of the ED served strictly to unmoor and unsettle you during your first few weeks between its off-white walls. The patients flowed in like a raging river—never-ending, and never a trickle. Instead, a gush. All at once until you were drowning beneath it. When you looked around, however, you took comfort in your fellow fish; you weren't alone, not as long as they swam against the current alongside you.
It'd felt like another world upon a strange planet, in truth. One with much beeping, serving as signals both good and bad as people with do-good hearts raced to save patients from the malicious claws that meant to drag them away from this plane of existence. And there was the awful bright overhead lighting which casted the unthinkable in an eerie glow. Necessary for visibility, but unpleasing to the eye. Some places stock their troffers with bulbs meant to mimic the sun instead, you hear.
That had sounded like a nice idea to you, but something unlikely for PTMC to ever implement. They don't seem to much care for the happiness of their employees.
The thrill of the catch—having an epiphany during an odd case, and grabbing hold of a diagnosis others were so far from discovering, made you feel invincible, and all the trials and tribulations thus well worth it in the end, however. You were saving lives. How many others can say the same about their occupation? Most otherwise work in trade or retail or from cushy corner offices. Which isn't to say that they're not all vital bees in the buzzing hive which is the world, but they're no Michael Robinavitch or Dana Evans or Jack Abbot.
Local rockstars to you they are. Or...were.
That began before long, too: burnout. Your days turning into a monotonous, psychologically draining cycle. No more do you walk out the Pitt's doors and it feels like you're coming back through them again, greeted not by smiles and welcoming sentiments, but by screaming, ungrateful patients who just keep dying.
Covid leveled your world and ripped the rose-colored glasses from your eyes that you once wore so happily. It ingrained such trauma within you that you didn't know where to put it.
There was no time for therapy.
Not that you probably would've gone had there been—making such an appointment was like accepting defeat; admitting that something had gone wrong with you.
That your brain was sick.
You power through the nightmares; the fleeting reminders of things you'd rather forget when a machine beeps a certain way, or an item of PPE flashes in your peripheral as a co-worker pulls it on. It'll move through you eventually, you tell yourself; work its way out of your system just like a virus or a nasty cold.
It won't last forever.
Or...you'd thought as much, anyway.
Lately, for the last few months, things have gotten exceptionally hard. You're both sleeping and not. When you get home, it's all you really want to do. As of late, you forgo dinner in favor of it. The scale in your bathroom reflects this change.
Runway models should really invest in giving healthcare a go for awhile instead of diet pills, you think. It'd work faster.
When you do rest, however, it's fitfully. You toss and turn, toss and turn. No more does your head hit the pillow and it seems like your alarm is screaming at you to get out of bed to get back to it.
You're withdrawn at work. Talking expends energy. Effort, even. Not that you want to conserve it. You just don't much like people anymore.
They've changed. At once they were so friendly. Human beings you liked talking to. Now, you'd rather drink bleach than carry on any sort of conversation at length. The same kind of goes for patients. You've thus been faltering in your bedside manner, and little handout review sheets reflect it. Something new enacted by those at the top of the hospital.
There's no thanks for the good you do, only chastisement for the bad. Bad, bad, bad. That's what you are.
You think maybe others can see it: this grotesque thing that's broken inside of you. You can't fix it. Not when you're not wholly sure what it is. Just...a part that can't be reached, you suppose. It's okay, though, if people don't want you around. You've never been terribly good with them, you think. Always saying the wrong thing, or making the moment needlessly awkward by inserting yourself where you clearly were never wanted.
They're happier, it seems, with you removed from their everyday.
The thoughts begin as mere daydreams in time, since you find yourself with little else to do in the quieter moments: pills, razors, rope, a speedometer climbing well past ninety. You toy with them like a Rubik's Cube—turning them this way and that, figuring which best suits you.
It becomes sort of exhilarating, really—knowing that there's such an incredibly easy way out of it all. And that it's always there, awaiting you. Like a friend. Something you can both lean and rely on.
You like that fact.
That peaceful feeling becomes...very hard to escape once it's implanted itself within your mind like a hard to pull root from a noxious weed. As in, impossible.
