ALL FOR SOMETHING - CH.33
Chapter Thirty-Three: For The First Time, What's Past Is Past
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ REQUITED LOVE, SMUT, Suggestive Content, Second-Chance, Angst, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, PiV, Oral (F!Receiving), No Condom (pls wrap before you tap!), Giggly sex, Saying I Love You,
Word Count: 13.8k
A/N: If you know me irl… you don’t. Not in this chapter. I don’t exist. Also, long ahh end notes. (P.S. Not proofread, will edit later.)
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/pinterest. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Begin Again by Taylor Swift, COMING HOME by HONNE with NIKI, and Juno by Sabrina Carpenter
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YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, not after everything. Especially after how messy, complicated, and quietly devastating it had all been before. But as you stand in front of your sister’s mirror, smoothing down your skirt for the third—no, fourth—time, your stomach flips like you’re sixteen again.
Butterflies, nerves, and a low, constant hum of oh my God, this is actually happening.
You press your lips together, exhale slowly, and glance at yourself. A soft knitted sweater tucked into your skirt, leggings hugging your legs, boots by the door waiting. Your hair is down but tamed, just enough. A little effort, not too much.
“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself. Because this is just a date… with Robby. The man you’ve known for years and you’ve loved for longer.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on your bedroom door. Everything in you stills while your heart kicks several times. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself, then turn and walk toward the door, fingers brushing the hem of your sweater as it might ground you.
Eventually, you open it, and there he is, standing there like he’s been holding his breath with flowers in hand. A slightly-too-big bouquet, like he didn’t know how much was appropriate, so he just… chose abundance.
He’s dressed up, a clean dress shirt—new, you’re almost certain. Crisp and fitted in a way that makes your brain short-circuit a little, with dark pants and proper shoes. He put in effort… for you.
For a second, neither of you says anything; you just look at each other. Taking each other in, like you’re both confirming this is real.
He breaks first, a quiet breath, almost reverent.
“God…” His eyes soften. “You’re beautiful.”
It settles somewhere deep within you. You duck your head, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t been in years, taking the bouquet from him just to have something to do with your hands. “Thank you…” A small smile, you added, “You clean up pretty nice too.”
You glance back up at him, a little braver now, and you mutter, “You look… really handsome.”
His mouth twitches because he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. For a split second, you catch it—the flicker of something more primal behind his eyes before he reins it in.
Careful with you, always careful with you… especially now.
He clears his throat softly, “You ready?”
You nod, place the bouquet atop a side table, then hesitate, touching your neck.
“Almost.” You hold up the delicate chain of your necklace, the clasp stubbornly refusing to cooperate earlier. “Do you mind helping me with this? I can’t seem to get it.”
There’s a pause, it’s subtle, but you feel it. “Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “Of course.”
You turn around and lift your hair. Suddenly, the room feels smaller, closer. His presence behind you is immediate and warm. Robby’s fingers brush the back of your neck—just barely—and you feel it everywhere.
It’s completely electric.
Robby exhales slowly, like he’s reminding himself to be careful and not to rush this. His fingertips are constant, but there’s a softness to the way he handles the chain, like he’s aware of how close he is to you. How easily this could tip into something else.
The cool metal slides against your skin, while his knuckles graze the slope of your shoulder. Your breath catches, and you try to play it off. Behind you, he swallows, and you hear it, feel it within your soul.
His hands linger a second longer than necessary once the clasp clicks into place. Not inappropriate or crossing a line… only reluctant to leave.
“There,” he murmurs, his voice is lower now.
You turn slightly, and for a second, you’re standing too close. Looking at each other like there’s a whole history sitting between your breaths. You both remember what it felt like to not have this. He takes a small step back, giving you space, respect… a choice.
“Ready now?” he asks, softer. This time, when you smile, it’s not nervous. “Yeah.”
You take a step toward him and toward the door. Headfirst into whatever this is becoming, and he falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
NEW YORK BOTANICAL GARDEN — DAY
It feels almost unreal, being here with him. You’re stepping into something softer than the life you’re used to. There’s so much sky, air, and a multitude of colors; it’s a stark contrast to the Pitt.
November has settled into the Botanical Garden like it owns the place—gold and rust and deep burnt orange spilling across every path. Leaves crunch under your boots, pumpkins arranged in little clusters like someone carefully curated joy itself, vines twisting around archways, the light filtering through branches in a way that makes everything look warmer than it should be.
It’s stupidly beautiful.
The kind of charm that makes your chest tingle with hope because you don’t get to exist in it often.
Robby is with you, completely present, and no longer carrying the weight of an entire emergency department on his shoulders. Simply walking next to you. Close enough that you’re aware of him constantly, like a second heartbeat.
There’s something tentative in the way both of you move. It’s as if you’re learning each other all over again. Like one wrong step might undo this fragile, miraculous thing you’ve found your way into.
It feels ridiculous, but also—like a high school crush. The kind where your hands brush, and it feels like lightning. Where every glance lingers half a second too long. That thought you don’t quite know what to do with your body because suddenly everything feels like it matters.
You stop near a row of pumpkins, laughing softly as you take a photo. “Okay, wait—this one’s cute.”
“Everything here is cute,” he says.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m just stating facts.”
You roll your eyes but smile anyway, adjusting the angle, snapping a picture. At some point, an older couple approaches—gentle smiles, bundled in scarves. “Would you like us to take one of you together?”
You blink before you, then glance at him.
He glances at you, and there’s that flicker again—that quiet, are we really doing this?
You nod and reply, “Yeah, that would be nice.”
You step closer to him, hesitant to touch each other at first. Then instinct—or courage—bridges the gap. Your arm slips lightly around his, while his hand settles at your back. He’s asking permission even in the way he holds you.
“Ready?” the woman calls.
You look up at him just as the photo is taken. The smile that catches your face isn’t practiced; it’s entirely authentic.
After you thank them, watch them walk off hand-in-hand, something soft settling in your bones at the sight.
You and Robby keep walking on the paths, with leaves falling. Conversation is easy, then quiet, then easy again.
Without warning, it happens. So subtle you almost miss it.
Robby’s hand brushes yours twice, then—he makes a decision. His fingers curl around yours, testing. He's prepared for you to pull away. But you don’t; instead, you let your fingers lace with his, and it feels right.
He exhales, almost imperceptibly, that tiny release, a quiet relief.
Then, without thinking, you shift closer and wrap both your arms around his. Tucking yourself into him as you walk, and it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He nearly forgets how to function, and actually stumbles half a step. You laugh softly as you ask, “You good?”
“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He is, in fact, not good. Because, in all honesty, he is dangerously close to short-circuiting. Because you’re holding onto him like you want to. His arm tightens just slightly, protective. You lean into him, and he leans into you, for a while—you just walk like that together.
Later, softer, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You look at him, “Tell you what?”
