Summary: Michael Robinavitch has always been a little self-deprecating. Reader’s done. She drags him home and gives him the full, feral, body-worshiping correction he didn’t know he needed.
Or: four times Michael insulted himself, and the one time Reader snapped and proved him wrong.
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♡ Explicit SMUT
♡ Consensual dom!Reader & sub!Michael dynamics
♡ Strong body-image themes
♡ Body worship focusing on age, softness, & self-esteem
♡ Mirror-focused intimacy
♡ Light pain-play in a consensual context
♡ Praise kink + possessive affection
♡ Mild humiliation kink related to self-deprecating comments
♡ Unprotected PIV (Plz be responsible)
♡ Aftercare & heavy emotions (whiplash potential)
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I’m getting too old for this
Chaos has officially become the hospital’s default setting tonight.
Somewhere down the hall, someone is yelling about the last functioning glucometer. A monitor keeps beeping in a way that feels personal. And for reasons unknown to science, there is still glitter on the nurses’ station countertop from someone’s “morale-boosting” decorations gone wrong.
And then there’s Michael.
You find your fifty-year-old boyfriend kneeling on the floor of Trauma 2 beside a spilled supply tray like a man confronting his own mortality.
He’s frozen mid-cleanup, one hand on the ground, the other braced on his thigh, wearing the expression of a man negotiating with God about whether he’s getting back up or not.
You lean against the doorframe.
“Whatcha doing down there, handsome?”
Without looking up, he exhales. “Reconsidering every life choice that brought me to this moment.”
You grin. “Including dating me?”
“That one can stay,” he mutters, trying to shift his weight. His knee cracks loud enough that you wince for him. “But these knees? These traitors? They’re on thin fucking ice.”
You stroll over and crouch beside him, picking up a runaway syringe.
“You act like you’re eighty.”
“I feel eighty.” He attempts a second rise. Nothing happens. He sags back down with dramatic resignation. “Actually, I think eighty-year-olds might be offended by the comparison.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. Happens to the best of—”
“Don’t,” he warns lightly. “Don’t you age-shame me in my moment of struggle.”
You’re laughing now. “You crawled under here five minutes ago.”
“Yes,” he says, dead serious. “And five minutes ago, I was younger.”
You’re in love with this idiot.
“Come on, old man,” you say, offering your hand. “Let’s get you vertical.”
He gives you a narrowed look, the kind that’s more fond than annoyed. “You know, when we first started dating, you didn’t call me old.”
“When we first started dating, you didn’t make noises when you stood up.”
He grumbles, but he takes your hand. You brace, and he rises with a full orchestral medley of cracks, pops, and groans that could rival a haunted house soundtrack.
He finally stands. Barely.
He touches his knee like it betrayed national secrets.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he mutters.
You kiss his cheek. “You say that every shift.”
“And one of these days,” he says, pointing at you with a half-smile, “you’re going to come in here and find me fossilized on the floor.”
“I’ll dust you off and keep you,” you promise.
“That’s very romantic.”
“It is.”
He leans in for another kiss, mumbling, “God help me, I’m dating a gremlin.”
“And I’m dating a dinosaur.”
His eyes widen in mock offense. “Take that back.”
“No.”
“Then I’m retiring and leaving you my patient load.”
“Nice try,” you say, sliding your arms around his waist. “You’d never leave me.”
“Unfortunately,” he mutters into your hair, “you’re right.”
You grin against his chest, letting the moment pass, because this is only his first self-deprecating comment tonight.
And you know damn well there’s more coming.
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“These hands aren’t what they used to be”
There are quiet moments in the hospital so rare they should be protected by federal law, but somehow you and Michael have landed in one.
You’re in an empty exam room, finishing paperwork side-by-side.
He’s leaning against the counter, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, pen cap in his mouth as he double-checks a chart.
And then he freezes.
Not dramatically. Not alarmingly.
Just… stares down at his hands.
You glance over. “What’s that face?”
He tilts his head, inspecting himself like he’s a specimen under a microscope.
“These hands,” he says, sighing like a widowed Victorian heroine.
“They’re starting to look… old.”
You blink. “…Michael.”
“No, look,” he insists, holding them up like he’s displaying evidence in court. “The veins. They didn’t used to be this—visible.”
You stare. You stare very hard.
Because his hands look like:
strong
capable
the kind of hands that have saved hundreds of people
Kind that you want wrapped around your throat
But sure. “Old.”
“Maybe I should start using hand cream,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Or something with retinol—”
You cut him off with a noise that sits somewhere between a laugh and an exhale.
“Oh my God. Are you serious right now?”
“Yes,” he says, dead earnest. “They’re… aging.”
You step right into his space, take his wrists, and slowly lower his hands.
Then:
“Michael,” you say, in the tone one uses for people who are being deeply stupid.
“Your hands look fine.”
“They look like tree roots.”
“They look like a wet dream”
He blinks. “…What?”
You gesture at him. “Do you have ANY idea how many nurses and paramedics have asked me if your hands are as steady as they look?”
He blushes. “They said that?”
“They said a LOT more than that.”
He closes his eyes like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t,” you agree. “But for the record…”
You pick up his right hand, fingertips lightly brushing the prominent veins he apparently thinks are his downfall.
“These?”
You kiss the back of his knuckles.
“These are hot.”
His breath catches.
You repeat it plainly, in case his fifty-year-old ass didn’t hear you the first time:
“Michael Robbinavitch, you are so freaking sexy.”
His ears turn red.
“Baby—”
“No, don’t ‘baby’ me,” you say, poking his chest. “You’re standing here complaining about your hands when I’m over here actively trying not to climb you like a tree.”
He stares at you.
You stare back.
The silence becomes heavily charged.
“…Has anyone ever told you you’re ridiculous?” he murmurs.
“Daily,” you say. “But I’m correct.”
He finally laughs that warm, quiet rumble you feel more than hear and tugs you in by the waist.
“Maybe my hands aren’t so bad,” he says, voice low against your temple.
“No,” you say, kissing him once, “they’re perfect.”
You feel him smile.
And he lets it go.
For now.
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Bar lighting is not your friend
It’s a rare night off , like rare rare, and the four of you somehow managed to land at a booth in some dive bar near the hospital.
Dana has a margarita the size of her head.
Jack has a beer and a grievance about literally everything that happened on the unit today.
You’re sipping something fruity.
Michael’s got a whiskey he’s nursing like it’s a patient.
Everyone’s a little loose, a little warm, a little relieved to not be wearing scrubs.
You lean across the table.
“Okay everybody, smile. I want a picture.”
Dana throws peace signs.
Jack looks like someone threatened his life.
Michael gives a polite, confused half-smile like he’s posing for a passport photo.
Click.
You glance down at your phone to check it, and the moment you do, Michael leans over your shoulder.
Not subtly.
Not quietly.
He squints.
Then… freezes.
You see the exact instant his soul leaves his body.
“My beard,” he mutters.
“Hm?” you ask.
He zooms in on the picture like it’s a crime scene.
“It’s… it’s getting greyer.”
Jack snorts. “Congratulations, man. That’s called being alive.”
Dana claps her hands. “Distinguished! Salt-and-pepper! Daddy-coded!”
Michael ignores them like they’re static and keeps staring at his chin like it betrayed him.
He rubs his jaw. “I didn’t realize it was that noticeable…”
You blink at him. “Baby. It’s two strands.”
“Two that I can see,” he corrects, distressed. “Who knows how many are hiding in there.”
You laugh, sliding your phone away. “Oh my God, stop. You look great.”
“I look like I’m about to start giving lectures about 401(k)s.”
Dana raises her glass. “Honestly? Hot.”
Jack points at Michael. “It suits you. You look like you carry mints and good advice.”
Michael grimaces. “I’m not supposed to ‘suit’ grey hair. I’m supposed to have… I don’t know. Youth.”
You stare at him, incredulous.
“Sir,” you say flatly. “You’re fifty.”
He gestures helplessly. “Exactly!”
Dana wheezes.
But you’re watching him more closely now, the way he smooths his hand over his beard, like he’s cataloging every new silver strand, the faint line of worry between his brows. It’s not dramatic. Not unhinged.
Just that quiet, familiar self-deprecating hum he slips into without thinking.
You nudge his knee under the table.
“You’re handsome. Grey, black, purple — it wouldn’t matter.”
He shakes his head with a soft laugh. “You’re biased.”
“Yes,” you agree easily, wrapping your fingers around his forearm. “But that doesn’t make me wrong.”
Jack groans. “Gross.”
Dana throws a fry at him. “Let them flirt, Jesus.”
Michael finally looks at you,the worry easing into a small, shy smile like he’s letting himself believe you for a second.
“For the record,” Dana says, sipping her margarita, “you look like the hot, wise mentor character from every medical drama ever.”
Jack nods. “If anyone sees that picture, they’re gonna assume you two met because he saved your life and then fell in love.”
You roll your eyes. “We work together.”
“Exactly,” Dana says.
Michael chuckles, but his hand drifts back to his beard, fingers grazing the silver again.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
Still insecure you can feel it humming under his skin.
But you let it go.
For now.
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The Great Pudge
Handoff is always loud.
Monitors beeping, phones ringing, nurses swapping charts, Dana verbally assaulting the coffee machine because it “LOOKED at her wrong.”
Jack is half-asleep in a rolling chair, spinning lazily like a bored toddler.
You’re on your way toward them, already fishing your keys from your bag.
Michael promised he’d walk you home after shift, your favorite ritual.
You’re smiling to yourself when you hear your name.
You slow down.
Dana: “Where’s your girl? She usually drags you out of here by now.”
Michael’s voice floats out, tired and warm. “She’s grabbing her stuff. I’m waiting for her.”
Jack: “Because you’re whipped.”
Michael: “…Yes,proudly”
Dana: “Uh-huh. Anyway, did you hear about—”
You approach the corner just in time to hear Michael’s long exhale, the one he does when he’s annoyed at himself.
Then:
“I look terrible today.”
Dana snorts. “No you don’t. You look like the same exhausted giant we’ve all accepted as our father figure.”
Michael grumbles. “My scrubs are tighter.”
Jack lifts a brow. “Dude, you’ve been lifting again.”
“No, it’s not muscle,” Michael insists. “It’s—” He pats his stomach. “This. The pudge. I’m becoming a fat bastard.”
You stop dead.
Dana: “Michael. OH MY GOD.”
Jack: “That’s not—what? You’re not even—what are you talking about?”
Michael: “This uniform is not forgiving. I used to have abs.”
Dana: “WHEN? In the Bush administration?”
Michael ignores her. “I swear, when I bend over, I feel it. It’s like I’m melting.”
Jack is wheezing. “You are not melting.”
Michael sighs again, this time soft, self-deprecating, almost embarrassed.
“I’m fifty years old. My metabolism has filed a restraining order. Everything I eat goes right here.”
Pat. Pat. Paaat.