It haunts your steps in the hall, sits with you in the staff lounge, visits with you at home... It even comes with you to the toilet, it's so prevalent.
You could always take a bottle of pills from work. Ones that would just let you drift off to sleep. Peaceful and painless. No better option, in your opinion.
You tuck the thought away for possible later use.
You throw yourself fully into your work and turn on blinders to anything outside of it. You let yourself become a machine—merely doing as you are bid without quarrel. It seems to please people when you go along with them; are at their beck and call and always of agreement with their opinions and assumptions. It's strange how different social hierarchy becomes when you've set aside any personality of your own.
But you're not perfect. Sometimes your mind becomes fuzzy. You think maybe it's atrophying. And that equates to the occasional mistake.
Abbot dislikes when you give a patient double the dosage of a medication of what he instructed you to. It made them a little sick—some vomiting and a seizure—but they survived. Meanwhile, he'd pulled you aside and you stared while occasionally blinking as he told you why what you did was so dangerous.
Bad, bad, bad.
At one time, he'd liked you. Gave you extra attention and often let his hands rest on your shoulders or lower back. One time he caressed your cheek, which had made it warm pleasantly in response. Now that you're no longer his shining star, though—having burnt out so long ago—you think he'd rather you weren't around.
You should do something about that fact.
"We cannot afford mistakes like that, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that opens us up to?" He questions. Pressing one finger to the other, he supplies you an answer so you don't have to come up with one. You're glad for that.
You don't think you could if you tried.
"Lawsuits, a revocation of your medical license, an inquiry by the Medical Board..." He trails off after counting off so many digits.
You nod. "I understand, Doctor Abbot," the girl devoid of light and life says. "It won't happen again. I promise."
He gives a smile and a nod, pats you on the shoulder—a gesture which you flinch away from since you really dislike being touched lately for some reason—and tells you that that's exactly what he wants to hear before walking away from you.
You should just kill yourself.
It's what you think anytime you screw up now. Drop and break a glass at home? Suicide. Get berated by a superior at work? Suicide. Take too long to go after a light has turned green and a driver behind you honks their horn? Suicide.
Such a burden you've become. Maybe you've always been? You're not sure. You hope not, but if so, you wouldn't be surprised.
You start making preparations before your big, metaphorical trip.
Typing away on a computer, you drown out the hubbub of your surroundings—choosing to instead focus solely on the digital chart before you. When your eyes begin to grow a bit blurry, however, you glance up and idly watch as individuals in blue and black and grey scrubs come and go.
You pick Doctor Robby to observe for a bit.
You'd adored him at one time. For awhile, actually. You liked how tall he was, and his neatly trimmed beard. His Carhart pants and how he commanded authority while still being gentle in instruction. The timbre of his voice reverberating through your ear canal when he stood close as you tended to patients sent chills up your spine. It was like finely ground coffee: dark, but nevertheless smooth and tempting.
When he started calling you by various pet names around the Pitt, you'd stupidly humored yourself by believing that perhaps he felt similarly—had a hidden crush, same as you. You'd become almost certain of it one night when he gave you a ride home because your car wouldn't turn over due to a corroded battery.
Your heart had rhythmically thumped away between your breasts as you watched his hands turn the steering wheel—half hoping he'd take you home with him like a stray.
He never did.
Now, he doesn't so much as give you a second glance.
Maybe it makes you a narcissist to have assumed there was a mutual attraction. Not everyone wants you. In fact, no one does. If only you'd figured it out sooner, you would've saved yourself so much trouble in chasing after those who only wanted to get far away from you.
You lower your head then turn to the left where Santos sits with a recorder, dictating her own patient's chart. You wait until there's a pause, then speak—take your first steps in making your plan a reality.
"Hey, Trinity?" You ask quietly.
Swiveling around in your direction from atop an office chair, she toys with her recorder. "Yeah?"
"Do you like records?"
Her brows furrow. "Yeeeah. Why?"
You shrug indifferently while typing a few more words. "I'm getting rid of my collection. I thought that maybe you'd like to have them."
Her brows raise in surprise. "I mean, how much are you asking?"
You shake your head while hitting the space bar. "No charge."
She scooches closer—sure that this is too good to be true. "Wait. Are you actually serious? I mean, vinyl is like stupid expensive right now. You wanna just give yours away? To me?"