He hesitates before saying, “Back then… that you…” You tilt your head, a small smile tugging. “Liked you?”
He huffs a breath. “Well—yeah. That. Or… the other thing.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why didn’t you?”
He exhales. “…Touché.”
You smile, but it fades into something more honest. “Back then…” you begin slowly, “I don’t think I could or should have.” You look ahead. “I wasn’t even sure you liked me.”
“But I did,” he says immediately.
You shoot him a look. “You gave me a verbal order once, I said no, and you got mad.” He winces at that, “Yeah… okay. Not my finest attending moment.”
“Mhm.” There’s a small smile there, but your voice softens after.
“When someone likes me…” You hesitate before saying it anyway. “I get anxious.”
He becomes perfectly motionless next to you.
“I start wondering how they could.” Your voice drops. “If I’m worth it or if I deserve it. I start thinking maybe I won’t be able to love them right. Or back.” You swallow, a little more vulnerable. “I’ve never really… had that before.”
He becomes perfectly motionless next to you, then gently pulls you to a stop with him. You look up, and there’s no teasing in his face now or deflection, only quiet understanding.
“It makes sense,” he says softly. “That you’d be scared.” His thumb brushes over your hand. “But it’s still worth trying. Even if it might not work out.” His eyes hold yours. “There’s always that little part of you that hopes it will.”
A loosening of tension is felt throughout.
“Kindness is scary,” you admit and he nods, “Yeah.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “It feels like something that’s gonna disappear.”
“Sometimes it does,” he says honestly. “And sometimes it doesn’t.” A second ticked by before he adds, “Sometimes it stays.”
You look at him, and you don’t immediately brace for loss. Instead, you smile, and you both keep walking hand in hand, with leaves falling around you, talking about nothing and everything, laughing too easily.
Your head tipping back at something he says, laughter spilling out of you. Because you belong here, with him, for the first time in a long time—what’s past is past. Something new, quiet, fragile, hopeful—begins again.
STEPHEN SONDHEIM THEATRE, BROADWAY — NIGHT
Broadway at night feels electric.
The city glows differently here—gold lights reflecting off wet pavement, taxis blurring past in streaks of yellow, crowds bundled in coats and scarves moving together like a current. The marquee for & Juliet shines above the street, bright and dramatic and alive, and you can’t help the grin already stretching across your face before you’ve even made it inside.
Robby notices immediately. “You’re excited.”
You look at him like that should be obvious. “It’s Broadway.”
“I gathered that.”
“Michael,” you whisper, scandalized, “this is culture.”
That gets a warm and easy laugh out of him.
God, he loves hearing you laugh.
Inside, the theater buzzes with energy. Playbills rustling, people talking over each other, the smell of expensive perfume and old velvet seats, and overpriced cocktails lingering in the air. Everything feels grand in that old New York way—ornate ceilings, glowing chandeliers, red carpeting worn down by decades of people coming here to feel something.
Beside him, you’re glowing. You clutch your Playbill to your chest as you both find your seats, leaning close to whisper commentary to him before the show starts. “Oh my God, these seats are amazing.”
“They better be for what I paid.”
You snort. “You sound ninety years old.”
“I feel ninety years old.”
“You are so silly.”
“You work in emergency medicine, too. You’re not exactly a spring chicken.”
You gasp softly. “Wow. Okay.”
He grins, shameless.
The lights dim before you can retaliate, and the entire theater erupts into applause.
Then the music starts, you are gone. Completely, utterly delighted, and Robby spends half the show watching you instead of the stage.
Not because the show isn’t good—it is. Funny and bright and ridiculously entertaining, packed with pop songs that make the audience laugh and cheer and sing under their breath—but because you are impossible not to look at.
You mouth along quietly to nearly every song, not obnoxiously or loudly, but enough for him to notice. Your shoulders shimmy in your seat during the upbeat numbers, your knee bouncing to the rhythm. Sometimes you clap immediately after a performance with this wholehearted enthusiasm that makes him smile before he even realizes he’s doing it.
At one point, you lean over during a song and whisper excitedly, “I love this one.”
“I can tell,” he whispers back, watching you more than the stage.
You don’t even notice him staring.
You’re too busy laughing at a joke, one hand flying to his arm instinctively as the crowd around you bursts into applause, the contact nearly kills him.
You pull away quickly afterward, still smiling toward the stage, unaware of the way his heart just stumbled over itself. He looks at your profile under the soft theater lighting. Your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and the tiny sparkle of your necklace when you move. He believes that this feeling is something he could’ve lost forever because of fear or cowardice.
At intermission, you immediately turn to him, vibrating with excitement. “This is so fun.”
“You’ve said ‘oh my God’ at least fourteen times.”
“And I’ll say it fourteen more.”
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re excited.”
You blink at him, then immediately look away, cheeks warming. “You can’t just say things like that randomly.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I stop functioning.”
That almost takes him out at the knees. He has to look away for a second, rubbing at his mouth to hide the helpless smile there.
By the second act, you’ve relaxed into him more naturally. Your shoulder brushes his constantly now. Thigh presses lightly against his. At one point during a slower song, your fingers absentmindedly curl into the sleeve of his dress shirt while you watch the stage. Like you want grounding, and you trust him enough to take it from him. Robby thinks he could live inside that feeling forever.
The show itself—God, it’s joyful. The audience cheers and laughs and claps along, and you join in without hesitation, head tipped back laughing at one scene so hard you nearly wheeze.
He’s never seen you like this before. Completely alive and not exhausted and running on adrenaline and caffeine. Simply put, you look happy.
You catch him staring eventually. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
He smiles to himself before answering honestly. “I just…” His voice lowers. “I really like seeing you like this.”
Your expression softens instantly.
“Oh.”
There’s so much hidden meaning in that tiny word.
The lights from the stage flicker gold across your face as you look at him, and suddenly the moment feels unbearably tender. Two people are carefully learning happiness at the same time.
By the finale, the entire theater is on its feet, including you. You’re clapping enthusiastically, laughing as the cast bows, turning toward him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “That was amazing.”
“Yeah,” he says softly.
But he isn’t looking at the stage anymore, he’s looking at you, and for the first time in a very long time, Robby realizes something terrifyingly simple: He wants more of this.
Late-night theater shows with your hand finding his in the dark. Listening to you laugh until his ribs ache from it. Wanting tomorrow with you more than anything.
As you beam at him under the dim Broadway lights, still buzzing with excitement, your fingers slipping into his as you leave the theater together and disappear into the glowing New York night.
DINER — NIGHT
The city is still buzzing by the time you leave the theater.
Broadway lights glow behind you, traffic reflecting off wet pavement, while people pour down sidewalks in coats and scarves and hurried conversations. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You’re still humming one of the songs under your breath when Robby checks his phone for the fourth time. Then he groans, and you look over immediately and ask, “What?”
