featuring:Â Michael âRobbyâ Robinavitch x fem! reader
warnings:Â Talks of casual sex, implied sex (not with Robby...yet...expect it in part two), reader wears heels and a dress like Carrie usually does, i kept a lot vague so you could imagine names for your friend and fling, alcohol, injury (sprained ankle), medical setting, emotional vulnerability, fear of intimacy, commitment issues, brief mention of unhealthy relationship patterns, secondhand embarrassment (go with me here please), slow-burn like super slow burn (literally don't meet until halfway through the fic), and of course, my horrific excuse of medical talk
synopsis:Â You attempt to embrace casual sex for the sake of your column, only to find yourself drawn to a stranger you never thought you'd see again.
masterlist link:Â the pitt
an:Â Guess who's rewatching SATC for the fourth time this year? I thought Robby was the best fit for the role of Mr. Big when I was considering writing this AU. Hope you all enjoy it!! Yes, this is SUPER slow-burning with lots of background stuff, but basing this on the first episode of SATC and part two will have more Robby and reader!! I seriously need a beta reader, gotta convince my friend :p
You had always believed in love.
Not the quiet, practical kind. The kind that folded itself neatly into Sunday routines and split rent payments, that lived in the mundane spaces between toothbrushes and takeout menus. Not the kind that felt safe in a way that bordered on forgettable.Â
You believed in the kind that lingered.
The kind that stayed on your skin long after someone had already left the room. The kind that turned ordinary places into landmarksâthat street corner, that bar, that stupid crosswalk where something almost happened, or maybe everything did. You believed in love that made you irrational, a little unhinged, beautifully undone in ways youâd later try to romanticize in a column.Â
Because if it didnât ruin you a little, was it even worth writing about?
Which was exactly why your editorâs voice looped through your head like a bad chorus as you stared at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen.
âWrite something honest and modern.â
The word sat heavy in your chest, like it knew exactly where to hurt.Â
You shifted in your chair, tucking one leg beneath you, the other dangling just enough to brush the hardwood floor. You exhaled slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard like they were waiting for permission you werenât sure youâd ever given. Honest writing meant admitting things youâd usually dress up in clever phrasing. Honest meant writing about the text you reread three times before deciding not to respond. About the dates that felt more like interviews. About the almosts, the ones that never quite became something, but never fully disappeared either.Â
âIn a city full of options, where love is fleeting, and attention spans are shorter than a text message, I couldnât help but wonderâŠhave we given up on romance in favor of something simpler?â
God, you hated that word.
Simple was what people said when they were too tired to try. When vulnerability felt like too much effort, detachment felt like power. Simpler was casual. Undefined. No expectations, no disappointments at least, thatâs what everyone likes to pretend. But you knew better. Simpler didnât mean easier. It just meant lonelier.Â
Your fingers hovered again, your reflection faintly visible on the screen. A woman who had spent years believing in grand gestures and electric connections, not stuck dissecting situationships like they were case studies. You tilted your head slightly.Â
You thought about the last person who made your chest ache at two in the morning. The way your phone had felt heavier in your hand, the way silence somehow said more than words ever could. You thought about how quickly something meaningful could be reduced to nothing, all because no one wanted to risk wanting more.
When did love become something people managed instead of felt?
Maybe that was the real problem. Not that love had disappeared. But that everyone was too afraid to admit they still believed in it.
Across from you, your best friend leaned against your kitchen counter like she had been permanently stationed there for the sole purpose of interrupting your worst impulses. Arms folded, one hip propped against the edge, she watched you with the kind of calm certainty that only came from knowing you too well and having been proven right too many times to find it surprising. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched your fingers hover over the keyboards like you were about to either write something brilliant or implode emotionally.
âLet me guess,â she said finally, tilting her head just enough to make her point before she even finished the sentence. âYouâre about to emotionally spiral in 800 words and call it a column.â
You scoffed immediately, like the accusation itself was personally offensive.
âI donât spiral,â you said, glancing up at her with exaggerated offense, as if your reputation depended on it.
She didnât even hesitate.
âYou absolutely spiral.â
âI reflect,â you corrected quickly, softer now, like saying it more gently might make it true.
A sharp snort cut through the kitchen.