Dana: “Shut the hell up.”
Jack: “You’re not fat. You’re sturdy.”
Dana: “Built like a Slavic god.”
Jack: “Exactly.”
Michael rubs a hand over his face. “I’m just saying… she’s young. And pretty. And fit. And I’m over here shaped like a dad who got lost on his way to Little League practice.”
Dana scowls. “She clearly doesn’t care.”
Michael laughs weakly. “She should.”
And something in your chest pulls tight, sharp enough to steal your breath.
Because you’ve listened to him make jokes.
You’ve listened to him brush off compliments.
You’ve listened to him downplay himself again and again.
But this?
This is different.
This is him thinking he’s unworthy of you.
You step into the doorway just as Jack opens his mouth to defend you both.
“Oh,” you say lightly, “so this is what we’re talking about tonight?”
Michael jumps like he touched a live wire.
His eyes snap up wide, guilty, pink spreading across his cheekbones like he’s been caught committing a felony.
“Sweetheart—” he starts.
You lift a hand. “No, no. Please. Continue telling them how you’re apparently a ‘fat bastard.’”
Dana buries her face in her hands.
Jack mouths run at Michael.
Michael, poor sweet man, tries to recover with the grace of a newborn giraffe.
“I — I didn’t mean— I wasn’t— It was a joke—”
“Uh-huh,” you say, stepping closer, very calm. Too calm.
“Funny.”
His throat bobs.
Dana whispers to Jack, “He’s so dead.”
You stop right in front of Michael close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to see the tired uncertainty in his eyes and you speak in a tone meant for him alone:
“We’re walking home,” you say. “Right now.”
Michael freezes. “Is… that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“We’ll find out,” you reply, grabbing his hand and guiding him toward the exit.
Dana winces.
Jack salutes.
Michael is sweating.
He has no idea this is the moment everything shifts.
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Reader’s POV
You don’t even let the door finish closing.
Michael opens his mouth, “Sweetheart—”
You spin, finger in his face. “Don’t.”
He shuts up so fast his teeth click.
You prowl forward until his back hits the wall. He’s still in his scrubs and cargos, beard trimmed just enough to make you want to sit on it.
“An old fat bastard,” you repeat, voice dripping acid. “That’s what you called the man I’m obsessed with. With your whole fucking chest.”
He swallows hard. “It was a joke—”
“Insult my boyfriend again,” you cut in, “and see how funny I think it is.”
His breath hitches. You can see his pulse hammering in his throat.
“Four times today,” you cut in. “ FOUR. That’s how many edges you’ve earned.”
His breath stutters.
You press closer, close enough that he can feel every furious inch of you.
“You think I don’t notice you?” Your voice drops to a whisper that somehow feels louder than a scream. “Think I don’t see the way your scrubs stretch across your shoulders? The way your forearms flex when you’re starting an IV? That salt-and-pepper beard that makes me want to sit on your face in the call room?”
Michael makes a broken sound.
“You think your stomach pudge bothers me?” You laugh, dark and disbelieving, and slide your hands under his shirt, palms dragging up warm skin and soft give. “Michael, I want to bite it. I want to ride you and feel it against my clit while you try not to come too fast.”
You grab his wrist and drag him to the bedroom.
There’s a low, wide ottoman at the foot of the bed that faces the full-length mirror perfectly. You shove him down onto it. He sits, knees gratefully apart, and watches you with huge, glassy eyes.
“Strip the top half only,” you order. “Jeans stay on until I say. Your knees will thank me later.”
He yanks the jacket and undershirt off so fast he takes his glasses with them. The second his chest is bare you’re on him, straddling his lap, palms sliding over warm skin and soft belly and silvering chest hair.
“Look,” you whisper, forcing his chin toward the mirror. “Look at what I’m obsessed with.”
Michael’s reflection is wrecked already: flushed throat, swollen lips, pupils blown. You peel your own shirt off, bra following, and press his big hands to your waist.
“Feel how wet I am just from yelling at you?” You grind once against the bulge in his jeans and he groans. “That’s what your body does to me, Michael. This stomach you hate?” You slide down to your knees between his spread thighs, mouth dragging over the soft give of his belly. “I want to fucking live here.”
You kiss it, open-mouthed and filthy, tongue tracing every inch of the pudge he’s insecure about. You bite, gentle then harder, leaving little red crescents. You rub your cheek against the trail of hair that disappears under his waistband like a cat in heat.
“Jesus fuck,” he rasps.
You stand, shove your leggings and panties down in one motion, and climb back into his lap, this time facing the mirror, your back to his chest.
“Watch,” you command, and sink down until your bare pussy is pressed flush to the soft, warm swell of his belly.
You roll your hips slowly, dragging your slick folds over his skin, clit catching on the trail of hair. The noise he makes is inhuman.
“Look how pretty you are under me,” you breathe, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look how good you feel.”
You ride his stomach like that until you’re dripping down his sides, until he’s clawing at your hips, begging in broken fragments.
Then you slide lower, pop the button on his jeans, and take him out. He’s thick, flushed, leaking so much the head is glossy.
“Four edges,” you remind him, voice sugar-rough. “One for every lie.”
You stroke him once, slow, thumb swiping the tip. His head falls back.
“Eyes on the mirror, Michael.”
He forces them open.
First edge: slow, worshipful strokes while you mouth at his belly again, telling him between kisses how perfect he is, how you dream about the way he fills out his scrubs, how you get wet every time he leans over a patient chart and his stomach presses against the counter.
He’s shaking by the time you stop.
Second edge: faster, meaner, spitting in your palm and twisting on every upstroke while you bite his nipple and growl, “This body you called fat? I want to fucking suffocate in it.”
Third edge: you sink to your knees, take him down your throat until your nose is buried in that soft belly you love, humming so the vibration makes him sob, then pull off right as his balls draw up.
Fourth edge: you climb back into his lap, line him up, and sink down just the head, clenching, rocking, never letting him have more while you ride the ridge of his crown and whisper, “Say it. Say you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen,” he chokes out, tears streaking into his beard.
“Good boy.”
You slam down to the hilt.
He screams.
You ride him hard and filthy, hands braced on his shoulders, forcing his head toward the mirror so he watches himself disappear into you again and again, watches your slick coat his belly and thighs, watches his own face contort with pleasure.
You come twice just from the sight, grinding your clit against him on every down-stroke, marking his stomach with your release.
When he’s babbling apologies and praise and your name in no particular order, you finally let him.
“Come in me, Michael. Fill me up with that gorgeous cock and watch how beautiful you look doing it.”
He does, with a broken sob, hips jerking, arms locked around your waist like he’ll die if he lets go.
You’re not done.
You push him flat on the ottoman, climb up, and sit on his face, knees carefully outside his bad ones, and ride his tongue until you come again, flooding his beard.
After, you collapse beside him, dragging him half on top of you because you know his knees are screaming.
You wipe his eyes, clean his face with a warm cloth, kiss every tear track, massage his belly slow and reverent.
“Hey,” you whisper, cupping his scruffy cheek. “You with me?”
He nods, blissed-out and boneless.
“I meant every word,” you say softly. “You are devastatingly handsome. Every single inch. And if you ever call yourself anything less again, I’m edging you for a week. Clear?”
He laughs, watery and wrecked. “Crystal.”
You grin, nuzzle his neck. “Also… I’m ovulating. So maybe I was ninety percent horny rage and ten percent regular rage.”
Michael snorts so hard he wheezes. “That explains… everything.”
You laugh with him, pull the blanket up over both of you, and curl into his side, fingers tracing idle patterns over the stomach he just watched you worship.
“I love you,” he whispers into your hair. “Exactly as I am?”
“Exactly as you are,” you answer, kissing the closest bite mark. “And don’t you ever fucking forget it.”
Summary: A soft bookstore date with your older boyfriend turns into slow-burn tension, filthy banter, and kisses all the way home.
♡ TWs / CWs ♡
Explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV, oral (f receiving), consensual dominance/light restraint (pinned wrists), praise kink, good-girl kink, teasing about arousal/blushing, age-gap (older man/younger woman), DILF!Michael Robinovitch being a menace.
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It’s barely past nine when you finish covering the last batch of brioche dough and wipe flour off your hands with a dish towel. The apartment still smells like sugar and citrus zest,your signature scent at this point, and somewhere upstairs a dresser drawer thumps shut.
Michael always gets ready slowly on weekends.
Deliberate. Calm.
Like a man relearning how to breathe after too many years of rushing.
You’re rinsing out your coffee mug when you hear the creak of the stairs.
He appears on the last step with one hand on the railing, dressed in a soft heather-gray sweater and dark jeans, hair still damp from his shower. His reading glasses hang from the collar, catching on a thread of sunlight. He gives you a warm, almost sleepy smile that hits you right behind the ribs.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs. He crosses the kitchen, presses a warm kiss to the top of your head, then your lips. “Smells like trouble in here.”
“Just baking.”
“That’s what I said,” he murmurs, nudging your hip.
You hand him his travel mug of coffee, and he takes it like you’ve just given him something holy.
“Ready for our bookstore date?”
He nods, wraps an arm around your waist, and steals another kiss, slower this time. “Always.”
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The bookstore is only a short walk down the block, so you both shrug on your jackets and head out. His hand finds yours automatically, there steady and warm.
Inside the little neighborhood bookstore, the bell rings overhead and Michael’s shoulders drop, the way they always do here. Like someone dimmed the lights on the rest of the world.
You make your usual beeline for the romance section. He pretends he’s going to the sci-fi aisle,pretends being the operative word,because he hooks a finger through your belt loop before you can take two steps.
“Before you disappear…” he murmurs, “…I should brace myself for whatever filth you’re bringing home today.”
You gasp dramatically. “They’re not filthy.”
“Mhm.” He plucks a dark romance off the shelf. The cover alone is incriminating. He flips it open with one raised brow. “This man has a knife, and she has bite marks.”
“That’s plot development.”
Michael huffs a soft laugh. “If you say so.”
You slide closer, hands curling around his waist. “You’ve never complained.”
He freezes for half a second. Just enough for you to see the way color creeps up his neck.
Then he exhales, amused and flustered all at once.
“I—” He shakes his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re going to get us thrown out.”
“I’m just saying,” you tease, “some of my books have been educational.”
“God,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “That explains too much.”
“But you like it,” you sing-song.
His eyes darken.
“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “don’t start something you don’t want me to finish. Not here.”
Your mouth snaps shut on instinct.
He smirks, kisses your forehead. “Good girl. Go find your… literature. And no more serial-killer boyfriends.”
“Fine. What are you getting? Another space--political-conspiracy-thriller?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m the one with filthy taste?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Still, he takes the tote from your shoulder like it’s his job. Like he likes carrying your things. Like you’re his.
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He tries to leave. He fails.
You start browsing. He pretends to walk away.
He lasts maybe a minute.