“The restaurant.” He clarifies, and you tilt your head, asking, “What about it?”
“It closed.”
You blink. “The fancy one?”
“Yes.”
“The one you made reservations for?”
“Yes.”
You stare at him for exactly one second before dissolving into laughter. Head tipped back, hand clutching his arm, while he looks personally offended by modern business hours.
“This city used to stay open all night,” he mutters, and you shrug, “COVID killed late-night culture.”
“It’s un-American.”
“Okay, gramps.” You grin and point down the block toward a glowing neon sign. A diner. Open 24/7. “C’mon,” you say. “Breakfast for dinner.”
He looks at you carefully, then, almost suspiciously. “You’re not mad?”
Your face softens immediately. “No.” Because the truth is—you’d eat gas station chips with him on the curb and still be happy right now.
The diner is warm in that old New York way. Slightly sticky menus, cracked leather booths, fluorescent lights softened by time, the smell of coffee and syrup and grease lingering in the air. Somewhere behind the counter, a waitress calls someone “hon” while a tired cook flips pancakes like he’s done it for thirty years straight.
It’s perfect.
You slide into the booth first, but instead of sitting across from him, you tug gently at his hand. “Here.”
His brows lift in question, but you grin, “Sit by the same side as me.”
Robby’s insides twisted at the way you said it. He slides in beside you, thigh pressed against yours instantly in the cramped booth. Your fingers stay intertwined the entire time you look at the menu, and neither of you lets go. The waitress comes by, exhausted but kind. “You kids know what you want?”
Kids.
Robby almost laughs at that.
You order waffles and fries because, apparently, you enjoy chaos, plus milkshakes, pancakes, eggs, and mozzarella sticks. After all, once you started ordering, neither of you knew how to stop.
The second the waitress leaves, you immediately cuddle against his side. It feels like instinct now, as if your body already knows where it wants to be. Your head rests against his shoulder while his arm wraps around you automatically, hand settling warm against your waist beneath your coat.
And Robby—fuck. Robby is completely gone for you. He tries not to make it obvious, but every time you curl closer to him, every time your fingers absentmindedly play with the sleeve of his shirt, every time your perfume drifts toward him when you move—he feels it everywhere.
You’re watching the city through the diner window. People hurrying by under streetlights, the steam rising from subway grates, taxi horns, and New Yorkers somehow managing to look annoyed even at eleven at night.
You mumble sleepily against him, “I kinda love this city.”
“It’s growing on me.”
“That’s because it’s like you.”
He looks down. “What does that mean?”
“Tired. Mean-looking. Secretly soft.”
He huffs a laugh into your hair.
Eventually, you shift, hugging his arm with both of yours instead while he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your eyes close immediately, content and happy.
He lingers there a second too long, breathing you in quietly. Your shampoo, perfume, and something warm underneath it that is just you.
Then suddenly—you sit upright. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
You point animatedly toward the window. “Is that pigeon waiting to use the crosswalk?”
Robby squints and spots the pigeon standing there at the curb beside several pedestrians. Then the light changes, and the pigeon starts walking directly across the street while using the crosswalk. You gasp like you’ve witnessed a miracle. “Holy shit.”
Robby bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, it is.”
“That’s insane.”
“That pigeon pays taxes.”
“That pigeon has somewhere to be.”
You’re both laughing now.
“It’s so New York,” you continue. “The rats here probably have organized crime families.”
“Oh, definitely.” Robby agrees with you as you continue to ramble, “The Bronx rats and the Brooklyn rats are in active gang warfare.”
“Queens rats stay neutral.”
“Absolutely not. Queens rats are laundering money.”
“And Manhattan rats?”
You lean in seriously. “Real estate moguls.”
He laughs so hard he has to lean forward for a second, rubbing at his face. The waitress brings your food, still chuckling at whatever joke she overheard last. “Anything else for you two?”
“We’re good, thank you.”
The food is ridiculous—it’s perfect diner food. Greasy fries, fluffy pancakes, waffles drowning in whipped cream. You immediately start stealing from each other’s plates.
“Try this.” You tell him.
“I have my own.”
“No, this one’s better.” You stab a waffle piece with your fork and hold it toward him, and he opens his mouth obediently. Later, he does the same to you, holding out a bite of pancake dripping with syrup. “C’mon.”
You lean forward automatically, lips wrapping around the fork as you take the bite. Jesus fucking Christ. His brain fully short-circuits because you do it absentmindedly and completely unaware.
Still chewing while reaching for your milkshake.
Meanwhile, he’s suddenly trying very hard not to think about your mouth. You keep talking normally while he stares at his coffee like it personally betrayed him. Then you get whipped cream just above your lip.
Without thinking, he reaches over, thumb brushing softly across your mouth, and the touch stills both of you for half a second. Your eyes flick to his before you very slowly take his thumb into your mouth, your gaze warm and playful as it never leaves his.
Robby nearly loses his fucking mind as his entire body goes tight. “You…” he starts hoarsely.
You only smirk and kiss his cheek sweetly like you didn’t just do that. Pretending you didn’t just set his nervous system on fire inside a diner at midnight.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters as you grin against his shoulder, biting your lower lip, “Maybe.”
He leans closer, voice lower now. “Careful.” While your brows lift innocently. “Hm?”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Heat floods straight into your face. But instead of backing down, you sip your milkshake calmly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He actually laughs under his breath at that and points at your plate. “Finish your food.”
“Bossy.”
“We’re going back to your apartment after this.”
Your stomach flips violently, and you try to look out the window to hide it.
Of course, he notices, but the smug bastard kisses your temple anyway. When the check comes, you automatically reach for your wallet. Robby spots your movement and thinks, absolutely not. He catches your wrist immediately. “I got it.”
“You already paid for Broadway and the gardens.”
“And?”
“You don’t have to keep spending money on me.”
His expression softens instantly. “It’s not about the money.” He adds quietly, “I just like taking care of you.” That shuts you up completely while he pays.
Leaves an absurd tip that makes the waitress blink twice at the receipt, and afterward the two of you step back out into the cold New York night together—warm from diner coffee and laughter and each other—walking shoulder to shoulder beneath the city lights.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
By the time you both get back to the apartment, New York has settled into that strange late-night quiet that only happens after midnight. The soft, distant hum of traffic outside the windows. The occasional siren somewhere far off. Rainwater still shines on the streets below under streetlamps, and your cheeks still hurt from smiling.
Robby shuts the apartment door behind him while you toe off your boots near the entryway, laughing quietly when Bowie immediately trots over, demanding attention.
“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me? Hope you had a good time with Grace today.”
“Traitor,” Robby mutters when the dog immediately abandons him for you.
You grin over your shoulder. “He knows who feeds him.”
“He also knows who dropped half his scrambled eggs this morning.”