You nod. "I don't listen to them anymore." Picking up your phone, you wave it haphazardly before tossing it down with a thud. "If I want to listen to music now, I just stream it."
You look at her over your shoulder. "They're just collecting dust. You can have them all. Do whatever you like with them. Keep them, sell them, gift them." You shrug. "Makes no difference to me."
She beams at the prospect of furthering her collection, and for entirely free, at that. "Yeah, hundred percent I want them."
You save the chart you've just completed. "They're in my trunk. I'll get them to you once our shift is through."
For the next two weeks, you continue on with offloading your life onto others. You give Samira your clothes in multiple garbage bags. Mel your books, McKay some decorative figures you kept on your bookshelves for her son, Javadi your jewelry and accessories, and the nurse's station your stationary in all its organized glory.
When Dana tries showing concern—asking as to why you're doing this, sarcastically asking if you're moving—you shrug it off and tell her it's just a bit of spring cleaning.
She frowns, knowing that it's the tail-end of summer.
Once your apartment is nearly devoid of any sign that you once lived in it, you cry from joy.
You're so close now. Just a few more loose ends, and you'll be ready to go.
Abbot is the first to go out of his way to speak to you. He deems it good—great, even—that you're in a better mood today. He's heard...troubling news. Spring cleaning, you'd called it to Dana. But sometimes people just choose to declutter their lives, right? Especially in this line of work, it's way too easy to let your living space become an absolute wreck because you can't be bothered to expend the energy to clean it up on a regular basis.
Makes it easier the less you've got to deal with. And when you practically live in scrubs... Well, who needs dress clothes, right?
Bumping his shoulder against yours, and sending your fingers flying across the keyboard you stand at, you begin backspacing to fix your typos.
He doesn't like those.
"You seem better today," he remarks. "That's good. Got some big plans after work or somethin'?" He asks curiously.
You smile with warmth. If you were the sun—which, here in the Pitt, at one time you were—he could stand within the light your rays provide for forever. "I do," you say quietly, with cheer.
He raises a brow and his lips tug into a smirk. "Oh yeah? What's that?"
You shrug. "It's a surprise."
He leans in close. "Not for me, is it?" He whispers.
You turn to him, and he nearly stumbles back. The tone of your voice and your general demeanor... They don't match the vacant look in your eyes whatsoever. They don't... They don't even look like they're yours.
"You're a good doctor, Jack," you say while gently resting a hand against his upper arm. "I don't think I've ever told you how grateful I am that I was given a chance to learn from you. PTMC is really lucky to have you here."
His brows furrow and the smile slips from his face. "Sweetheart, you're starting to freak me out here."
Couldn't even do that right, you think. Just further confirmation that you're indeed making the right choice. "I'm sorry," you say while stepping away. "It won't happen again. Have a nice evening, Dr. Abbot."
You give Mel an unexpected hug before she's due to head home for the day. She stumbles back, hesitates for a moment, then returns it with a feeble embrace. "Becca is really fortunate to have such a caring sister. It makes me happy you two have one another," you tell her with a squeeze.
She steps back while flushing and nervously adjusting her glasses. "Y-Yeah. Me too."
You part from her with a nod, and let her go on her way.
Later on, you catch Mohan at her locker and lean against your own. Yours, which can been completely cleaned out, minus your stethoscope. They'll open it eventually. You left a note to please give the item to someone who needs it. Or just...keep it in the inventory as an extra incase another's becomes faulty.
"I know Robby has been kind of hard on you lately," you say quietly.
She doesn't speak.
"But you have so much talent with patients. You take their feelings into consideration. A lot of providers let this job get the better of them and their care suffers for it." You gently grip her wrist. "Don't let him turn you into someone you're not."
Just as she turns to say something, you've gone.
Dennis has just slung his backpack over his shoulder when you jog to catch up to him by the ambulance bay's doors. "Hey," you say, settling a hand atop his shoulder.
He turns with a surprised look on his face.
"I wanted you to know that I think what you're doing for Amy and her baby is really...sweet. Commendable." You drop your hand and smile. "Are you happy?"