Then you hear those familiar footsteps behind you—steady, unhurried, absolutely purposeful.
“Mikey,” you sigh.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You are literally hovering.”
He stands there staring at a shelf like he’s forgotten how reading works.
“…I like being near you,” he admits finally.
That alone nearly does you in.
You reach up and nudge his glasses back into place. His eyes flutter shut like you just blessed him.
“Go,” you whisper.
“I will.”
“Then go.”
“…in a minute.”
You roll your eyes. He kisses your temple, smirking, and forces himself toward the sci-fi section..
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He is summoned by the sinful book
You pick up a dark romance that looks like it should come shrink-wrapped.
He appears behind you like you summoned him.
“This one looks dangerous,” he says, voice low.
“That’s why I want it.”
“Last time you bought a book with a warning page, you wouldn’t look at me for two days.”
“I was embarrassed!”
“You were feral,” he corrects softly. “Which was… nice.”
You shove it into his chest. “Then carry it.”
He does—gladly.
Then quietly slips another book on top.
“What’s this?”
“A novel about a pastry chef starting over on the coast.” He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Made me think of you.”
Your heart flips.
“It’s not a romance,” he adds quickly. “But I’d read it with you.”
You melt. Full stop.
That’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said and he says it like it’s nothing.
He settles into an armchair like he owns the place and pats his lap.
“You’re not a chair,” you joke.
“Sweetheart,” he says, tone warm and inevitable, “sit.”
You do, curling sideways against him. His arms come around you automatically, his thumb brushing your waist like it’s habit.
“Which one?” he asks.
“The bakery one.”
He reads to you in a low, soft voice—slow enough to savor every word, steady enough to calm your heartbeat. You could fall asleep like this.
You could fall in love all over again.
You already have.
“You’re my favorite way to spend a morning,” he murmurs against your cheek.
You’re gone.
Your heart is a puddle.
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When you both wander toward the checkout, he takes the tote from your shoulder again.
The cashier scans the books and pauses at the dark romance one.
The cashier pauses at the dark romance.
Michael’s hand finds your waist.
“She picked that one,” he says dryly.
“You like when I read them,” you whisper.
He leans in.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I like when you use them on me.”
Your knees weaken.
Outside, you realize he’s carrying an extra bag.
“Mikey?”
“You got shy and put that one back,” he says simply. “I didn’t.”
“Mikey.”
“Sweetheart, if these books make you happy—and make you climb into my lap later—I fully support their existence.”
You gape.
He kisses your forehead, smug.
“Home?”
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The walk home should be peaceful. It’s not.
Every few steps he slows you down, just to stand close enough that his breath brushes your neck.
“You still thinking about that scene?” he murmurs. “The one where she has to count every thrust?”
Your breath stutters. “Michael—”
“Mm. Bet you are. Bet you’re soaked under these tight little jeans, picturing me doing that to you.” His hand slides down to palm your ass, squeezing once. “Be honest. How many times did you clench your thighs together in that aisle while I read the dirty parts out loud?”
Your face flames. “You’re the worst.”
“No, sweetheart,” he chuckles, nipping your earlobe. “I’m the best. And you love it.”
He starts walking again like he didn’t just wreck you.
📖♡📖📖♡📖📖♡📖📖♡📖📖♡📖📖♡📖📖
By the time the apartment door clicks shut, you’re a mess, and he knows it.
He backs you into the door, slow, deliberate, glasses glinting.
“Look at this blush,” he says, thumb stroking your hot cheek. “Prettiest fucking color in the world. You get this every time I talk about bending you over something, huh?”
“Mikey, please—”
“Please what?” He leans in, lips barely grazing yours. “Please tease you more? Please tell you how I’ve been half-hard since you picked up that book about the possessive asshole who fucks his girl slow until she cries?”
You whimper.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “thought so.”
He finally kisses you, deep and filthy, then pulls back just enough to smirk.
“Glasses stay on,” he orders, voice rough. “Want to watch you come apart while I prove every single page wrong. Those guys in your books? They’ve got nothing on what I’m about to do to this soft, curvy little body.”
He peels your sweater off like it offended him, groaning when your breasts bounce free.
“Jesus Christ. These tits in this bra? Criminal.” He cups them, thumbs circling. “Been thinking about getting my mouth on them since you reached for that top shelf and your sweater rode up. Two inches of skin and I almost dragged you into the philosophy section to find out what color your nipples got when you’re needy.”
You moan, arching into his hands.
“Uh-uh,” he tsks, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. “Good girls keep their hands where I put them. You wanna be good for me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
“That’s my girl.” He drops to his knees, dragging your jeans and panties down in one motion. The cool air hits you and you squeak. He just spreads your thighs wider.
“Look at you,” he says reverently, blowing a cool breath over your clit just to watch you jerk. “Soaked straight through. Tell me, baby, was it the part where he made her beg? Or when he said ‘good girls get rewarded’?”
“Both,” you admit, mortified and turned on.
He groans like you just handed him the world.
“Fuck, I love how honest you get when you’re desperate.” He licks one slow stripe up your center and you cry out. “Taste even better than I imagined in that goddamn bookstore.”
He torments you with his tongue until your legs shake, then stands, shoving his own jeans down.
You reach for him and he catches your wrists again.
“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he says, tapping the rim of his glasses. “Want you watching while I slide in. Want you to see exactly who makes you fall apart.”
He lines up and pushes in, slow, relentless, eyes locked on yours.
“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what your blushing little book picks do to me. That’s what you do to me.”
You’re already close, embarrassingly fast.
“Mikey—”
“I know, baby,” he soothes, hips rolling deep and perfect. “I’ve got you. Come on, be my good girl. Show me how pretty you come when you’re stuffed full and blushing for your kinky old man.”
You shatter, crying out, and he follows with a broken groan, glasses sliding down his nose as he buries himself deep and stays there.
After, he collapses half on top of you, breathing hard, lips against your temple.
“Next time,” he mumbles, “we’re acting out chapter seventeen. The one with the mirror.”
You laugh, breathless and wrecked, cheeks still burning.
Summary: Baker!Reader tries to be there for the hardest shift of Dr.Robby's life. Reader happens to be one of the lead venders of Pittfest...
Trigger Warning: implied age gap (reader is late 20s), blood, semi-gore, ANGST, medical inaccuracies, LEAH LIVES, idk if theres anymore. (i even made a mood board >_< it'll be posted shortly)
A.N: this is my first like "post" on here. I love thePitt! Feel free to send requests, let me know if its terrible :P
The morning started quiet, the kind of quiet that made me think the world had decided to move slower just for me. The kitchen smelled like coffee and sugar, the soft hum of my mixer filling the space while the first bit of light slipped through the curtains. I could feel the flour on my cheek, hair pinned back in a way that already felt too tight, and a list a mile long for tonight’s event. My hands were steady, but my nerves weren’t, they never are when this day comes around.
Robby was still upstairs getting ready for his shift. Today was going to be a rough day. It was Adamson’s anniversary and he had refused to take time off. I was already bracing myself for whatever version of him would show up this morning: the one who pretends he’s fine, the one who picks a fight just to feel something, or, if I was lucky, the one who let me help him carry some of the weight.
I heard him before I saw him. The bathroom door creaked open. Heavy footsteps followed.
He came into view a moment later, hair still damp from the shower, the scrub top clinging to his shoulders and his cargo pants creased at the knees. His expression was unreadable, that same practiced calm he wore like armor. I hated how well it suited him.
“Morning,” I said softly, setting a plate on the counter, some toast, eggs, a few strawberries I’d sliced before the sun came up. “You should eat before you go. You’ve got a long shift.”
“I’ll grab something later,” he said, not looking up as he reached for his watch. His tone was even, clipped like he was talking to a coworker, not his girlfriend.
I forced a smile and turned to the counter, sliding the brown paper bag I’d already packed toward him. “Then take this, at least. I put in those protein bars you like and a coffee to go.”
He paused, just long enough to make me think he might actually say thank you, then shook his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” I said, quieter this time.
When he finally looked at me I almost wished he hadn’t. There wasn’t anger in his eyes, only exhaustion. That empty kind of hurt that didn’t leave room for anything else.
I waited a moment, hoping he’d say something else, but he just slipped his watch into place and reached for his airpods. The silence between us stretched thin, humming with everything neither of us wanted to say.
“Robby,” I started, careful, the way you speak to someone standing too close to the edge. “You know what today is. You don’t have to act like it’s just another shift.”
His shoulders tensed, barely. “I know what day it is.”
“Then you know I’m not asking you to pretend,” I said. “I just … I want you to know you don’t have to go through it alone.”
He finally looked up, and for a second I saw it, the flicker of grief behind his calm, the way his jaw tightened like he was fighting not to feel. “I appreciate it,” he said, voice flat.
“I mean it,” I whispered. “I love you, Mikey. You don’t have to keep carrying it all by yourself.”
He nodded once, eyes already sliding toward the door. “I know,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was trying to believe it.
“I’ll be home late tonight,” I said, trying to fill the cracks in the moment. “PittFest is supposed to run until eleven. I’ll save you a few of those croissants you like, okay?”
He gave the smallest hint of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Be safe.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the house went still again. For a long moment, I just stood there, staring at the half-finished coffee cup he’d left on the counter, the steam fading the same way his warmth always seemed to. My chest felt heavy, but I didn’t cry. I just exhaled, slow and shaky, and turned back to my mixer.
Work was safer than feeling. So I worked.
Flour dusted the counter like snow, the scent of sugar, bread, and vanilla filling the room while I lost myself in the rhythm: stir, scoop, repeat. By the time the light fully stretched across the kitchen, I’d finished half of what I needed for tonight’s event. Still, none of it quieted the ache.
I wanted to cry, but there wasn’t time for that. I took a deep breath, “Control what you can and the rest will follow”, “It’s okay, it’s a bad day not a bad life” I repeated the mantra to myself.. Maybe if I say it enough I'll believe it. I wiped at my face with the back of my wrist, frustrated at the tears I didn’t remember starting to fall. “Get it together,” I muttered, setting another batch in the oven.
Then, without really thinking about it, I pulled a new lunch bag from the drawer. Turkey on rye, some chips, and a cookie,his favorite kind, the one he always pretended wasn’t. I made a mental note to stop by the bakery to grab him a coffee. I’m sure Dana and the interns could use a mid-day pick me up too. Then, on impulse, I tore a page from my recipe notebook and wrote a quick note:
Mikey,
I know today hurts, even if you won’t say it out loud.. I love you beyond words and ill be here when your ready to talk <3
I folded it neatly and slipped it inside before sealing the bag. I’d take it to him later maybe between shifts, maybe when the hospital quieted down enough for him to breathe.
He probably wouldn’t eat it.
But maybe he’d know I was still here.
PTMC
Robby approached the charge desk, head spinning and mind everywhere and nowhere all in the same breath. He couldn’t believe another year had passed by since Adamson’s passing. Quickly shaking himself from his thoughts, he approached Dana:
Robby: “No guts, no Gloria? Must be time for my weekly spanking.”