âYou romanticize your bad decisions and then act surprised when they hurt.â
You pointed at her with your pen, squinting. âThat is a gross oversimplification of my entire emotional process.â
âItâs accurate,â she shot back. âAnd also, what is this one even about?â
You hesitated. Just a beat too long. Your pen hovered near your lips as you chewed on the end of it, a habit youâd tried to quit during at least three different phases of your life.
The woman blinked, âYou,â She said, drawing the word out like she was testing it for irony, âare writing about simple sex?â
You bristled instantly, sitting up straighter. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âIt means,â she said, already moving now, pushing off the counter and walking toward you like she couldnât help herself, âyou once cried because a guy didnât kiss you goodnight after your third date.â
âHe didnât look back when he left,â you shot back immediately, as if that detail alone carried emotional courtroom weight. âThat means something.â
âIt means he was trying to be a gentleman and not get into your pants after three dates.â
âIt means he lacked emotional depth,â you insisted, completely convinced.
She stopped in front of you now, just watching you for a moment like she was trying to decide whether you were serious or just committed to the bit of your own life. Then she sighed.Â
âI can do casual,â you said, though it sounded more like you were convincing yourself than her.
âMm-hm,â she hummed skeptically.
You ignored her tone because you always did.Â
There was someone in mind, anyway.
You didnât say it right away, but she saw it in your faceâthat subtle shift, that familiar look of someone already halfway into a situation that hadnât even started yet.
â...I mean,â you added causally, too casually, âthere is someone.â
Her eyebrows shot up instantly.
âItâs justââ you gestured vaguely at the air like the explanation existed somewhere outside your body, âsomeone I could try this with.â
âTry this,â she repeated flatly. âYou sound like youâre talking about assembling IKEA furniture, not emotionally detonating your life.â
You clicked your pen twice. âYouâre being dramatic.â
âI am being preventative,â she corrected. âWho is it?â
You hesitated again. That alone was answer enough.
Her eyes narrowed. âNo.â
You blinked. âNo, what?â
âNo to whoever youâre thinking of.â
âItâs not a big deal,â you insisted.
âThatâs exactly what you said the last time you slept with him,â she said immediately, pointing at you like she had evidence. âAnd then you spent two weeks analyzing whether his tone in a text meant he was lying about being busy.â
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because, unfortunately, she was correct.
She stepped closer now, lowering her voice like she was trying to reason with a very elegant disaster.
âPlease,â she said. âFor the love of your own emotional stability, do not hook up with him again.â
You already knew you were going to ignore her.
Still, you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms like you were considering it.
âI wonât,â you said.
She studied your face for a second, then exhaled like she had just watched a slow-motion crash and didnât have the energy to stop it this time.
âYou absolutely will.âÂ
You smiled sweetly, innocent in a way that fooled no one.
âHave a little faith in me.â
âThatâs what scares me,â she muttered.
You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering again, the cursor still blinking like it was waiting for you to admit something real. And then, quieter now, almost like a confession you werenât fully ready to own, you started typing again.
You had expected to feel something.
That was the catch, wasnât it? Every time before this, every late night, every tangled set of sheets, you had gone into it thinking maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time it would mean something. The dates leading up to the first time you sleep together would get you to that end point everyone wanted. Maybe this time you wouldn't lie there afterward, staring at the ceiling, trying to stitch together a feeling that refused to come.
Tonight was different on purpose.
About five days after your wine and gossip night with your best friend, you stood in the bedroom of your ex-flingâs, slipping your dress back on, smoothing the fabric down over your hips like you were resetting yourself, like you could press whatever had just happened neatly back into place. The room still smells faintly like cologne and sweat, yet none of it clung to you the way it used to. There was no emotional residue, no lingering acheâjust nothing.
He was watching you from the bed, propped up on one elbow, slightly disheveled, that satisfied smile already settling into place as it belonged to him. âSo,â he said, voice low, casual, âthat wasâŠnot bad.â
You huffed a small laugh, reaching for your heels. âNot bad?â you echoed, glancing over your shoulder at him with a raised brow. âThatâs what youâre going with?â
âOkay,â he amended, grin widening. âGood. Definitely good.â
You slipped your heels on, straightening, grabbing your purse from the chair. âIt was good,â you agreed, like you were discussing a restaurant instead of what youâd just done. And maybe that was the point.