He grins and glances down to his shoes while nodding. "Yeah. I-I am. I think she is, too."
You turn your head to the right and watch as a truck pulls up outside. "Don't let her go, Dennis." You look back to him. "Family is important. Make sure you don't let this place become the only one you have."
He raises a brow and makes to step forward—to question what's going on—until you take a few steps back. "I gotta go, but you two drive safe. Okay?"
"I'll see ya tomorrow, kid," Dana calls from behind you.
Slowly turning round to face her, you look at Emma who's seated just to her side. "You've got a good teacher here," you say while nodding to the older blonde. "So you listen to her and soak up everything you can. Having Dana as your guide here in the Pitt is invaluable."
Emma nods with a toothy smile. "I will."
Your eyes flit back to Dana. "See you around," you whisper.
By the end of your shift, things feel different. For the first time in maybe years, you feel content. At peace. Could it mean that things are...worth a second try? You'd not even considered that such a thought would cross your mind.
But there it sits, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
Exiting through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, you step out from beneath the overhead coverage that extends outward and stare up at the stars. You'd meant to be dancing amongst them tonight, but...plans can always change.
You look to the right, and find Robby strapping a bag to the rear luggage wrack of his motorcycle. Maybe... Maybe he can help? He'll know what to do, because you know this moment won't last. You have to reach out and ask for him to hold your hand through this while you've still got the mental fortitude at your disposal to do so.
Crossing your arms, you walk over to him. "Hey, Robby?"
Tightening a bungee cord into place, he raises a brow. "Hm?"
"Could I talk to you about something? It's—"
He sighs with irritation and runs a tired hand down his face. "I was really hoping to get going. Guess I didn't move fast enough." He turns to you with crossed arms as well, matching your stance. "Can this not wait until morning?"
Your eyes flit between his.
So much happens in that moment.
Your resolve shatters into irreparable shards which slice through any hope you'd had but a moment ago, and a confirmation is granted to you. Confirmation that you chose right all along.
What's meant to be will be.
And with the small orange bottle in your pocket, you'll make it so.
It's okay now.
You force a reassuring smile and shake your head. "Sure. It wasn't important. It doesn't matter." You take a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you. Have a nice night. And—and drive safe, ok?"
He barely pays you any mind as he mounts his motorcycle and drives away.
Waiting for your Uber to arrive, you continue studying the stars. They just...look like they'd take such good care of you, y'know? Never would they let you fall or falter. They act as one.
But, so, too, are they already dead.
You suppose that's rather fitting.
"You need a ride?"
Glancing to your left, you find Frank watching you with a curious look on his face.
You shake your head. "No, thank you, I have an Uber coming."
He nods. "Car in the shop?"
You shrug and look away. You donated it to a local charity yesterday, actually. You'd been rather surprised to find out such things existed. They repurpose them for homeless youth and single mothers and the like. It'll go to someone in need.
That makes you happy.
Your phone dings that your driver is 5 minutes away.
Standing, you pad over to Frank. "I'm really proud of you for going to rehab, Langdon."
He tucks his phone away into his pocket. "Yeah, well, Robby didn't exactly give me another choice."
You chew your lip. "It was the right thing. For you...and your children." Meeting his eyes, you crook your head to the side. "They need their dad. Your sobriety is a big deal. You should be proud of it, too."
His brows furrow.
"This hospital needs you here. I'm glad you came back."
Tires crunch against asphalt, and a white SUV pulls up.
When you start toward it, Frank takes a small step forward. "Are—are you okay?"
After popping open the back passenger door, you look at him over your shoulder. "I am. I know what I have to do now."
He thinks to reach out for you. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
You swing a leg inside. "Goodbye, Frank."
With that, you shut the door behind you.
An empty plastic bottle crinkles quietly between your shaking hands.
On the floor, a pill bottle lies on its side. It's contents currently dissolving in your stomach acid.
Looking around the nearly empty space you occupy, you tell yourself that you can't go back. There's nothing left. Even out in the hall sits yet another box of odds and ends you didn't know what else to do with. So you merely drew on the front of it 'FREE' with a smiley face and sat it next to your apartment door.
Someone will rifle through it and take what they like; give the things inside a second home.