Dana: “You sure you’re cool being here today?”
Robby scoffed, “Not you too. I’m fine . . . the world keeps spinning, cases keep coming.”
Dana’s eyes softened, “Robby, it’s normal to grieve and need to take a step back. You’ve got people who care, Robby. Don’t shut them out.You’re not alone.”
Robby,”Thanks, but I’m fine. Just another day in paradise. Where’s Abbot?”
Dana, “He’s getting some “air””.
Robby, “...Really?”.
Robby started his way up to the roof. Even though he hated talking about how he felt, he would never let you or Abbot feel the weight of the world alone.
Robby heads to the helicopter pad where Jack is standing near the edge deep in thought.
Robby, “Mornin, Jack.”
Jack, “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to help Y/N today?”
Robby, “I’m working, she can manage with her crew. What’re you doing up here?”.
Jack shakes his head in disbelief, “ Alright.. Had a guy come in hit by a drunk driver at a crosswalk. Man was a 39 year old Vet. Survived three tours without a scratch. I spent two hours coding him.”
Robby releases a breath of air, “Shit..that's always a hard way to end the night”.
Jack, “Yeah no kidding..Sometimes I wonder why I’m still here. Some days I feel like a hero, and others I feel like the villain delivering the next person to the grim reapers door step.”
Robby, “The job that keeps on giving… Nightmares, stomach ulcers, and suicidal tendinces. You heading home?”.
Jack, “Yeah, I’m off tonight. Thought about heading down to Y/N’s bakery to help her after a quick power nap.”.
Robby, “Sounds like a plan brother. She’ll be happy to see you, she’s been asking when you and Samira are going to come over again.”
Y/N’s POV
The hum of the food truck kept me grounded. The afternoon sun poured in through the small service window, catching the dust in the air and making it look like fairy dust. My hands moved automatically — trays lined up, utensils in their place, labels facing forward. Every motion was another attempt not to think about him, about how cold he’d been this morning. About how much he’s struggling and making himself suffer in silence.
“Hey,” a familiar voice called softly. Jack leaned against the truck’s open window, his rumpled appearance making me feel a little lighter.
“You’re running yourself ragged,” he said.
I forced a small smile. “Occupational hazard. Keeps me out of trouble.”
He studied me for a second, like he could see straight through the act. “He’s… not doing great today,” Jack said carefully. “You know how he gets.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I figured.”
“You shouldn’t let him treat you like that, you know.”
“I’m not,” I lied. “I’m just… making sure he eats.”
Jack’s eyes softened, but he didn’t push. He just nodded toward the small brown lunch bag sitting on the counter, the one I’d written his name on in looping, hopeful letters.
“You always do,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, “He’s lucky, you know that?”
I didn’t look at him, just folded the top of the bag and set it aside. “He will,” I whispered, “once he realizes I’m not always going to wait for him to let me love him.”
Jack swallowed, then tried to shift the mood. “So, little birdie told me you’re on babysitting duty tonight.”
Finally, something easier to hold on to. I nodded with a small smile. “Yeah, Jake and his new girlfriend are supposed to ‘help.’ I think they’re just using it as an excuse to skip lines and get free food.”
Jack chuckled. “Can’t say I blame them. Best croissants on this side of the Mississippi… especially that Nutella one with the —”
“Strawberries,” we finished together, laughing.
“You’re not slick,” I teased. “But since you’re my best friend, I made sure to set a box aside for you and Samira.”
He feigned a gasp, clutching the light blue box I handed him. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”
I rolled my eyes. “Alright, cowboy, I see you favoring that leg. Go home and rest. You coming to PittFest tonight?”
“Hell no,” Jack said, smirking. “No offense, we’d love to see you in action, but crowds like that? Not for me. Too many people, too many things that can go wrong. And Samira’s working, so she’ll be wiped.”
I nodded in understanding. “I figured. I’m hoping we sell out early so I can catch the headliners. Mikey’s favorite band is playing tonight.”
Jack’s face softened. “You’re both my best friends, and I love Robby, but he needs help. It’s not fair, the way he shuts you out. You show up for everything he does, but when it’s your turn, he disappears. You deserve better.”
The air felt tight, heavy. “I know,” I said quietly. “But he’s the love of my life, Jack. I can’t just give up on him. He’s hurting, and I won’t abandon him when things get tough. You know me, once I love you, that's that.”
Jack nodded, lips pressed together. “I know, kid. Just… keep your head up.” Then his smirk returned. “And keep sticking by him like a bad rash.”
“Jack! Gross!” I groaned, covering my face as he laughed.
“Just saying,” he grinned, already backing away. “Text me when you get to PittFest. Stay safe, kid!”
“I will! Tell Samira I miss her and that I’m still the reigning UNO champion!”
Jack waved over his shoulder, middle finger raised in goodbye.
As his footsteps faded, the silence crept back in — and suddenly, the hum of the truck didn’t feel grounding anymore. It just felt lonely.
By the time I finished stocking the truck and double-checked the locks it was three in the afternoon. Jake’s car pulled up with a rattle, music thumping faintly through the open windows. He hopped out, waving like he hadn’t just been twenty minutes late.
“Sorry, sorry!” he called, jogging over. “You ready?”
I forced a smile, slinging my tote over my shoulder. “Yeah. Just… gotta make one stop before we hit PittFest.”
Jake groaned, though his grin gave him away. “Lemme guess….Robby?”
I shot him a look. “He has the vendor passes.” I reached into the truck for the lunch bag. “It’ll be quick.”
Jake eyed the bag, one brow lifting. “You’re still doing the whole Florence Nightingale thing, huh?”
“Shut up,” I muttered, trying not to smile. “He’s having a rough day.”
He sighed, the teasing slipping into something gentler. “Yeah. I know. Just… Don't lose yourself trying to fix him, okay? My mom and him fizzled out for this same reason. ”
“I won’t.” The lie came out too easily.
You grabbed the coffees for the other staff along with a few extra goodies you had. “Be a sweet heart and help me load this in the car. Lord knows if he’s still in a bad mood, the interns aren’t fairing off much better.”.
We climbed into his car, the brown bag settled between us on the seat. For a while, neither of us said anything. The road hummed beneath the tires, the late afternoon light streaking across the windshield.By the time the hospital came into view, my heartbeat had already picked up. I didn’t know if it was dread, or hope, or both tangled up so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart.
PTMC came into view, equally haunting as it was beautiful. Walking through the back entrance, the sharp smell of antiseptic hit us first. The noise came next: monitors beeping, overhead pages calling for consults, the steady shuffle of nurses and techs who never stopped moving. Even after years of visiting Robby at work, the hospital still made my chest tighten.
Jake whistled low. “Man, this place never slows down.” His hands full of blue boxes and a drink tray.
“Level one trauma,” I murmured, clutching the brown paper bag and left over coffees a little tighter. “It’s always chaos.”
As we got closer to the charge desk, I could see Dana buried in chart forms, glasses sitting low on her nose. When our eyes connected, her expression softened, almost as if to say “Yeah girl he’s being an ass to us too.”.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite baker,” Dana greeted, forcing some brightness into her tone. “You here to feed us or rescue Robby from himself?”
“Bit of both,” I said, managing a weak smile. “He leave the vendor passes with you?”
Dana gave me a look that said she knew exactly why I was here and exactly what I wasn’t saying. She tapped a clipboard before answering. “He’s still in South 3. They brought in a rollover about twenty minutes ago and he’s up to his elbows.”
I felt the dread twist in my stomach before I could stop it. “Oh. Right. Of course he is.”
Jake shifted awkwardly beside me, glancing around at the busy hallway. “We can wait,” he offered, but Dana shook her head.
“It might be a while. Tell you what, I’ll page him and let him know you’re here. In the meantime…” She reached into the drawer behind her and pulled out two laminated passes, handing them to me with a small, sympathetic smile. “You might want to sit for a minute. You look like you’ve been running on fumes.”
I forced a small laugh. “Comes with the territory.”
Dana leaned in a little, lowering her voice so only I could hear. “He’s trying, you know. Even when it doesn’t look like it.”
That cracked something small and fragile in my chest. I nodded, blinking hard. “I know.”
Jake cleared his throat, reading the tension like a siren. “Hey, why don’t I go see if I can get ahold of Leah. Make sure she knows where to meet us and all that stuff while you wait on him?”.
I nodded, grateful for the space.
When he walked off, Dana reached out and squeezed my hand. “He’s lucky you’re patient,” she said quietly. “Just… don’t forget you deserve to breathe too.”
I smiled, even if it felt hollow. “I’ll try.”
Dana gave me a knowing look before helping me unload everything into the staff break room, waiting for a man who might not realize how much I was breaking just to show up for him.
Before I could decide whether to sit or just keep standing there pretending I wasn’t spiraling, the automatic doors to the trauma bay opened and a small group of interns spilled out in a whirlwind of scrubs, clipboards, and nervous energy.
They looked too young to be dealing with the kind of chaos behind those doors. One of them — tall, blonde hair, kinda resembled what I imagine a Victorian child would look like — nearly collided with me before skidding to a stop.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he blurted, wide-eyed. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Ma’am? Really? I’m not that old.”
Dana chuckled from behind the desk. “Easy, Whittaker. You just bumped into Dr. Robby’s better half.”
That set them off like firecrackers. Three heads snapped in my direction, curiosity blooming all at once.
“You’re her!?” one of the girls gasped — petite, blonde hair pulled into a tight pony tail and black framed glasses, probably not even twenty-four. “You’re Y/N?”
I blinked, caught between surprise and amusement. “I think so… unless there’s another one of me running around here.”
Whittaker grinned. “You’re the one who makes those muffins he brings in on his last shift of the week, right? The blueberry crumble?”
“Guilty,” I said with a playful shrug. “Though I’m starting to think he takes all the credit.”
“Oh, he does,” the one, you later learned was Trinity Santos, said with mock seriousness. “We thought he made them himself. He said something like, ‘I dabble.’”
Dana snorted. “Dabble, my ass. The man can barely make toast without setting off the fire alarm.”
I laughed, the warmth of it catching me off guard. “That sounds about right.”
A third intern, tall and quiet, tilted her head. “He talks about you a lot, you know. Not in a mushy way or anything,” she added quickly, cheeks flushing, “just… like you’re his person.”
That knocked the air out of me more than I expected. I forced a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “He’s mine too,” I said softly.
Whittaker leaned on the counter, eyes bright with curiosity. “So what brings you in today? We don’t usually get surprise visits unless someone’s bleeding.”
“Lunch delivery,” I said, holding up the little brown paper bag. “He forgot it this morning.”
Dana raised a brow, her tone teasing. “You mean he refused it this morning.”
I sighed, the edge of a grin tugging at my lips. “Tomato, tomahto.”