He watched you for a moment longer, like he was trying to read something in your expression and coming up just short. âWe should do it again sometime,â he said, a little more carefully now, like he wasnât entirely sure what category you fell into.
You paused at the bedroom door, fingers brushing over the strap of your purse. For a second, you considered it, the version of you that used to say yes without hesitation, the one that mistook repetition for connection. But instead, you just offered him a small, almost charming smile.
It was noncommittal in the most deliberate way. Not a no, not a yes, just enough to keep things floating, undefined. The kind of answer you used to hate receiving. The kind youâd written about, dissected, and complained about in your columns. Now it felt empowering.Â
You stepped out into the hallway before he could say anything else, the door clicking softly shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stood there. Waiting. But nothing. No sudden drop in your chest. No creeping sense of regret. Zero urge to turn back, to chase something that wasnât there. And then, slowly, something else took its place.
It bubbled up unexpectedly, light and giddy, settling under your skin as you made your way down the stairs and out into the night. Because you had done it. You had actually done it. You had sex without assigning it meaning, without letting it root itself somewhere deeper than it needed to. You had written about this version of yourself before, this woman who could separate body from heart, who could experience without attaching, who could walk away clean. You had admired her. Wondered if she was real or just something you invented to make sense of a world that kept shifting under your feet.
The city greeted you like it always did, electric, humming with possibility. Cars rolled past in steady streams of light, laughter spilled out from crowded bars, and music pulsed faintly through the pavement beneath your feet. It felt like the entire world was in motion, and for once, you werenât lagging behind it, trying to catch up.
You stepped off the curb, barely glancing up, already half-lost in your thoughts as sentences began to form in your mind. You could see it already. The column, the angle, the way youâd frame it. Something about detachment. About whether intimacy had become just another experience to consume rather than something to hold onto.
You adjusted your purse on your shoulder absentmindedly, your fingers brushing against the familiar contents inside: your wallet, your lip gloss, and the condoms. You almost laughed to yourself. Because really, when did that happen? When had you become the kind of woman who carried them around like it was nothing? Somehow, they felt significant. Like proof.
Proof that you were trying. That you were evolving. That you were stepping into something new, even if you werenât entirely sure what that something was supposed to look like yet. You were so caught up in it that you didnât see him until it was too late.
The impact was immediate, knocking the breath slightly from your lungs as you collided with someone hard enough to send your balance tipping. Your purse slipped from your shoulder, hitting the pavement with a dull thud, its contents spilling out onto the sidewalk in a chaotic scatter.
âShit. Iâm sorry,â you blurted instantly, dropping down to your knees without thinking, your hands already reaching for your things. âI wasnâtââ
âI shouldâve been watching where I was going.â
The voice cuts through yours, steady in a way that makes you pause.
He wasnât what you usually notice. Not in the immediate surface-level way. There was no effortless charm radiating off him, no easy grin, no sense that he was performing for your attention. If anything, he seemed almost grounded. He was older than you, or maybe he just looked older with his beard. His gaze flickered down to the items scattered between you, and without hesitation, he crouched as well, reaching for your lip gloss, handing it back. Then he stopped, because in his hand was the condom.
Time seemed to stretch in the smallest, most excruciating way as your eyes locked onto it, your entire body going still.Â
He looked at it. Then as you. One eyebrow lifted. You held your breath, despite being a writer who often talked about your own sexual encounters for the whole city to read, to have someone know you were ready to go like this felt ten times different compared to having strangers read about it every other Friday.Â
âYou dropped this,â he said simply, holding it out to you. He didnât seem to be judgmental about it, a little teasing, but nothing that made you think heâd preach about how slutty this was of you or ask if you were a hooker.
Heat rushed to your face instantly, blooming across your skin as you reached for it a little too quickly. There went the confidence, your fingers brushing against his for half a second longer than necessary. âRight,â you said, your voice was too fast. âThank you. Thatâs very nice of you.â
âYou always carry those around?â he asked, his tone even, rather than teasing.
You straightened slowly, brushing your hands off against your dress, trying to gather what was left of your composure. âResearch,â you said, lifting your chin slightly, standing by your own actions.