“That was tactical.”
“Mmhm.”
You laugh softly and wander toward the kitchen while Robby moves toward the little speaker by the bookshelf. A second later, music drifts through the apartment. Soft indie music, gentle guitar, and the kind you play during night drives or rainy mornings.
You glance back at him immediately. “You remembered.” He shrugs, suddenly shy about it. “You always played this in the ED break room.”
Something warm blooms low in your chest. The apartment lights are dim except for the little lamp near the couch and the warm glow from the kitchen stove light. It makes everything feel safer somehow.
You’re standing by the counter when he walks over, drawn to you. His hands settle carefully at your waist, and your breath catches as he asks you, “Dance with me?”
You smile instantly.
“Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper dramatically, “are you trying to seduce me?”
“Is it working?”
“Unfortunately.”
That gets a laugh out of him, and then he pulls you closer. You sway together in the middle of your sister’s apartment kitchen like two people who almost lost the chance to do this at all.
Your arms loop around his neck while his hands rest low against your waist, warm and grounding. The music hums softly around you while he tells you stories between slow movements.
About the cruise, Greece, and getting sunburned in Naples because apparently an emergency physician with multiple advanced degrees forgot sunscreen existed.
You laugh so hard you nearly bury your face in his chest. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
“You’re a disaster.”
“I’m aware.”
He tells you about the people he met. Older couples traveling together after retirement. Multiple families. A little Filipino grandmother who apparently adopted him emotionally within fifteen minutes.
“She yelled at me,” he says seriously.
You blink. “What?”
“She asked why I looked sad.”
“Oh, my God.”
“And then she fed me.”
You nod at that, “Yeah, that adds up.”
“And then,” he continues, “she told me I was stupid.” You burst out laughing, “She was right.”
“She also told me to stop acting like a martyr and go after the woman I love.”
Your laughter quiets, as your vision softens and focuses on him, “Oh.” He nods once. “They taught me a few words, too.”
Your brows lift, “Oh?” He shifts slightly closer, and then, carefully—as he practiced, he says, “Pasensya na.” (I’m sorry.)
Your breath catches as you realize what he was saying.
“Patawarin mo ako.” (Please forgive me.)
“Salamat.” (Thank you.)
Your eyes already sting. But then he looks directly at you, voice rougher now. “Mahal kita.” (I love you.)
You start crying instantly as that absolutely destroys you. Sobbing as you slap a hand over your face while laughing through it, overwhelmed beyond reason. “Fuck you, Michael Robinavitch,” you cry. “That is so unfairly romantic.”
He laughs softly too, eyes glassy now as you throw your arms around him. You hold him tightly, still afraid this could disappear.
His face buries into your hair, and for a moment neither of you says anything. Only breathing and holding on. Later, quietly, against your temple, “Come back to Pittsburgh with me.”
You pull back just enough to squint suspiciously at him through your tears. “How did you know I’d be back next week?”
That smug little smile appears, a dangerous thing. “I may have asked your sister when she was getting home.”
You gasp softly. “You schemed with my family?”
“She likes me.”
“Knowing her, she probably threatened to murder you.”
“Yeah, but warmly.”
You laugh helplessly again, shaking your head before touching his face carefully. “Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper. Your voice breaks around it as you smile, “I love you too. Mahal Kita.”
The look on his face after you say it—God. All the grief he’s been carrying in his ribs for years, and suddenly there’s room for something else now.
You kiss him first. It’s soft and tender. Then again, longer, and something changes. Maybe it’s the air, the space between you and the wanting that’s been simmering quietly for months—years, suddenly rises all at once.
His hands slide carefully up your back, holding you like you’re precious. Still trying to convince himself this is real. You kiss him deeper, and he makes this quiet sound against your mouth that nearly wrecks you.
Then suddenly he pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. Forehead resting against yours. “We don’t have to do this.”
You blink.
His thumb strokes gently against your waist. “I mean it.” His voice is low, steady despite the obvious restraint in it. “We can stop. We can slow down. We can sit on the couch and cuddle all night if you want.” Another soft breath as he finishes, “I’ll wait however long you need me to.”
Your heart actually hurts as you stare at him in disbelief. “Do you understand,” you whisper, “how insanely attractive consent is?”
That startles a laugh out of him.
“I’m serious,” you continue, emotional and wrecked and completely gone for him. “I love you.”
Something in his expression crumples, as if the tenderness physically pains him. So, you kiss him again, harder this time. And in response, his hands tighten instinctively at your waist. You climb halfway into his lap on the couch without fully realizing you’re doing it, and he exhales sharply into your mouth like the contact nearly kills him.
The kisses deepen slowly, carefully. He lets you set the pace even now. When his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, it’s hesitant, asking.
You answer by kissing him deeper. And fuck, the sound he makes. His hand slides down instinctively, gripping softly at your thigh, then lower—curving over your ass through your skirt.
You gasp softly against his mouth, and pleasure sparks hot down your spine. His forehead falls briefly against yours as he exhales shakily. “You’re killing me.”
You laugh breathlessly, dazed and happy and dizzy on him. His mouth trails once along your jaw, then pauses. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
He kisses you again immediately after that, like he can’t help himself anymore. Slow, deep, and so very starved. While your fingers disappear into his hair, his grip tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s barely space left between you.
Somewhere between the soft melodies still playing from the kitchen, the city lights flickering like distant candles outside the windows, and the way he says your name against your mouth—a whisper, a prayer, a sacred invocation—you realize this isn’t just longing anymore. It’s home, a belonging that seeps into your bones, warm and inevitable.
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to your sister’s guest room, his lips never leaving yours.
Michael lays you down on the bed with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, his eyes tracing every line of your face as if memorizing it anew.
The room is bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows that dance with the sway of distant trees. His hands, rough and warm, slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher as he kneels before you. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch, his brown eyes dark and hungry under hooded lids as he pulls your underwear down your legs.
“So pretty.” He lowers his head, his beard scratching deliciously against your inner thighs as he takes his first taste of you. A low sound rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he laps at you with a hunger that leaves you gasping.
He takes his time, savoring you like a man starved, his tongue circling and flicking against your clit with a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you.
His fingers join the dance, slipping inside you with a smoothness that makes your back arch off the bed. The sounds of your pleasure fill the room—the slick wetness of his fingers moving in and out of you, the ragged moans escaping your lips, the hushed murmurs of his voice as he whispers filthy promises against your flesh.
He looks up at you then, his eyes wild and dark, completely lost in the taste of you, in the sounds that spill from your lips. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, your body convulsing as you grip his hair tightly, squeezing his head with your thighs as waves of release crash over you.
You were still panting when Robby’s mouth trailed up your belly, your ribs, resting between your breasts like it was a stopping place. His beard was slick with you, his hands strong and gentle where they stroked your hips, your stomach, your trembling thighs. He kissed your sternum, the valley between your breasts, the scars left by the scabs on your arms, then pressed his ear to your chest like he liked hearing what his work had done to your heartbeat.