Turning to face the new faces, Then I grinned and added, “I also left some goodies in the staff lounge. Ham and cheese croissants, and I think there are Nutella ones too.”
That earned a ripple of laughter from the interns before Dana’s pager buzzed. She glanced down, then back up at me. “South 3’s almost wrapped. He should be out in a few.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
The interns started to shuffle away, still whispering and sneaking glances at me like they’d just met a celebrity. Whittaker shuffled around, “Dibs on the Nutella!”. I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
Heavy footsteps could be heard heading your way before you heard a familiar voice, “Good call on the chest tube, man. You bought us enough time to stabilize before transfer. ICU could use a guy with your instincts.”. My heart did a little flip at the sound..Robby appeared a moment later, gloves tossed into the nearest bin, hand sanitizer glittering on his palms. He still wore his scrub top with cargo pants, the uniform of the man who could save a life without blinking.
Behind him was Frank Langdon, or also known better as ER Ken. I stayed where I was, clutching the paper bag in my hands, heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn’t meant to interrupt , at least I hadn’t planned on him seeing me until he’d at least had a second to breathe , but then Langdon’s eyes caught mine.
For a split second, his expression froze. Then that trademark grin spread across his face, the kind that could light up a whole room.
“No way,” Langdon said, already striding toward me. “Is that my favorite baker or am I hallucinating from lack of caffeine?”
Before I could answer he wrapped me in a hug, warm and ridiculous and exactly what I needed. “God, I’ve missed you. You never come by anymore. We’re dying without your sugar fixes.”
“Put me down, you lunatic,” I giggled, swatting at him as my feet hit the floor again. “And I dropped off pastries last week!”
“Yeah, well, they didn’t come with you,” he said, smirking.
The warmth of it faltered when I felt eyes on me.
Robby was standing a few feet away, expression carved from stone, jaw tight enough to crack. His gaze flicked from Langdon’s hand still resting on my shoulder to the lunch bag I was gripping like a lifeline.
Langdon noticed, too and his easy grin faltered as he stepped back. “Uh… I should, uh, check on my other patients.”
I forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Good seeing you, Ken.”
“You too, sweetheart,” he said softly before retreating down the hall.
The silence between Robby and me stretched thin. I could feel Dana quietly slipping away from the desk, giving us space.
“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Brought you lunch.”
He looked at the bag, then back at me. His eyes were tired but not angry exactly, but the kind of weary that made it hard to tell if he was going to speak or walk away.
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered finally, voice low, guarded.
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing hard. “But I wanted to.”
The air between us was thick enough to choke on. A few nurses pretended to be busy charting; the interns lingered, whispering behind clipboards.
“Mikey,” I said softly, stepping closer. “You don’t have to keep doing this, acting like you’re fine when you’re clearly not. Just let me in, let me help.”
He stiffened, eyes darting to the bystanders. “Not now.”
“Why not now?” I pressed, my voice cracking. “You talk to everyone else when they’re falling apart. You patch them up, listen, tell them they’re not alone,but when it’s you, I’m not allowed in? You think I don’t notice how much you’re hurting?”
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. “Jesus Christ, you don’t know when to stop, do you?”
The words hit harder than I expected. The hallway had gone quiet now; even Dana looked frozen behind the desk.
“I’m just trying to help you,” I whispered.
“Yeah, well, I don’t need it.” His tone was clipped, his control cracking. “Not everyone needs to unpack their feelings every five minutes. Collins understood that.”
The name landed like a slap. For a second, all I could hear was the ringing in my ears.
“She gave me space,” he added, quieter but no softer. “She didn’t push.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “She also left , Robby.”
He flinched,just barely,but enough for me to see the regret flicker behind his eyes.
“I didn’t mean—” he started, but I was already stepping back, my fingers tightening around the paper bag until the crinkled spots bloomed through.
“I think you did,” I said quietly. Then I set the lunch on the counter beside him. “For what it’s worth, I still love you.”
And before he could say anything else, I turned and walked toward the exit, trying to ignore how every pair of eyes followed me out.
The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, leaving a silence so heavy it could crush bone. Robby stood there, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the spot she’d disappeared through. The paper lunch bag sat on the counter beside him, crinkles in the bag spreading slowly across its surface like guilt he couldn’t scrub out.
Dana’s voice cut through the quiet. “You realize everyone saw that, right?”
Robby didn’t look at her. “Dana—”
“No, you don’t get to brush me off this time.” Her tone was sharp but steady. “She came here to take care of you on one of the hardest days of the year, and you humiliated her in front of half the floor.”
“I told her not to push—”
“And you think that gives you a free pass to be cruel?” Dana snapped. “You’re better than that, Robby. Or at least, you used to be.”
The interns were huddled near the charting station, wide-eyed. Whittaker muttered under his breath, “That was messed up, man.”
“Watch it,” Robby warned.
But Mel squared her shoulders. “No, he’s right. She didn’t deserve that. You should’ve seen her before you came out ,she was trying so hard to keep it together. She brought you lunch.”
“Enough,” Robby barked, louder this time. His tone shut them all up, but not the look on their faces that mix of disappointment and disbelief.
Before he could respond, Langdon rounded the corner, wiping his hands on a napkin. He stopped short, scanning the room, then caught onto the tension.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Dana just crossed her arms. “Ask your boss.”
Langdon looked between them, then at the lunch bag, then back to Robby. “She was left, didn’t she?”
Robby’s silence was answer enough.
Langdon’s jaw clenched. “You know, for someone who saves lives for a living, you’ve got a hell of a talent for breaking the people who love you.”
Robby’s head snapped up. “Watch it, Langdon.”
“I am,” Langdon said evenly, not backing down. “She looks at you like you hung the damn stars, and you act like she’s a burden. You’re the only person who has the power to make her shine that bright, Robby,but you’re also the only one who can dim her beyond recognition. And you just did.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The interns had gone quiet, the kind of silence that carries more judgment than words ever could.
Robby let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I just want this shift to be over.”
Langdon shook his head slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “We all do.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Robby standing in the middle of the chaos he’d created and surrounded by people, but utterly alone.
Robby’s eyes flicked once more to the lunch bag, the edge of a folded note peeking out. His hand twitched, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
Outside, the city rolled on toward evening. I went back to the truck, checked my list one more time and tried to shake the cold weight that had settled in my chest. I told myself that tonight would be normal. I told myself that he would come home and we would sit on the couch and eat croissants and everything would be fine.
I told myself a lot of things to keep from thinking about what happened in that hallway.
PITTFEST – That Evening
The music was loud enough to make the ground shake. The crowd pulsed with light, laughter, and the smell of fried food and spring air. For the first time all day, I actually felt free.
We’d sold out hours earlier — every croissant, cupcake, and pastry gone before sunset. Jake had whooped and lifted Leah off her feet when the last order was called, and I’d laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink.You should’ve felt proud, and you did, somewhere under the ache that had lived in your chest all day.
Now the three of us stood near the main stage, beer in my hand, the band Robby loved playing one of their older songs. The one he used to play in the kitchen at midnight when he couldn’t sleep. The one that made him hum without realizing it. Memories of us dancing in the low light of our first apartment played through my mind.
I let the sound wash over me, the bass thudding in my chest like a heartbeat. For a few minutes, I let myself pretend everything was fine, that he hadn’t looked at me today like I was a burden and unwanted.
When the band finished their set, I grinned and nudged Jake. “Matching shirts?”
He rolled his eyes, but Leah laughed. “You’re impossible.”
I stuck my tongue out and wove through the crowd to the merch table, bought three shirts — one in each of our sizes, and a fourth in his. Just in case.
The night air was electric when I turned back, the fabric of the shirts soft and warm in my hands. I could already picture teasing him about wearing it tomorrow.
And then
The first gunshot cracked through the music like thunder.
At first, nobody moved. Someone screamed. Then came another shot, and chaos ripped through the festival like a wave.
“Jake!” I shouted, pushing through the stampede of bodies. “Leah!”
I spotted them by the food truck, Jake waving frantically. My lungs burned as I sprinted toward them, shoving through the panic.
“Inside!” I yelled, throwing the door open. “Go! Go!”
They climbed in, Leah trembling, Jake trying to keep her down low. The air filled with the deafening sound of ricochets — metal pinging, glass shattering.
I dove in after them, the metallic tang of fear sharp on my tongue. A bullet tore through the side panel, sparks flying. Leah screamed, curling against the counter.
“Stay down!” I shouted, moving without thinking — covering them both with my body, pressing them to the floor, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
The next shot hit the truck’s side, a spray of sparks across the counter. Then another, and fire exploded through your back, burning and bright and unending.
For a second, I didn’t even realize it was me. The air vanished. You gasped, choking on smoke and pain. Your hand came away red. Leah’s scream echoed from somewhere above you.
“Y/N—oh my god—Y/N!”
Jake’s voice broke as he pressed his hands to the wound. “No, no, no, you’re okay, you’re okay—”
The shirts I’d bought were scattered on the floor, the one meant for Robby soaked in red.
The pain hit like fire, sharp and deep. My breath stuttered, catching halfway in my chest. The world tilted, edges blurring, but Jake’s panicked voice cut through the noise.
“Y/N oh god there’s so much blood—”
“Phone,” you managed, breath thin. “Front console.”
He scrambled for it, hands shaking, glass crunching under his boots. Leah was still pressed against the floor, whispering a prayer through trembling lips.
Jake slid back beside me, phone unlocked and waiting. “What do I do? Who do I call? 911?”
I shook my head weakly. You could barely lift your head. “Call… Robby.”
He hesitated only a second before tapping the contact. The line rang once, twice—then clicked to voicemail.
My stomach sank. “Call again.”
He did. It went to voicemail again.
You swallowed hard. “Let me… talk.”
His thumb trembled over the screen. “What do you want me to say?”
“Just say what I tell you,” I whispered. I took a shallow breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “Mikey..baby… hey. It’s me.” The words came slow, heavy. “There was—there was a shooting at PittFest. I’m with Jake and Leah. We’re okay for now, but—” My voice faltered when a wave of pain tore through my back. “If—if I don’t make it out, I need you to know I love you. Always have and always will. .”
Jake’s throat worked, eyes glassy. “Y/N, stop—”
“Finish it,” I whispered. “Tell him we’re in the food truck. Tell him to find us.”
He did, voice cracking as he ended the message.
Another round of shots rang out outside, closer this time. The metal of the truck shuddered, sparks flying as a bullet struck the frame.
I forced myself upright, every muscle screaming. “When it stops… you grab the keys. Get as many people inside as you can. The truck’s heavy—you can use it for cover. Then drive—drive everyone you can to PTMC. Dana will be there. Robby will know what to do.”
Jake shook his head, tears streaking his face. “I’m not delaying getting you to the hospital—”
“You will,” I said, voice breaking. “You have to. Promise me.”
He nodded, choking on a sob.