His head tilted, just a fraction. âResearch.â
âIâm a writer,â you added quickly, like that should explain everything. âItâs for a column.â
âAnd the column requires you to be prepared?â he asked, glancing briefly at the wrapper still in your hand.
You crossed your arms, leaning into the defense a little more now. âIt requires me to be informed.â
âFair enough,â he said. There was a beat of silence between you.Â
He stood, brushing off his hands lightly, his attention already shifting away like the moment had served its purpose.Â
âTry not to get hit by traffic,â he added, glancing toward the street before looking back at you once more.
You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the unexpected practicality of it. âThanks.â
And then, he walked away. No second glance. Just gone.Â
You stayed there for a second longer than you should have, the noise of the city rushing back in around you as you watched him disappear into it, blending seamlessly into the movement, into the night. Something in your chest tugged. You shook it off quickly, exhaling under your breath as you adjusted your purse on your shoulder. It didnât matter now. He was just a stranger youâd probably never see again.
You didnât see him again for a week.
And honestly, you almost forgot about him, or at least, you tried to. You buried the memory under late-night writing sessions, overpriced coffee, and the kind of internal monologue that made everything feel more intentional than it probably was. You told yourself he had just been a moment, a blip in the narrative you were constructing about yourself. A man on the sidewalk, a raised eyebrow, a quiet kind of confidence that didnât beg for your attention. Youâd met dozens of men like that before. Or at least, you should have. So why did he linger just enough to be inconvenient?
âOkay, Iâm still stuck on the fact you went back to him,â your friend said as she dragged you through the crowded dance floor, her grip firm around your wrist to keep you from getting lost in the crowd. Ever since you had let it slip that you slept with he who must not be named again, she was interrogating you like she was personally responsible for your life choices. âLike all people. Him?â
You winced, but there was a smile tugging at your lips, because you knew how exactly this sounded. âIt wasnât a âgo backâ situation,â you argued, brushing your hair off your shoulder as neon lights flickered across your skin. âIt was a revisiting. For research purposes.â
She stopped walking just long enough to stare at you, unimpressed but curious in equal measure. âYou had sex with that jerk for journalistic integrity?â
âWhen you say it like that, it sounds crazy,â you admitted, laughing as she groaned dramatically, throwing her head back.
âIt is crazy,â she shot back, though her expression softened almost immediately after, her curiosity winning out. âOkay, wait, no, Iâm not mad at you, but I also need to know. How was it?â
You bit back a grin, leaning in slightly like you were about to confess something scandalous. âIt wasâŠgood,â you said, drawing the word out just enough to make her eyes widen.
âOf course it was,â she muttered, shaking her head as she started pulling you along again, deeper into the crowd. âThatâs the problem. If it had been bad, this wouldâve been a completely different conversation.â
âI know,â you said, laughing, the sound getting lost in the music as you stumbled slightly in your heels before catching yourself. âThatâs what makes it worse. It was easy. Too easy. No weird emotional aftermath, noââ you gestured vaguely between you, searching for the right word. â-lingering.â
She glanced at you sideways, her expression shifting into something more thoughtful now. âAnd thatâs what you wanted, right?â she asked.
You nudged her shoulder with yours. âExactly. Thatâs the brand now.â
âYour brand is concerning,â she said, but there was a smile in her voice as she spun you lightly, pulling you into the rhythm of the music.
For a while, the conversation melted into movement. The music pulsed through your body, lights flashing in bursts of color that made everything feel a little surreal, a little untethered. You let yourself get lost in it, in the way your friend laughed too loudly at nothing. Somewhere between the many cosmos, she grabbed your hands and pulled you into a dramatic spin, nearly sending you crashing into someone else, and you both dissolved into laughter, clinging to each other as you steadied yourselves.Â
âThis is your version of being simple?â she teased, breathless.
âYes,â you shot back, equally breathless, âand I think Iâm doing a great job.â
âOkay, maybe you are,â she said, her arm looping through yours. âJust maybe donât go back to emotionally questionable men to prove a point next time.â
She groaned, but there was no real frustration behind it this time. âFine,â she said after a second, brightening again as she tugged you forward. âThen at least commit to the bit tonight.â
And for a brief, fleeting stretch of time. You did.