He looked up at you, hair mussed and lips wet and so goddamn earnest it hurt. “You okay?”
You nodded, still in the afterglow, still not convinced your body would ever fully coalesce again. “More than okay.”
He grinned that soft, private little smile of his—the one he calibrated only for you, infuriatingly shy and possessive at once. You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, kissed him hard so you could taste yourself on his tongue, a feral, greedy thing.
You’re still riding the high, boneless and thrumming, you can barely catch your breath, but you manage a tremulous, “You’re going to kill me.”
He just grins, some pride, some gratitude, none of the usual self-effacement. “You’re tough, Ducky.”
You watch him crawl up your body, helping you remove several articles of clothing. Stripping you naked, he gazes every valley, every inch of your skin in such awe as a man who wholeheartedly desires you, your softness, the natural shape and curves of your body.
“You are so fucking beautiful.” He says, bracing himself above you, arms caging you most thrillingly. He’s still fully clothed, but you can feel the length of him hot and insistent through the fabric of his pants, a tease of pressure at your hip.
You reach for the waistband greedily, and he lets you strip him down, helping only enough to make you feel like you’re the one in charge.
Robby crawled up your body, gold chain around his neck catching in the light, dangling, as he is bracing himself above you, his presence hot and insistent against your hip. You reached for his waistband, pulling him closer. He was heavy, a promise made manifest.
You lick your lips as you look up at his heated gaze, “That’s not gonna fit.”
“I’ll make it fit.”
Fucking hell.
“Condom?” He asked, and you shook your head, “If you’re okay with it… I’m clean, and I have an IUD.”
“I recently got tested, and haven’t had sex at all during my sabbatical.” Robby breathes heavily.
“At all?” You widened your eyes in surprise, and he chuckled, “All I could think about was you. I wanted no one else.”
You nearly tear up again, then nod, “Okay.”
You looked up at him, breathless and dazed, and the sudden reality of the situation crashed into your head. "Oh, god," you whispered, eyes widening. "HR is going to kill us."
Robby let out a choked, breathless laugh, pressing a wet, scorching kiss. "Ducky, my love, please don't talk about HR when my dick is about to be inside you."
"Sorry," you squeaked, your brain short-circuiting as he pressed into you, the friction sharp and divine. "My brain won’t shut up sometimes."
He huffed, a sound of pure, possessive affection, and kissed you hard, effectively silencing your thoughts.
Robby moans your name in pure bliss. “Fuck, good—good girl. You’re so fucking tight—fuck.” He began to rock into you, steady and rhythmic, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re taking it so well.”
In the dim light of the apartment, with the city breathing outside the window, nothing else mattered—not the job, not the risks, only the way he grounded you, pulling you impossibly closer until the two of you were moving as one.
The laughter dies in your throat, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as he commits to the motion. It’s a slow, deliberate slide, a physical realization of the hunger that’s been stalking the edges of your perception for years.
You aren’t ready for the sheer weight of him, the way he seems to displace everything else in the room—the air, the sound of the rain, the lingering anxiety of your jobs.
“Ahhh.” The sound escapes you, not as a cry, but as a shaky, stuttered exhale. He’s stopped, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, watching you with eyes that look like molten copper in the low light. He’s waiting. Always waiting for you to catch up.
"Okay?" he whispers, his voice dropping into that register—the one that usually steadies a crashing patient, but now is meant solely for you.
"Keep going," you manage, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders, your legs tangling with his to pull him tighter. "Please."
He huffs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and then he moves. It starts slow—a deliberate, agonizingly sweet pace that stretches you, makes you feel full and centered and completely his.
The friction is electric, a heat that builds behind your navel and radiates outward, turning your limbs to water.
He leans down, and his lips find the crook of your elbow, then drift down to the faded white lines on your forearm. He presses a lingering, reverent kiss there, his beard grazing your sensitive skin. It’s a gesture of such profound acknowledgment—that he sees the history etched into your skin and wants it all—that you nearly lose your rhythm, your breath hitching in your chest.
“Mmm—ah! Please—” You arch your back, gasping as he catches the pace, his hips connecting with yours with a steady, relentless thud.
He grunts, "That's it, just like that.” The bed creaks, a rhythmic, wooden groan that joins the soundtrack of your night.
You can feel him everywhere—the heavy, solid presence of his thighs against yours, the heat of his sweat, the way he watches you with an intensity that makes you feel naked even beneath the tangle of sheets.
"I— fuck, oh, Michael—" you babble, but the words dissolve into a fragmented oh as he hits a nerve, a spot so deep and precise it sends a jolt of lightning straight down to your toes.
"You like that?" he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He’s not laughing anymore. The humor from a moment ago has been incinerated by the raw, kinetic energy of the act. He sounds desperate, starved.
"Michael, please!" you moan, your voice a desperate plea.
He shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you to the mattress. "I've got you, I've got you.”
He rocks into you, deeper this time, and you feel the way he shudders, the way he’s fighting to hold back for you, even when he’s so clearly on the edge himself.
He makes a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. You’re spinning, the room tilting as the pressure mounts. You can see the veins corded in his neck, the way his jaw is set, his lips pulled back slightly as he battles his own control.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. It’s like looking into a furnace. There’s no ambiguity left, no "HR," no "traitor," no jokes about emergency medicine. Just two people, finally, finally finding each other in the dark.
"I’ve wanted this," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Since the first time you walked into the break room with that stupid coffee mug."
"That was years ago," you gasp, your nails digging into his back as the waves start to crash.
"I know," he grunts, his movements accelerating, the rhythm becoming a blur of friction and heat. "I’ve been waiting since the first time I saw you smile at a patient. I've been waiting forever."
His words shatter the last of your composure. You stop thinking about the job, the risk, the fallout. You just let go. Your core tightens, pulling him closer, wanting to consume him.
“Ah! Ah, Robby!” You scream his name, a soft, high sound that gets swallowed by the room as your body begins to convulse, the release hitting you like a physical blow.
He doesn’t break his gaze. He watches you fall apart, his face twisting in a mix of pride and fierce possessiveness, and then he gives a final, powerful thrust, letting out a sharp, ragged shout that sounds like a prayer.
He collapses onto you, his forehead resting against yours, his body heavy and warm, shuddering with the aftershocks.
For a long time, the only sound in the guest room is the two of you—sucking in great, lung-filling breaths, the rapid thump-thump of your heart against his, the soft, distant hum of New York continuing on as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair damp against his forehead, his face flushed and wrecked in the most beautiful way. He reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your temple, his touch so light it borders on worship.
"You okay?" he asks again, his voice gravelly, stripped raw.