The edges of my vision dimmed. The noise outside faded into a low hum. My hand found Leah’s, squeezing once, gently.
“You’re safe now,” I murmured. “Stay down… wait for the sirens.”
The world tilted again, and then everything went quiet.
PTMC — NIGHT
The first tone over the radio was sharp, followed by the dispatcher’s voice calm, clipped, too calm to mean anything good.
“All units, be advised: active shooter at PittFest grounds. Multiple casualties. PTMC is designated primary receiving facility.”
Dana froze mid-step, clipboard still in hand. Around her, the charge desk went dead quiet for two beats before bursting into motion. Nurses moved like a wave, pulling stretchers, prepping bays, shouting for extra hands.
“Robby!” she called across the chaos.
He was already moving, switching gears before anyone else had time to panic. “Get Trauma One through Four ready. I want blood units pulled and a second line open in each bay. Call in surgery and ortho full standby.”
Dana nodded, already on the phone, but she caught the flicker in his eyes. The brief moment where he wasn’t the attending, he was the man whose entire world existed ten miles away at that festival.
“Do we know how many injured?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “First responders are still on scene.”
He clenched his jaw. “Then we prepare for everyone.”
“Dana, try to get ahold of Jake or Y/N”, Dana nodded, grabbing the landline.
He turned to bark another order when his pager buzzed — TRAUMA ALERT: ETA 6 MINUTES. He shoved it back into his pocket and strode toward the staff room, yanking his blood-spattered scrub top off and pulling on a clean one.
His phone sat on the table, the screen lighting up with two missed calls and one new voicemail. He didn’t see it.
Jack Abbot strode in, still half in street clothes, badge clipped to his belt. “Jesus, Jack,” Dana said as he passed through the charge desk. “Did you run here?”
“Heard it on the scanner,” he panted. “PittFest. How bad?”
Robby turned at the sound of his voice, a rush of relief cutting through the tension for half a heartbeat. “I’m glad to see you brother.Active shooter, multiple casualties inbound. We’re setting up triage zones—green, yellow, pink, red, black, and white.”
Jack nodded, switching instantly into clinical mode. “You got enough hands?”
“Never,” Robby said. “You and I will handle Red. Dana’s coordinating all zones.”
Jack moved to grab gloves, but paused. “Hey, Robby… have you heard from Y/N?”
Robby froze for a fraction of a second. “No,” he said quietly. “She’s supposed to be working PittFest tonight, but—”
“Yeah,” Jack cut in, his voice tight. “I figured. She didn’t answer when I called.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. The noise around them felt far away, just the two of them standing there, caught between duty and dread.
Robby finally cleared his throat, forcing himself back into the role he knew best. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s get ready.”
Dana stepped forward, tossing them both triage tags and trauma bands. “Ambulances are lining up outside. Five out in the bay, three more en route.”
Jack nodded, already moving toward his station. “Copy that.”
Robby glanced once toward the staff lounge as the first siren screamed past the bay doors — his phone still sitting there on the table, the screen lighting up with another missed call he’d never see.
Then he turned back to the chaos, jaw set. “Alright, people let’s move. PittFest victims incoming. I want trauma teams ready in thirty seconds.”
The room snapped back into motion, every voice rising at once.
“Samira your with me,” Robby said, snapping a new glove onto his wrist. “Dana, make sure security locks down the entrances until PD clears it.”
“Yes, Boss.”
The automatic doors at the ambulance bay opened, the first sirens screaming into the night. Dana watched him for a second longer — how he stood taller when everything went to hell, how he’d built a whole armor of composure just to survive.
But as she turned back to the charge desk, her stomach twisted.
She’d seen the name flash on his phone before the screen went dark.
Sweets🍒— 2 Missed Calls. 1 Voicemail.
And her heart sank.
“Let’s go!” Robby barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos. “We’ve got this — Green and Yellow zones outside, Red with me!”
The bay doors flew open. EMTs pushed in a man covered in blood and glitter — festival confetti stuck to his face, his shirt soaked crimson.
“Thirty-two-year-old male, GSW to the upper thigh, entry and exit,” the paramedic shouted. “BP ninety over sixty, responsive but fading fast!”
“Move him to Trauma Two,” Robby ordered, already slipping gloves on.
They fell into rhythm controlled, precise, mechanical. Dana moved between stations, shouting vitals, calling for transfusions. Stretchers lined the hallway, nurses cutting through clothing, IVs snaking across the floor.
Another gurney arrived. Then another. Then five.
Smoke. Sweat. Screams. The acrid scent of gunpowder clung to every patient who came through the doors.
Jack wiped his forehead, catching Robby’s eye across the chaos. “Still no word from her?”
Robby shook his head, too tightly. “Phones are jammed. We’ll know if she’s—”
He stopped himself. He couldn’t say the word here. Not out loud.
Dana brushed past them, holding up another triage tag. “Black tag — male, mid-forties. DOA.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were glassy.
Behind her, a paramedic stumbled in, shouting over the din, “We’ve got kids, two teens, both with shrapnel wounds conscious but bleeding bad!”
“ RED,” Robby snapped. “Now!”
The ER lights seemed too bright, the noise too much, the walls too small. Every shout felt like an echo of the ones he’d ignored earlier that day.
Jack met his gaze again, quieter this time. “She was supposed to be there, Rob.”
“I know,” Robby said, almost to himself. His voice cracked. “God, I know.”
Before either man could say another word, the overhead speakers crackled to life:
“Inbound transport — female, mid-twenties, gunshot wound to the back. ETA four minutes. Coming from PittFest.”
Robby’s stomach dropped.
Jack froze, watching him. “...Robby?”
But he was already moving — gloves off, blood still on his sleeves, running toward the bay doors like something in him finally broke.
Dana stood by the glass doors, scanning the line of flashing lights. Her radio crackled with half-phrases: “more inbound… multiple GSWs… civilians in private vehicles…”
“Dana!” one of the security officers shouted from the bay entrance. “We’ve got a non-EMS vehicle coming in hot!”
She turned as headlights swerving into the lot, horn blaring. The food truck screeched to a stop halfway between two ambulances, its sides shredded with bullet holes, the windshield cracked like a spiderweb. Blood streaked down the paint in dark, uneven trails.
Jake stumbled out before the engine even cut, voice breaking. “Help! Somebody help us!”
Leah followed, her hands and shirt stained crimson. “She’s not waking up—please!”
Dana’s heart stopped. She knew that truck. Everyone did.
“Get a trauma team out here now!” she shouted, already sprinting toward them. “Langdon, gurney—let’s move!”
Robby and Jack burst through the bay doors just as the back of the truck swung open. The smell hit first — iron and smoke. There were three other victims inside, one moaning, one eerily still, and in the center—
“Y/N,” Dana whispered.
Jake’s voice cracked as he clutched the doorframe. “She—she saved us. The bullets—one hit her. She told us to drive here—said you’d know what to do—”
Robby’s face drained of color. “No,” he breathed, already moving. He climbed into the truck, hands slick with someone else’s blood, finding hers beneath it all. “Y/N! Hey—look at me—come on, sweetheart, open your eyes—”
Jack grabbed a gurney, voice shaking. “She’s still got a pulse! Let’s move!”
“Get her inside!” Robby barked, his composure gone. “Langdon, trauma room two—now!”
Dana reached for his arm. “Robby, you need—”
“I said move!” he snapped, already climbing down with her in his arms.
The lights of the ambulance bay bathed everything in a harsh, sterile white. Sirens howled. The world narrowed to the sound of her uneven breathing against his chest.
As the trauma doors swung shut behind them, Jake fell to his knees on the asphalt, hands covered in blood that wasn’t his.
The doors slammed open, the world narrowing to harsh white lights and the flat rhythm of chaos. Y/N’s gurney rolled in.
Robby was beside her, gloves half-on, adrenaline shaking his hands. “Get a line in—move—she’s losing pressure!”
Jack stepped in front of him, blocking the bed. “No.”
Robby’s eyes snapped up. “Get out of the way.”
“You’re not working this case, brother.” Jack’s voice was steady, but his eyes burned. “You’re too close.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Robby.” Samira’s voice cut through, firm but calm as she appeared at the head of the bed, already setting up airway tools. “We’ve got her. Let us do this.”
He froze, torn between fury and fear. Then he caught sight of her—his Y/N—pale, lips bloodless, her shirt cut away to reveal the dark wound seeping through the gauze. His throat closed.
“BP seventy over forty,” a nurse called.
“Push fluids,” Samira ordered. “Hang two units O-neg, get me suction.”
Robby stumbled back, fingers clawing through his hair, the sterile air suddenly too thick to breathe. This is my fault. I did this.
Through the glass, Jake stood shaking, talking fast to a dazed Dana.
“I swear, she saved us,” Jake said, voice hoarse. “We were by the stage when the shots started. She threw us in the truck—made us duck. She covered Leah when the bullet hit. She told me to drive here, told me you’d know what to do.” He blinked back tears. “She was laughing earlier, man. Bought us all matching shirts—one for you too. Said she wanted to surprise you.”
Robby pressed his palms into his eyes. His chest felt like it was caving in.
Inside the trauma bay, Samira and Jack worked in rhythm — compressions, orders, suction. The beeping monitor fluttered weakly, then spiked, then faltered again.
“Pulse’s fading!”
“Prep for intubation!”
Robby’s breath came fast, ragged. “Come on, sweetheart, fight—please—”
Jack looked up once, catching Robby’s reflection in the glass. “You better pray she does.”
The crash cart beeped to life, its rhythm syncing with the pounding in Robby’s head. Guilt, love, and sheer terror all blurred together until he couldn’t tell one from the other.
He wanted to run. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to take back every word he’d said that morning.
But all he could do was stand there and watch the woman he loved fight for her life—
and know that if she didn’t make it,
it would be because of him.
Robby stood on the other side of the glass, scrubs streaked with blood, his hands still shaking. He couldn’t make himself sit down. Every sound — the monitors, the muffled voices, the squeak of gurney wheels — felt too loud.
Jake sat hunched over on one of the plastic chairs, his face buried in his hands. Leah sat beside him, pale and trembling, a shock blanket draped around her shoulders. She hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived.
When she finally did, her voice was barely a whisper. “It should’ve been me.”
Robby turned, startled. “What?”
Leah’s eyes filled with tears. “She pushed me down. The bullet…it was meant for me. If I hadn’t frozen”
“Stop.” Robby’s voice cracked. He knelt in front of her, gripping her shaking hands. “You listen to me, okay? Y/N wouldn’t let anything happen to you. That’s who she is. That’s… what she does. She protects people. Always.”
Leah choked back a sob. “She was smiling, even when she was bleeding. She kept saying it’d be okay. That you’d know what to do.”
That broke him.
Robby stood, pacing, running a hand through his hair, the walls closing in. His chest felt like it was caving in from the inside. He looked toward the trauma room doors — that narrow window of glass showing flashes of movement, the blur of scrubs and blood.