Leaning back against the headboard behind you, you swallow thickly as hot tears practically singe your cheeks. The truth you don't want to admit now is that you're scared. You don't want to die like this: alone, and in what has now become a strange place.
What if no one comes in the next few days? You don't want them to find your body bloated and rotting; infested with flies and maggots that crawl inside your mouth and ears.
Fighting against how your head swims when you turn it, you reach for your phone. You grip it as hard as you can and jerk your unsteady limb back to you. Plopping the device onto the mattress you're seated upon, it takes four tries before you manage to punch in the correct pin code.
You dial 3 numbers, then wait.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Pleeease," you slur. "I changed my mind."
"—Female. Unconscious. Pulse is bradycardic and thready," the EMT informs Abbot and his team as he rounds the back of the van. "She told 911 about a half hour ago that she swallowed a bottle of Prozac."
Popping open the door, he turns back to Abbot and shoves the empty bottle into his hands. "She must've stole them, seeing as a man's name is on the bottle. We found it on the floor of her apartment. I figured you all would want it when you try to treat her."
Helping his partner get the gurney out of the van, the bottom wheels fall and clatter to the ground before locking into place.
"Oh my God," McKay exclaims before clamping both her hands over her mouth.
Having come back around to morning time, the rest of the day shift will soon be arriving.
Meanwhile, Abbot knows he can't leave now.
He'll work a 24 hour fucking shift if he has to.
When the other EMT exits the rig, he looks between the crowd of unmoving bodies. "You all know her or something?"
"She fucking works here," Toomarian replies before stumbling back.
Jack shakes his head, then begins firing on all cylinders as his body jumps into motion. "McKay, Shen, you two are with me. Henderson, get your ass inside and tell Handzo that I need a room cleared. We're going to intubate and then perform a gastric lavage."
He glances around. "I said now! Move your asses!" He shouts.
Standing outside, Robby watches as your body lifts off the hospital bed you've been transferred to. With numb, shaking fingers tangled painfully in his hair, he yanks tightly against the strands. Jack glances to the monitor, shakes his head, then commands McKay to try again.
"Please," he cries through clenched teeth. "Fuck," he curses. "It's all my fucking fault."
When he came in for his shift, your room was the first one he bothered peeking into, and it stopped him cold in his tracks before he barked at Whitaker to help him suit up so he could help.
A gesture which didn't last long when he backed into a tray of sterile instruments once inside, and thus sent them scattering across the floor. Panicking, he tried picking them up as a series of apologies spilled from his lips. Aimed toward you, Jack, or the team which was trying to save you, he's unsure. In the end, he sliced his hand open with a ten blade. As blood oozed from the wound, Jack shouted for him to get out. To have someone stitch him up while he otherwise kept his focus strictly on you.
"No, I-I have to s-stay. I can do it. We have to fucking save her, Jack."
Jack had leveled him with a glare. "I am going to do every goddamn thing I can to ensure that she doesn't slip away from us, but you have got to leave this room. You're breaking my concentration. It's already hard enough!"
Forcing her way inside, Dana shoved against his chest to guide him out of the room. Stumbling backward, Robby pointed at Jack. "You fucking bring her back. You bring her back to us or I'll never forgive you!"
Now, here he stands in the middle of a fast-moving ED with over a dozen stitches in a hand that's wrapped in gauze, praying to a God who stopped listening long ago to take him instead if it meant sparing you.
It's all his fault.
You had tried to talk to him. Had given living one last try. And he couldn't be bothered to spare five minutes.
The lump in his throat becomes too much to breathe or swallow over.
Robby starts choking on his own saliva.
His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and his knees buckle out from under him.
Falling to the floor, Dana runs to his side. "Hey, Rob, Robby, look at me. What's goin' on, big guy?"
He clutches at his chest. "MI," he pants.
"I need a gurney over here!"
A panic attack.
He'd hoped for worse, because then it would mean God had actually obliged his only request.
Sitting in a hospital bed with his head held hopelessly between his hands, he refuses to face the room that lies across the way. Peds.
So much horror its walls have bore witness to.
But also love and care.
Like the day of PittFest. Another moment which saw Robby at his lowest; collapsed in on himself like a dying star. You were the one who pulled him out of the darkness, though.