You can only nod, unable to string a coherent sentence together. You feel boneless, melted into the mattress, your skin humming with the memory of him.
He chuckles, a low, exhausted sound that vibrates in his chest against yours. He shifts, rolling onto his side but refusing to break contact, dragging you with him so you’re flush against his side, his arm draped possessively over your waist.
"HR," he mutters, his voice heavy with sleepiness and smug satisfaction. "You were worried about HR."
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—soap, rain, and the faint, musky scent of sex. You laugh, a soft, bubbly sound that feels lighter than air. "Shut up," you murmur.
"No, I’m just saying," he teases, kissing the top of your head. "If they have a problem with it, they’ll have to get through me first."
"You're a doctor, Michael. You're supposed to save people, not threaten the administration."
"I can do both," he whispers against your hair. "I'm a multi-tasker."
You drift into a haze, the reality of the night settling over you like a warm blanket. You’re in your sister’s guest room. The city is still breathing outside. And beside you, the man you’ve been pining for is finally, truly, yours.
The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s thick with the unspoken promises of the hours to come. You close your eyes, the exhaustion of the shift and the emotional vertigo of the last hour finally pulling you under.
"Ducky?" he whispers just before you drift off.
"Hm?"
"Stay," he says. Not a command, just a plea.
You snuggle closer, tucking your hand under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere."
He sighs, a sound of profound relief, a soft whoosh of air against your ear, and pulls the duvet up higher over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. In the darkness, you can still feel the echo of him, the phantom pressure of his skin against yours, a map of where you’ve been and where you’re going.
A moment of blissful quiet passes, then a new thought surfaces, cutting through the dreamy haze. “But I do need to pee,” you mumble, a slight groan escaping you, “cause UTI is not particularly fun.”
Michael’s hand, which had been resting gently on your hip, gives a soft squeeze. “Smart girl. Don’t want any nasty infections ruining our glow.” He shifts, and you feel the cool air momentarily as he moves to the bedside table. A warm, damp cloth is gently dabbed between your legs, cleaning you with an unexpected tenderness.
His fingers are careful, reassuring. “There,” he murmurs, his voice low, “all clean. Now go do your business.”
You untangle yourself from the sheets, the sudden coolness of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. A small thump as your feet hit the carpet. You pad across the room, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight, and slip into the adjoining bathroom. The familiar flush of the toilet sounds remarkably loud in the quiet apartment.
When you emerge, Robby is already sitting up, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Feel better?”
“Infinitely,” you sigh, stretching your arms above your head. “Now what?”
“Now?” He pats the spot beside him. “Now, we get properly clean.” He swings his legs out of bed, the duvet sliding down with a soft swish. “Shower?”
You nod, a grin spreading across your face. “Definitely shower.”
He takes your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and leads you into the bathroom. The air is cool, but a moment later, the shower starts, a steady stream of water hitting the tiles. Steam begins to curl, blurring the edges of the mirror. You step in first, feeling the initial cold spray, then the welcoming warmth as the water adjusts.
Robby steps in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his front. The water cascades over both of you, a comforting roar. He presses kisses to your shoulder, his lips warm and wet. “Mmm, you smell good,” he hums, a deep, resonant sound in your ear.
His beard, a soft brush of dark hair with those intriguing silver strands at the temples, tickles your skin as he trails kisses down your neck, then along your collarbone. The giggle you let out is a light, airy sound, as his beard brushes against a particularly sensitive spot. “Stop, you’re tickling me!” You squirm playfully in his embrace, but he only holds you tighter.
“Am I?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Good. I like your giggles.” He continues his assault of soft kisses, his hands moving over your skin, soaping your back with slow, deliberate strokes. You lean back into him, letting the warm water and his ministrations wash away any lingering tension.
You reach for the soap, then gently take his hands, turning to face him. You begin to wash his chest, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his muscles, the softness of his belly, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.
He closes his eyes, a soft moan escaping his lips as your fingers glide over his skin. “Mmmph,” he sighs contentedly, leaning his head back against the tiled wall, letting you take control.
You work the soap into his hair, feeling the thick strands between your fingers, the soft grey at his temples contrasting with the darker brown. He lets out a soft groan of pleasure as you massage his scalp, his body relaxing completely against yours. “That feels… incredible, Ducky.”
“Only the best for my favorite doctor,” you tease, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. The water streams down his face, washing away the suds. He opens his eyes, droplets clinging to his dark lashes.
His gaze is intense, full of a raw, tender emotion that makes your breath catch. He reaches out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “You know, I’ve been in love with you for so long, Ducky.” His voice is a low rumble, earnest and raw, barely audible over the shower’s spray.
“Since that first day you tripped over your own feet in the ER and spilled coffee all over my scrubs.” He chuckles softly, a deep, rich sound. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s just adorable.’ And then you apologized for about five minutes straight, looking like a drowned kitten.”
You remember that day, a wave of heat rising to your cheeks. “I was mortified!” you protest, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You just stood there, looking all… stoic and intimidating with your perfectly pressed scrubs.”
“Stoic, maybe,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eyes. “Intimidated? Never. Fascinated? Absolutely.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, the water still cascading over both of you. “You’re everything I didn’t know I was looking for.”
A tremor runs through you, a delicious shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. “Oh, Robby,” you whisper, using the affectionate nickname that feels so right on your tongue, a name you’ve never dared utter before tonight. “You’re so in love with me, aren’t you?”
He pulls back slightly, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hmph,” he grunts playfully, a sound of pure affection. “Is it that obvious?” He leans in again, his lips finding yours under the spray, a long, deep kiss that tastes of water and passion and a future you’d only dared to dream of.
After the shower, wrapped in thick, fluffy towels from your sister’s linen closet, you pad back into the guest room. The city outside is beginning to stir, a faint increase in the distant traffic hum. Michael sits on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry, his gaze fixed on you as you search for clothes.
“What are we going to tell Dana?” you ask, your voice a little shaky as you pull on a soft t-shirt. “She’s going to flip.”
Michael throws his towel over a chair. “We tell her the truth,” he says, his voice calm, but with an underlying steel. “That we’re together. That it’s serious.” He stands, walking over to you, his hands finding your waist. “She loves you like her own kids, Ducky. She’ll understand, and besides… pretty sure she won everyone’s money with Ahmad’s betting board.”
“But… the hospital,” you murmur, the worry creeping back in. “HR. Our jobs. It’s a huge conflict of interest, Michael. We both know the rules and how this looks.” A knot tightens in your stomach. The thrill of the night was giving way to the cold reality of your professional lives.
He pulls you closer, his warmth a comforting presence against your growing anxiety. “I know the rules,” he acknowledges, his voice softer now. “And we’ll navigate them. We’ll be discreet. We’ll be smart.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes, usually so serious and focused in the operating room, are now filled with a tender resolve. “Are you regretting this?”