“I can’t even remember,” he said suddenly, almost to himself.
Jake looked up, dazed. “What?”
“The last time I told her I loved her.” Robby’s voice was hoarse now, unsteady. “I don’t—God, I don’t know when it was. Maybe a week ago. Maybe longer. I said it out of habit, not meaning it like I should have. Not like she deserved.”
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “And today… I told her to stop pushing me. I brought up Collins—like she wasn’t enough. Like she hasn’t been holding me together for years.”
Neither Jake nor Leah spoke. There wasn’t anything to say.
Through the glass, the red light flickered once. Jack appeared on the other side, eyes locked on Robby’s. He gave a short nod , just one.
Relief, terror, disbelief it all hit at once. Robby staggered back into the chair behind him, his breath coming out in a sharp, broken laugh.
“She’s alive,” he whispered. Then, quieter, like a prayer: “She’s alive.”
The room felt smaller than it was fluorescent lights humming overhead, the air heavy with antiseptic and grief that hadn’t found a place to land yet.
Samira was the first to speak. “She’s stable. Vitals are holding. She made it through the worst of it.”
The words should have felt like oxygen. Instead, Robby just nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.
Robby sat hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring at his bloodstained hands. He hadn’t spoken since Samira said stable. The word didn’t mean safe, not yet.
Jake stood by the window, jittery and pale. Leah sat curled in a blanket on the couch, eyes red, her voice quiet when she finally broke the silence. “She shouldn’t have been the one to get hurt. It’s my fault. She pushed me down. It was supposed to hit me.”
Robby looked up, eyes hollow. “No. It’s not your fault. That’s who she is. Y/N would’ve walked through hell to keep you and Jake safe.” His throat tightened.
Jack exhaled hard, his arms crossed. “Yeah. And she’s been doing the same damn thing for you for years.”
The words landed like a blow.
“Jack,” Samira warned softly.
“No, he needs to hear it,” Jack said, his tone low but shaking. “You shut her out. You buried yourself in work, pushed her until she started apologizing for trying to love you. And now she’s in there fighting for her life, still fighting for you.”
Robby didn’t argue , he couldn’t. He just pressed a trembling hand over his eyes.
Dana stepped into the doorway then, moving quietly, a folded note in her hand. Her usual calm was gone; her expression was raw, maternal. She sat beside Robby, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Jack’s not wrong,” she said gently. “But he’s not saying anything you don’t already know.”
Robby swallowed hard, voice breaking. “She called me. Twice. Left a voicemail.”
Jake spoke up, his own voice still wrecked. “She made me. She said you’d know what to do.” He fumbled for Robby’s phone, handed it over. “You should hear it.”
Robby hesitated, then hit play.
Her voice filled the room — faint, breathless, but steady:
“Mikey…baby…hey, it’s me. There was a shooting at PittFest. I’m with Jake and Leah. We’re okay for now, but—if I don’t make it out, I need you to know I love you. Always have and always will.”
The recording clicked off, and for a long time no one breathed.
Dana’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Jack turned away, jaw locked, tears stinging his eyes. Leah sobbed quietly into Samira’s sleeve.
Robby stared at the phone like it might shatter in his hands. “She thought she was dying… and she still used her last breath to make sure I knew she loved me.” His voice cracked completely. “And I can’t even remember the last time I told her I loved her back.”
Dana slid the folded note across the table. “This was in the lunch bag they brought in.”
He unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting:
Mikey,
You don’t have to pretend with me. Not today, not ever. I know today hurts, even if you won’t say it out loud. I love you beyond words and I’ll be here when your ready to talk
Xoxo Sweets <3
His voice broke halfway through, tears spilling freely now.
Jack exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “She wrote that before PittFest?”
Robby nodded weakly. “This morning.”
Leah sniffled, wiping her nose. “She meant every word.”
Robby swallowed hard, his throat tight. “And I told her she was too pushy. That Collins gave me space.” His voice cracked again. “She almost died thinking I didn’t love her.”
Samira crossed the room, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then make sure she wakes up knowing different.”
Robby nodded, pressing the letter against his chest like he could absorb the words through his skin. “I will. She’s going to hear it every damn day.”
Jack swore softly, dragging a hand over his face. “She’s a better person than I am.”
Robby let out a choked laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all. “She always has been.”
Dana leaned in, her voice soft. “Then you make this right, Robby. However long it takes, you make it right.”
He nodded, gripping the letter like a lifeline. “I will. I swear to God, I will.”
The room fell silent again, broken only by the rhythmic beeping from down the hall — proof that she was still here. Still fighting.
Robby sat beside her bed, hands clasped loosely around hers. Her skin was warm again — not pale and lifeless like before. The oxygen mask fogged faintly with each shallow breath.
He hadn’t moved in hours. Couldn’t. He just sat there, listening to the one sound he’d almost lost forever.
“I don’t even know where to start,” he whispered, voice rough from too many hours of silence. “You’ve always been the strong one, you know that? You’ve been holding me up since the day we met, and I’ve been too damn proud to admit it.”
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You walked into my mess and decided to stay. Even when I gave you every reason to run.”
He glanced at the letter on the nightstand — creased, smudged from his fingerprints. “I read your note again. Jesus Christ, you have no idea how much it hurt. How much it meant. You said you’re in all the quiet places I won’t look… but sweetheart, that’s everywhere. You’re everywhere.”
He swallowed, his thumb brushing lightly across her bandaged hand. “I thought I was protecting you by keeping you out of my pain, but I was just protecting myself from being seen. You tried so hard to love me, and I made you feel like it was too much.” His voice cracked. “And then today, I made you walk away thinking you weren’t enough.”
He took a shaky breath, his forehead resting against the back of her hand. “I would’ve traded places with you in a second. I swear I would’ve. You didn’t deserve this , not the bullet, not my silence, not any of it.”
The monitor kept its steady beat.
Robby let out a long, broken sigh. “You told me once that love wasn’t supposed to hurt. I didn’t get it then. But it hurts because it’s real. Because losing you would’ve meant losing the best damn thing that ever happened to me.”
He lifted his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But if you give me one… I’ll never make you question where you stand with me again. I’ll tell you I love you every morning, every night, and every time I walk out that door.”
He leaned closer, voice barely a whisper now. “I’m right here, okay? You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Her heart monitor blipped faster, faint but unmistakable.
Robby froze, breath catching. “Sweetheart?”
Her fingers twitched weakly in his grasp.
Tears filled his eyes again, but this time they came with a broken laugh. “There you are,” he whispered, pressing her hand to his lips. “There’s my girl.”
The monitor kept beating steady, strong, alive.
Robby had fallen asleep sitting up, head resting on the edge of the bed, her hand still cradled in his. His scrubs were wrinkled, eyes bruised with exhaustion, but he hadn’t moved since she’d been out of surgery.
A soft rustle pulled him from the edge of sleep.
“Mikey….?”
His head snapped up, breath catching in his throat. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it was hers.
“Hey,” he breathed, instantly on his feet, leaning close. “Hey, sweets. I’m right here.”
Her eyes fluttered open, confused at first, pupils adjusting to the light. “Where…?”
“You’re at PTMC. You’re safe.” His voice wavered, thick with relief. “You’re okay.”
She blinked slowly, memories coming back in pieces. “Jake? Leah?”
“They’re fine,” he said quickly. “They’re okay because of you.”
She exhaled, a tiny sound of relief, and then winced when she tried to move. “Hurts.”
“I know.” His hand hovered just above her bandaged side. “You took a bullet meant for someone else, Y/N. You scared the hell out of me.”
A weak smile flickered across her lips. “You look like shit.”
That made him laugh, a choked, broken sound that turned into tears he didn’t bother to hide. “Yeah. I earned it.”
She studied his face for a moment, her voice soft. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Couldn’t leave,” he whispered. “Didn’t want to. I needed to tell you something before I lost my nerve.”
Her brows furrowed. “What?”
He leaned in closer, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I’m sorry. For everything. For today. For before today. For every time I made you feel like you were too much when you were the only thing keeping me going.”
Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she didn’t speak.
He squeezed her hand gently. “You said in your note that I didn’t have to face everything alone. I’m done pretending I can. I love you, Y/N. I always have. I’m just sorry it took almost losing you to say it right.”
She swallowed hard, tears spilling down her temples. “You’re an idiot.”
He laughed again, forehead pressed to hers. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot.”
“Good,” she whispered, her hand tightening weakly around his. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. For the first time in days, his heart didn’t feel like it was collapsing in on itself.
A knock came, and the door cracked open. Jack’s familiar grin peeked through. “You two decent?”
Robby rolled his eyes. “You’re never decent.”
Jack laughed as he stepped in, followed by Samira, Jake, Leah, and Dana. The sight of them all together made the room feel lighter.
“Hey, hero,” Jack said softly, moving to Y/N’s bedside. “You really outdid yourself this time.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “You mean the bullet wound or saving your sorry friend’s hospital from chaos?”
Dana chuckled from behind him. “Both, sweetheart. You had half the trauma floor praying last night.”
Leah came forward hesitantly, her eyes wet. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice trembling.
Y/N shook her head gently. “No. Don’t you dare apologize. You’re okay. That’s what matters.”
Leah hugged her carefully, mindful of the IVs. Jake joined them a moment later, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “You scared the hell out of us, boss,” he muttered.
“Join the club,” Robby said under his breath.
Jack leaned back, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, you scared her first, genius.”
Robby nodded, not even trying to argue. “I know.” His voice softened. “I’m lucky she’s still willing to look at me.”
Y/N reached over, threading her fingers through his. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”
The group stayed for a while, filling the room with warmth, quiet laughter, gentle teasing, the sound of people trying to move forward. For the first time since the shooting, the air didn’t feel heavy.
When they finally started to leave, Jack lingered by the door. “Don’t screw this up again, man.”
“I won’t,” Robby said simply. “Not ever.”
PTMC – RECOVERY ROOM (A Few Days Later)
Y/N sat propped up in bed, sunlight spilling across her blanket. A small vase of daisies sat on her bedside table, one of many flowers that had appeared since she woke up. Robby was perched on the edge of the chair beside her, flipping through her discharge papers for the hundredth time.
“Robby,” she said, amused. “You’re reading the same sentence over and over.”
He looked up sheepishly. “Just making sure they didn’t sneak in a clause saying you can’t bake anymore.”
Before she could respond, a knock rattled the door.
“Permission to enter, Dr. Broody?” a voice called.
Robby groaned. “God help me.”
The door swung open, revealing three of his interns Whittaker, Mel, and Santos all carrying coffee trays, balloons, and what looked like a lopsided chocolate cake.
“Look who survived and baked better than the hospital cafeteria!” Santos announced dramatically.
Whittaker grinned. “We come bearing caffeine, sugar, and relentless teasing.”