Caressing his face between careful hands, you swiped tears from his cheeks while telling him that you understood—had been where he sat so many times (why didn't he see it then?)—but still nevertheless needed him that day. That you both had essential work to do which you wanted him at your side for, and after is when he could break. In your arms, if that's what he required.
Did he kiss you then? Or was that an imagined dream he drew up in his muddled head?
Shoving off the bed he occupies with a huff, Robby does exactly that: gets to work. It's what you would want. And the only way he won't fall apart again. Because if he continues sitting there thinking up worst case scenarios, he'll never make it out of here alive.
The whole department has spent the day on-edge. Jack has assured them that the worst has passed, but until... Unless you woke up, you weren't totally out of the woods.
Practically everyone sticks around until well after their shifts are through—waiting with bated breath—to see if you'll open your eyes.
For what it's worth, piles of your things begin arriving in droves when people realize you hadn't just been cleaning out your apartment like you said.
You'd been preparing never to come back.
For the absolute worst of reasons.
They each take turns visiting with you. Apologizing. Or just telling stories.
Besides Robby and Abbot, Frank takes it the hardest. He was the last person you spoke to. He tells Jack over and over and over again that he should've stood in front of the fucking car if it meant making you stay. That he knew—he knew—in his gut what you had planned.
Mel has bumped into patients and coworkers alike so many times while passing by your room that 'sorry' has become her word of the day.
Dana stays quiet. She merely watches from beneath the board, awaiting the opening of your pretty eyes again.
Javadi quietly asks Jack when—not if—you wake up, he'll have you put on an involuntary psyche hold. He tells her that psyche will be called for a consult, but what happens from there will be out of his hands. All he knows is that he has to make sure this never happens again.
When his chin begins to wobble as he smooths hair from your brow is when she takes her leave.
When his shift nears 20 hours, Jack finally takes a seat at your bedside. Holding your limp hand between each of his, he presses it to his lips. "You have people waiting for you," he murmurs. "I am waiting for you. Robby is. Sweetheart," he cups your cheek and your head lulls to the side. "I love you."
He begins to cry. "Why the fuck I didn't say it sooner I—" He shakes his head. "I thought it'd be unprofessional. You were my subordinate." He lowers his head. "Goddamn coward." Lifting his head again, he kisses your fingertips. "I'm saying it now. I mean, how could I not fall for you?"
A knock sounds from the door.
Robby.
Pushing open the glass entrance, he steps inside. "Still nothing?" He asks quietly.
Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. But she'll wake up soon. She has to."
Seating himself on the side of your bed, Robby cups your cool cheek in his palm. "You came to me. You needed me and I wasn't there." He runs the pad of his thumb along the curve of your jaw. "But I am now. I will spend as much time as I have to fixing this; making it up to you."
Leaning down, he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your lips.
But that only works in the stories...
"Rest of my life if I have to."
Jack falls asleep slumped over in his chair—his head resting beside you and his fingers firmly intertwined between your own. Robby took up position at your side in bed. Holding you close to him with his hoody draped over your chest, he tucked you just beneath his chin before drifting off.
As long as your heart still beats, they've each something to hold onto.
Your awakening is sluggish; gradual. Pulling yourself from the primordial sludge which deigned to hold you meant fighting a battle you weren't sure you could win.
But when you stir quietly, and feel warm bodies on either side of you, accompanied by the sound of quiet snoring, you know you've come out the other side victorious.
"Welcome back," drawls a thickly accented, feminine voice from across the way. "Had a lot of people worried, kid."
The rumbling chest you're pressed against quiets, then shifts. Pressing your head back against the soft pillow beneath it, you stare up at Robby's tear-stricken face. He doesn't speak. He merely smiles before cupping your cheek in his palm and pressing his lips to yours.
You're far too exhausted to think on it.
You'd thought he didn't care. What else have you been wrong about as of late?
Your right hand suddenly released, Jack stands, then seats himself on your bedside. "We're going to take care of you. Alright? I promise."
Leaning down, he kisses you next.
Dana turns back to the nurse's station.
"You'll never be alone again," Robby whispers. "We weren't there for you then, but we're here now."
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