You shake your head, a quick, emphatic movement. “Never. Not a single second. I’ve wanted this for so long, Michael.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It’s just… scary.”
“I know,” he whispers, pulling you into a tight hug, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Shhh, Ducky. I know. But we’re in this together, okay? We’ll figure it out.” He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “I wouldn’t trade last night, or any future night with you, for anything. Not a promotion, not a perfect record, nothing.”
You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear. “Mmmph,” you hum, a sound of both comfort and lingering worry. “I’m glad you said that.”
He pulls back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Besides,” he says, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “who’s going to tell HR that Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief Emergency Medicine, is madly in love with the best emergency nurse in the hospital? I’d like to see them try.” He winks. “They’d have to get through a very protective Robby first.”
You laugh, a nervous but genuine sound. “Still threatening the administration, are we?”
“Only when it comes to you,” he says, his smile softening, his gaze full of adoration. He gently strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I’m not letting you go, Ducky. Not now, not ever.”
The sun begins to peek through the curtains, casting long, pale streaks across the room. The city outside is fully awake now, a symphony of distant horns and the rumble of delivery trucks. The world was moving on, oblivious to the momentous shift that had occurred in your small corner of it. But for you, nestled in Michael’s arms, the future, with all its challenges, suddenly felt less daunting. You had him. And that, you realized, was everything.
The day before your sister and her boyfriend are due back from their trip, Michael asks you out again.
You are standing in the kitchen in fuzzy socks and one of your oversized sweaters, sleep-mussed hair clipped back badly while coffee brews beside you. Bowie is sprawled upside down across the floor nearby, watching you with the intensity of a Victorian child dying of consumption because breakfast is thirty seconds late.
The apartment smells like coffee and cold November air drifting through the slightly cracked kitchen window.
Michael leans against the counter across from you, arms folded loosely over his chest. He’s freshly showered, wearing a dark Henley with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and he’s looking at you with that soft, hopeless expression he gets now when he forgets to guard himself.
“So,” he says casually. Immediately, your eyes narrow. “That tone means trouble.” A grin pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Go on another date with me?”
You pretend to think very seriously about it while stirring cream into your coffee. “Hm,” you hum thoughtfully. “Depends.”
“On?”
“What’s the date?”
“A picnic.”
You blink once.
“A picnic?”
“In Central Park.”
There’s something so earnest about the way he says it that your chest hurts a little. This is a man who spent years speaking in trauma protocols and dry sarcasm, and now he’s standing in your sister’s kitchen asking you on a picnic like a teenager with a crush.
You stare at him for another second before smiling helplessly into your mug. “That’s disgustingly cute.”
“I’m trying very hard here.”
“You really are.”
He is, that’s the thing. Michael Robinavitch has always loved intensely. Like a flood. Something all-consuming and frightening in its depth. But now—after the burnout, after the grief, after the running and finally turning around and coming back—he’s learning how to love gently too.
CENTRAL PARK — DAY
The afternoon is freezing in that crisp November way that bites at your cheeks and turns your nose pink, no matter how deeply your hands stay shoved in your coat pockets.
Central Park looks unreal.
Burnt orange leaves blanket the walking paths. Trees glow gold against the pale sky while bundled-up New Yorkers wander past with scarves tucked up to their noses and coffee cups in mittened hands. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a saxophone badly enough to be charming.
Michael insisted on carrying almost everything.
Which means he currently has the picnic basket in one hand, blanket tucked under his arm, and your tote bag slung over his shoulder because apparently this is now his personal romantic pilgrimage.
“You know,” you say while walking beside him, “I actually do have functioning arms.”
“I’m aware.” He hums. You gesture to everything that he’s holding, “You’re literally carrying all the bags.”
“Correct.”
“You’re being weirdly macho about this.”
“I’m courting you.”
You bark out a laugh loud enough that a woman walking her poodle glances over, while Robby only looks smug.
“You say courting like you were born in 1942.” You teased, and he smirks, “Maybe I was.”
“You absolutely were.”
By the time you settle near the water, your coffee is lukewarm, and your fingers are freezing, but you don’t think you’ve stopped smiling once.
The blanket is spread beneath a tree dusted in orange leaves. Around you, the park hums softly with life. There’s distant laughter, joggers, and dogs barking somewhere farther down the path.
The picnic itself is almost offensively thoughtful.
Sandwiches from the deli you mentioned liking once in passing. Pastries from the bakery he dragged you into earlier because, according to him, “You looked at the cinnamon rolls too long.” Fresh fruit. Coffee. Little packets of hot chocolate were shoved into the basket “for emergencies.”
You sit cross-legged beside him while he opens containers and hands you food with the kind of quiet attentiveness that makes your chest ache.
Then there’s the touching. Dear God. Dr. Michael Robinavitch cannot keep his hands off you. Not necessarily in a vulgar way or intentionally, really.
It’s worse than that.
Hopelessly affectionate.
His hand settles automatically on your thigh while you talk. Fingers rubbing absent circles through your tights while he listens to you complain about Mateo nearly setting a microwave on fire one time in the break room.
Then later, while you’re laughing, his hand drifts to your waist beneath your coat. He just needs contact.
Because being near you has become instinctive now. Every so often, he kisses you absentmindedly during conversation. Your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Those little touches of affection that still make your brain short-circuit every single time.
You’re halfway through telling him another story about Dana bullying Langdon when Michael suddenly leans over and presses a kiss against the side of your neck.
Your entire sentence dies instantly, and you stop talking mid-word and slowly turn to stare at him. “Michael.”
“Hm?” he asks innocently, mouth still dangerously close to your skin.
“We are in public.”
“No one’s looking.”
You gape at him. “Sir, there are literally children fifteen feet away.” He glances over briefly, shrugs, “They seem busy.”
You smack his shoulder lightly, horrified laughter escaping you. “Michael Robinavitch.”
He only grins against your cheek, utterly shameless now.
Somewhere in the last few days, he’s become almost drunk on being allowed to love you openly. But honestly? You think maybe he deserves to be.
Then somehow—somehow—his hand slips lower beneath your coat until his warm palm settles over your ass possessively through your skirt.
Your mouth actually falls open against his shoulder. “Michael,” you whisper, scandalized and breathless all at once.
“What?” he murmurs, not even pretending innocence very well anymore.
“You are being insane right now.”
“You started it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
He gestures vaguely toward you. “You wore this skirt knowing I’m weak.”
You burst into laughter so suddenly that you nearly choke on your own coffee. “Oh my fucking God.”
You hide your burning face against his shoulder while he looks unbearably pleased with himself, arm tightening around your waist as your laughter shakes against him.
And the thing is—he’s happier now. You can feel it in every small thing. He’s not magically healed. Some mornings, he still goes quiet in ways that worry you, and some nights he still wakes up tense from dreams he won’t fully explain.