You danced. You laughed. You let the night carry you instead of trying to control it, and it felt good. Like maybe you were finally figuring something out. And then, your foot twisted.
It was sudden, your heel catching at the wrong angle as you shifted your weight, and before you could correct it, pain shot up your leg, sharp and immediate, stealing the breath from your lungs.
âShit!â You gasped, your hand flying out to grab onto your friendâs arm as your balance faltered.Â
Your friend reacted instantly, her grip tightening around you as her expression shifted into alarm. âWhoa, okay, no, thatâs not good,â she said quickly, steadying you as you tried and failed to put weight on your foot. âThatâsânope. Weâre leaving.â
âIâm fine,â you started, though your voice wavered slightly as another wave of pain hit.
âYouâre limping,â she cut in, already guiding you toward the edge of the dance floor with surprising strength.Â
âI can power through,â you insisted weakly, though you didnât believe it.
âYou cannot power through a sprained ankle for the sake of your column,â she said firmly, giving you a look that shut down any further argument. âWeâre getting an Uber, and Iâm taking you to get checked out.â
You winced as you tested your weight again, your entire body tensing as the pain flared. â...okay,â you admitted reluctantly, letting out a small sigh as you leaned more heavily on her. âMaybe not.â
She softened immediately, adjusting her hold on you as she helped you hobble toward the exit, shaking her head lightly. âYeah,â she muttered, âletâs keep your modern woman era a little less painful.â
The waiting room at the PTMC was too bright in a way that made everything feel harsher than it actually was, like the fluorescent lights were determined to expose not just your mildly swollen ankle but every questionable decision that led you there. It was a stark difference from the thrum of music still echoing faintly in your ears, like your body hadnât quite caught up to the fact that the night had shifted from reckless and fun to clinical and inconvenient. And it was too real. That was the worst part. Sitting there, slightly tipsy and more than a little embarrassed, your heel dangling uselessly off your foot as you shifted on the plastic chair, you couldnât quite reconcile the version of yourself from an hour ago with the one currently waiting to be medically evaluated.
Your best friend hovered beside you like a self-appointed guardian, one hand on your shoulder, the other holding your purse like it was evidence of your poor choices. âIâm just saying,â she muttered, leaning in slightly, âthis is exactly what happens when you try to reinvent yourself in six-inch heels.â
âThey are not six inches,â you protested weakly, though you didnât have the energy to fully commit to the argument.
âThey look like six inches,â she shot back, unimpressed, before softening just enough to squeeze your shoulder. âYouâre okay, though. Itâs probably just a sprain.â
âProbably,â you echoed.
When you were finally called back, your friend straightened, slipping into action mode as she helped you up, her arm steady around your waist as you stood, wincing as your ankle protested. âCome on,â she murmured, guiding you forward.
You perched on the edge of the bed, exhaling softly as you adjusted your leg, your friend lingering nearby, arms crossed now as she leaned against the wall. âMy girlfriendâs on her way, but I can totally stay until the doctor comes if you want me to.â
âIâll be okay,â you assured her, offering a small smile. âItâs really not that serious. I promise. Go home.â
She hesitated, clearly torn between hovering and trusting you, but then her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at it with a sigh. âThatâs her,â she said. âText me when you get home. And if itâs broken, Iâm never letting you forget this.â
âItâs not broken,â you said through your laugh. âBut deal.â
She squeezed your hand once before heading out, leaving you alone with the hum of the hospital and your own thoughts.
The curtain opened a moment later.
âHeard we got a potential broken ankle in here, Iâm Dr.Robinavitchââ
Because of course it was him.
The man from the sidewalk. The one you had tried to reduce to a fleeting, insignificant moment. The one who apparently worked here. Because the universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
He stopped mid-sentence, recognition hitting just as quickly as it had for you. It was subtle, just a slight shift in his expression, a flicker in her eyes, but it was there.
âWell,â he said, the word carrying that same amusement.
âYouâŠâ you replied, adjusting on the bed. Suddenly hyper-aware of everything, your going out outfit that your friend had picked out for you, which in hindsight was not very appropriate for a place outside of the bar, the way your heel hung off your foot, and the fact that you were sitting in front of a man who had seen you at your mildly humiliating.
He sat on a chair in front of you, reaching for your ankle, his hands warm and rough yet careful as he slid your heel off. âWhat happened?â he asked.