Mel handed Y/N the cake box. “We tried to bake this ourselves, but Dr. Robby said we could ‘use the time to study charting efficiency.’ So if it’s bad, blame him.”
Y/N laughed softly, accepting the box. “You baked? I’m honored.”
“Technically,” Whittaker said, “we begged the cafeteria pastry chef to help us not poison you.”
Santos leaned toward Y/N conspiratorially. “Word around the hospital is that your boyfriend’s been taking credit for your baked goods in the break room.”
Robby looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”
Jack’s voice carried from the hallway as he’d clearly been listening in. “It’s true! He said ‘we’ made those lemon scones last month.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking. “We, huh?”
Robby threw his hands up. “I supervised quality control!”
The interns burst into laughter.
“Sure thing, Mr. Quality Control,” Santos teased. “Or should we say Mr. Mrs. Doctor Robby?”
That made Y/N snort into her coffee, face flushing. “Oh, don’t give him ideas.”
Whittaker grinned. “Too late. It’s canon now.”
Even Robby cracked a smile, shaking his head. “You’re all fired.”
“Too late, sir,” Mel shot back. “We already filed a ‘thank you for not letting our favorite baker die’ petition with Dana. You’re stuck with us.”
The room filled with laughter, light, unguarded, healing. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like a hospital. It felt like home.
Robby glanced at Y/N, her smile brighter than he’d seen in months. He reached for her hand beneath the blanket, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Mrs. Doctor Robby,” he murmured with a grin. “Could get used to that.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her voice gave her away. “Don’t push it, Doctor Broody.”
The interns cheered, and the sound of laughter carried down the hall.
Epilogue – Six Months Later
The sun rose slow and golden over the city, spilling light across the rows of food trucks setting up for the weekend market. The scent of bread, cinnamon, and butter filled the air, carried on the early morning breeze.
Y/N stood outside her freshly repainted truck tracing the new logo with her fingertips. The old bullet holes were gone, patched and painted over, but she hadn’t erased everything. A small dent on the back door remained, a reminder, not of pain, but survival.
Robby leaned against the counter beside her, scrubs under his jacket, stethoscope still hanging around his neck. He looked tired, but his smile was easy now, the kind that came without effort.
“You know,” he said, sipping his coffee, “that looks good on you.”
She glanced over, amused. “You mean the truck?”
He smirked. “I meant the smile.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Smooth, Doctor Broody.”
“Learned from the best, Mrs. Doctor Robby.”
“God, don’t start,” she said, laughing as she tossed a dish towel at him.
Jack and Samira showed up first, hand in hand, Samira waving a coffee cup triumphantly. “Look who’s open for business again!”
Jake and Leah trailed behind, carrying a basket of flowers. Leah grinned shyly. “For the counter. To make it feel… happy.”
“It already does,” Y/N said softly.
They all lingered around the truck, talking, laughing, stealing croissants. It felt like a family loud, chaotic, alive.
When the morning rush started, Robby stayed by her side, helping hand out orders and sneak bites of her muffins. Every now and then, he’d brush his hand against hers, a quiet little promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.
As the crowd thinned, she leaned against the counter, catching her breath. “You realize this is the first Saturday you’ve had off in three years?”
He grinned. “Yeah. Turns out life’s better when you stop hiding in the hospital.”
She gave him a look, the kind that said I told you so without words. “You proud of yourself?”
He nodded, eyes softening. “I’m proud of you. You rebuilt all this… and somehow, you let me stay.”
Her heart clenched in that old, familiar way, the one that hurt, but in a way that felt good. “You earned it, Mikey. Every second.”
He stepped closer, hands brushing flour off her apron. “So what’s next, Mrs. Doctor Broody?”
She smirked, voice low. “Sell out before noon, take you home, and see if you can finally beat me at UNO.”
He laughed, leaning down to kiss her temple. “You’re on, sweets.”
The bell above the window jingled as another customer approached, and Y/N turned back to her work, the light catching the faint scar along her collar bone. It didn’t ache anymore. It just reminded her that she’d survived that they had.
And somewhere between the smell of sugar, the sound of laughter, and the feel of his hand brushing hers, she realized something simple and true
Home wasn’t the truck, or the bakery, or even the hospital.
Summary: It’s 4 a.m. on Christmas Eve.You came for cheap wine and questionable life choices.Mistletoe and Michael Robinovitch deliver both.
A/N: This was supposed to be sweet and SFW, and then it… wasn’t. I struggled with the concept, and now we’re here: 4 a.m. grocery-store smut. You’re welcome. 🎄💋
✨ Trigger Warnings ✨
(please read before proceeding, ya filthy animal 💋)
💋 Explicit sexual content (PIV, graphic detail)
💋 Semi-public kissing (Giant Eagle at 4 a.m. — bold.)
💋 Alcohol consumption (cheap wine)
💋 Strong language + sarcastic foreplay
💋 Consent + communication (“color” check-in)
💋 Praise kink / mild roughness / biting
💋 Co-workers to “oh we’re doing this”
💋 Light emotional vulnerability + loneliness themes
💋 Jewish character + humorous religious mentions
💋 No condoms used (I know… I KNOW)
It’s 4:07 a.m. on Christmas Eve and the Giant Eagle on Liberty Ave is blasting “Little Drummer Boy” like it’s a personal attack. The fluorescent lights are flickering, the linoleum smells like pierogi grease and despair, and the cashier, some guy named Dante who’s wearing a Santa hat over bald head has duct-taped a sprig of mistletoe to the cigarette display with a Sharpie sign: KISS FOR 10% OFF!
You’re in penguin pajama pants and a Pirates hoodie, holding a $7 bottle of YellowTail and a box of Trojans like a woman who’s already accepted her fate.
That’s when you see him.
Michael Robinovitch, black wool coat, permanent scowl, clutching a single sad slice of Giant Eagle cheesecake like it's his last meal.
He clocks you. You clock him.
You raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing alone on Christmas Eve, Dr.Robby?”
He snorts. “Sweetheart, I’m Jewish. Counter-question: what the fuck are you doing alone on Christmas Eve in the middle of Bloomfield?”
You shrug, eyes on the Red Bull cooler so you don’t have to look at him. “Family’s… not an option. And by the grace of Saint Nick and the scheduling gods, I’m off tomorrow. Plan was to get wine-drunk and play my favorite game: Swipe for Weiner. see if Santa felt like stuffing my stocking.”
You shake the condom box like maracas.
You look at the floor. “Same reason you’re buying cheesecake at four a.m., I guess.”
He takes the bottle and box out of your hands without asking and walks to the register.
The cashier and his duct-taped mistletoe grin like evil twins. “Mistletoe is upon us. Pay up or pucker up.”
Michael mutters, “This city is a fucking circus,” then turns to you.
He’s close enough now you can smell snow, cedar, and the faint bite of clove cigarettes. He starts to go for the sarcastic cheek kiss, then clearly says fuck it.
He cups your jaw with cold fingers and kisses you on the mouth.
For half a second you think he’s kidding.
Then his hand is on your jaw and knees are gone.
Soft at first. Then not soft at all. Tongue sliding against yours like he’s been waiting months to taste you and is furious about it.
Dante whoops. “LET’S GO PENS!”
Michael pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, voice wrecked.
“Still planning on swiping for weiner?”
You’re already breathless. “Depends. You offering to be eight nights late?”
He slaps a twenty on the counter. “Dante, keep the fucking cheesecake.”
The cab ride is torture: his thigh pressed to yours, gloved hand resting high on your leg like he’s claiming territory, snow streaking past the windows in white lashes. Neither of you speaks. You don’t have to.
His apartment door barely shuts before he’s on you: back to the wall, coat still half-on, mouth hot and demanding. But this time it’s different. This time Michael Robinovitch, patron saint of restraint and sarcastic detachment, is shaking.
“Bedroom,” he rasps, voice shredded. “I need—”
He doesn’t finish. You do it for him, pushing him backward down the short hallway until the backs of his knees hit the bed. He sits hard, eyes black in the low light.
You straddle him without ceremony, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands go straight to your waist, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
“Tell me again,” you murmur against his mouth. “Color?”
“Green,” he breathes. “So fucking green it hurts.”
You roll your hips once, slow, deliberate, feeling exactly how hard he already is through two layers of clothes. He groans, head falling back.
“Been thinking about this for months,” you tell him, nipping his throat. “Every time you lean over me in the trauma bay pretending you’re not staring down my scrub top. Every time you hand me coffee like it’s a hate crime.”
He laughs, ragged. “I was trying to be professional.”
“Well you failed.”
You peel his sweater off, mouth following the path of exposed skin: collarbone, sternum, the soft curve of his hipbones. When you sink your teeth gently just above his waistband he jerks like you shocked him.
“Jesus—do that again.”
You do. Harder. He swears in Yiddish, hands fisting the sheets.
You take your time undressing him slow, reverent, filthy. Every new inch of skin gets kissed, bitten, praised.
“Look at you,” you whisper when he’s finally naked, flushed and trembling beneath you. “All that brooding and you’re this pretty when you’re desperate.”
He tries to flip you on instinct, so he can be in control. You pin his wrists above his head with one hand and grind down hard. His hips buck involuntarily.
“Stay,” you order softly.
He stays.
You ride him slow at first, watching his face go slack with pleasure, listening to the way his breath stutters every time you sink all the way down. His hands find your hips, not guiding, just holding on like you’re the only real thing in the room.
“Fuck—you feel—” He can’t finish. You clench deliberately and he breaks off into a choked moan.
You lean forward, lips brushing his ear. “Tell me what you want, Michael.”
He swallows hard. “Want to watch you come on me. Want to feel you lose it. Want—”
You sit up, change the angle, and start moving in earnest. Slamming yourself on him hard, deep, relentless. The headboard knocks the wall in a steady rhythm that would embarrass you if you cared about anything except the way he’s unraveling beneath you.
His eyes never leave yours. Not once.
When you reach between you and circle your clit he actually whines. The sound is high pitched and gorgeous. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Want to feel it—want to watch you fall apart on my cock—”
You do. Hard. Shaking. Clenching around him so tight his hips stutter and he follows you over with a broken groan, fingers bruising your thighs, spilling deep inside you with your name on his tongue like a prayer he forgot he knew.
After, you collapse onto his chest. He wraps both arms around you like he’s afraid the snow might steal you away.
Minutes or hours later (time is meaningless), he presses lazy kisses to your shoulder and mutters, voice hoarse, “Still don’t do Christmas.”
You huff a laugh into his neck. “Liar. You just came so hard you saw the burning bush.”
“Guess the discount worked,” you murmur.
He laughs against your lips. “Should’ve charged full price.”
He snorts, bites your collarbone in retaliation. “Stay anyway?”
You tangle your fingers with his. “Try and make me leave, Robinovitch.”
Outside, Pittsburgh is buried in white, and inside it’s warm and wrecked and perfect.