âDancing,â you said, lifting your chin just slightly.
âI like to live on the edge.â
That earned you a glance upward, his eyes flicking over you, not in a way that felt inappropriate, but not entirely clinical either. You felt your cheeks warm a bit, subtly displaying your outfit a bit more for him.
He cleared his throat slightly, like he was reminding himself where he was before refocusing on your ankle, pressing gently along it. âDoes this hurt?â
âYes,â you said immediately.
âDo you always run into your patients before they show up here?â You asked, tilting your head slightly.Â
âOnly the ones carrying condoms for research purposes,â he replied without missing a beat.
You groaned, dropping your head slightly. âGod, I wish youâd forget that part.â
âI donât.â And you liked that. âSo, you said youâre a writer.â
You perked up slightly. âI am.â
âWhat do you write about?â he asked, pressing lightly along your ankle.
âRelationships,â you said. âModern dating. Sex. The ways people pretend not to care when they very much do.â
He hummed quietly, considering that. âThat soundsâŠcomplicated.â
âIt is,â you admitted. âBut lately Iâve been trying to write about the opposite. Casual connections. Flings.â
âAnd howâs that going for you?â he asked, glancing up.
You hesitated, then smiled wryly. âWell, I ended up here, soâŠjuryâs still out.â
That earned a small, genuine huff of amusement from him, the kind that felt rare. âFair enough.â He stood after a moment, his expression settling back into something more neutral. âJust a sprain,â he said. âNothing serious. Youâll live.â
Relief washed over you, and you let out a small breath. âGood. I had plans.â
âTry to take it slow.â
âIâll do my best,â you said, though your tone suggested otherwise.
He gave you a look that said he didnât entirely believe you. But there was something softer underneath it, too. Not quite concerned or amused. It caught you off guard in a way you didnât want to examine too closely. Discharge, it turned out, was far less dramatic than you expected. A printed sheet of instructions, a wrap for your ankle, a reminder to stay off it (which you already knew you would absolutely ignore at least once), and a polite but firm suggestion to avoid âdangerous hobbiesâ for a few days.Â
âTry to keep weight off it for forty-eight hours,â he said, handing you the papers, his tone slipping easily back into something more clinical, more practiced. But there was still that undercurrent, like he didnât want to retreat behind professionalism. âIce, elevation. Over-the-counter painkillers, if you need them.â
You nodded, even though your attention was only half on the instructions and mostly on the way he stood just a little too close, like he hadnât quite decided how much distance to put between you yet.Â
You shifted your weight, wincing just a little as reality came back into focus. âI should probably go wait for my Uber,â you said, gesturing vaguely toward the entrance, like you hadnât just changed the trajectory of your night.Â
âIâll walk you,â he said instead, like it wasnât a question.
Outside, the air felt cooler. The harsh brightness of the hospital gave way to streetlights and the distant hum of traffic, the world settling back into something more familiar. You leaned lightly against the wall near the pickup area, trying to look more put together than you felt, your heel still dangling uselessly from your fingers.
You pulled out your phone, checking the app. âFive minutes,â you said.
âYou donât have to stay,â you added, glancing over at him. âIâm a big girl.â
âI know,â he said. âIâm still going to.âÂ
There was no hesitation in it. No over-explanation. He stayed. Close enough to talk, far enough to pretend it wasnât intentional. You found yourself filling the silence, easily slipping back into the rhythm you knew so well, telling him, half-joking, half-serious, about your column, vaguely about bad decisions and good stories you had written about in the past. Him giving his own opinions on certain topics. You were surprised by the way he actually listened.
And when your car finally pulled up, neither of you moved right away.
âWell,â you said, adjusting your grip on your shoe, suddenly very aware of the moment finally slipping away now that the bubble had burst. âDoctorâs orders. Rest, ice, elevation.â
âTry to follow at least one of those,â he replied.
His mouth twitched, just slightly.
You opened the car door, then paused, glancing back at him. âHave a good night.â
You slipped into the car, your heart doing something inconvenient all over again as the door shut between you. And as you pulled away, you couldnât help but look backâjust once. A smile on your face when you saw him watching you go.
When you turned the corner, you wondered.
Maybe simple sex can help figure things out after all.Â
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