But he’s lighter, more present. He’s finally allowing himself to imagine a future again instead of just surviving one shift at a time.
One of the things he wants in that future is very obviously you. The realization still startles you sometimes. The fact that someone can look at you—with your scabs, scars, your anxiety, your messiness, your tendency to pull away when things become too real—and still choose you this completely.
Robby catches you staring at him.
You hadn’t even realized you were doing it. Your head resting against his shoulder while the wind coming off the water turns colder by the minute, leaves skittering across the grass around the picnic blanket. The late afternoon sun hangs low now, all honey-gold and soft around him.
He looks back at you, brows lifting slightly. “What?” You shake your head softly before you can stop the smile spreading across your face.
“I love you.” Your voice comes out quieter than expected, shy despite everything. “Mahal kita.”
The words settle between you tenderly. For a second, he just looks at you. It physically hurts him to be loved this much. Then your hand reaches for his instinctively across the blanket, and he takes it immediately, fingers slotting between yours like they were always meant to fit there.
His gaze searches your face carefully, almost reverently. Then he says your real name. Not Ducky or some teasing nickname. Your actual name, spoken with that unmistakable American roughness still clinging to the syllables. Imperfect accent and all. “Mahal kita.”
Your breath catches, because he says it carefully. Just as he practiced. He wanted to get it right for you, and maybe that’s what destroys you most.
You laugh softly through sudden tears, and then he’s kissing you before either of you can say anything else. Slow and wholehearted. The kind of kiss that feels less like heat and more like surrender. You kiss him back just as fully, your hand sliding up into his hair while his palm cups your jaw like he still can’t quite believe you’re real and all you can feel is him.
Later, you’re curled together on the picnic blanket beneath his coat, your legs tangled with his.
Robby’s arm is wrapped around your waist while the fingers of his other hand move absently along your skin, tracing. His thumb brushes lightly over the faint scars near the creases of your elbows. Pale marks mixed among healing patches from recent flare-ups.
His touch slows.
“How’d all this happen?” he asks quietly. There’s no judgment in it, only concern. You glance down at your arms for a moment before shrugging lightly. “Atopic dermatitis,” you say. “Skin asthma basically. Had it my whole life.”
His brows pinch slightly while you continue softly, “It gets worse with stress sometimes. Allergies too. I only recently started immunotherapy for it.”
His thumb traces carefully along one of the faded scars like he’s trying not to hurt you. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.” You shrug again. “Mostly during flare-ups. It burns more than anything. Feels like my skin’s angry at me.”
His expression tightens immediately at that. You know that look. It’s the physician in him cataloguing symptoms automatically. The man in him hates that you’ve suffered quietly beside him for this long. “When do you go next?”
“Next Saturday.”
He nods once, thinking, then, “Can I come with you?”
You blink at him.
“It’s literally upstairs from the ED,” you say with a small laugh. “One of the outpatient allergy clinics.”
“I still want to come.”
The answer comes immediately. He presses a kiss against the side of your head while his hand stays warm over your arm.
You look at him for a second before sighing fondly. “It’s not a huge deal, Robby. They give me the injection, then I wait around for observation afterward to make sure I don’t have a reaction bad enough to send me downstairs to the ER.” You grin slightly. “Which, thankfully, hasn’t happened.”
His face does not look reassured.
“Atopic patients can still develop anaphylaxis during immunotherapy,” he mutters automatically. “Oh my God,” you laugh. “You sound like Uptodate.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
His hand tightens around yours slightly.
“Then I’ll wait with you,” he says quietly. “I don’t ever want to be downstairs working a shift and suddenly see you come through those ambulance doors as my patient.”
The sincerity in his voice knocks something loose in your chest, and you smile softly at him. “We’d have to disclose the relationship by then,” you point out gently. “People are gonna be confused why the Chief Attending of the PTMC ED is hovering upstairs during my allergy appointment.”
Robby doesn’t even hesitate. “Then we do the paperwork.”
You stare at him, and he shrugs lightly. “Our relationship didn’t start in the hospital anyway. It happened during your leave and my sabbatical. HR’s probably just gonna make sure there’s no favoritism or conflict with staffing.”
You pick at the sleeve of his coat thoughtfully.
“Worst case scenario,” you murmur, “they transfer me somewhere else in the hospital.” His jaw tightens instantly. Because you both know how these systems work sometimes. Especially for women.
You look at him carefully. “You know how it is.” Robby nods once slowly, eyes darkening. Then, very calmly says, “I’ll fight the whole board if I have to.”
You snort. “Even Gloria?”
“Especially Gloria.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, “My hero.”
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he turns toward you more fully, expression serious in that devastatingly earnest way he gets sometimes now. “‘M serious, Ducky,” he says quietly. “I’ll step down as Chief Attending if I have to.”
Your eyes widen immediately.
“What—Robby, wait.” You push yourself upright to look at him properly. “That’s your whole career.”
“And you’re you.”
The answer comes so simply that it nearly steals the air from your lungs. As if it’s obvious. Plain as day. There was never even a choice.
His hand slides into yours again.
“I spent my whole life thinking the job was the only thing in my life worth keeping,” he says softly. “I’m not doing that anymore.”
Emotion climbs painfully into your throat. Because this man—this impossible, stubborn, honest man—is looking at you like loving you is not a burden or a sacrifice. But something sacred enough to rearrange his life around.
You shake your head a little, overwhelmed. “You can’t keep saying things like that to me.” A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Why?”
“Because eventually I’m gonna believe you.”
The look he gives you then—warm, wrecked, completely certain—feels a little bit like standing in sunlight after surviving winter.
“Good.”
Your chest aches because your feelings always come out sideways when they become too overwhelming. You murmur against his shoulder, “And then we’re gonna end up with a house by a pond.”
His brows furrow instantly. “How did you—” You grin immediately. “Samira.” His eyes widen slightly in betrayal. “She told you?”
“She told me before she left Pittsburgh for her fellowship,” you say smugly. Then his expression changes completely. “She left?”
The amusement softens from your face, and you nod gently. “Mhm.”
A cold breeze rustles through the trees overhead while the light over the park deepens more softly and gold.
“She finished residency,” you continue quietly. “We had a whole goodbye party in the staff lounge. I cried first, obviously. Then Dana started crying because I was crying. Then everyone else followed.”
Robby huffs out a faint laugh at that, but it fades quickly.
“I thought she would’ve…” He trails off, gaze drifting toward the water. “I don’t know. Stayed in Pittsburgh.”
You shake your head a little. “I don’t think you realized how competitive PTMC got for fellowships.”
“Yeah,” he mutters softly. “Damn.”
There’s something sad about the way he says it, wistful. He blinked and suddenly the residents he trained are becoming attendings somewhere else. Building lives outside the hospital halls where he first met them.
You squeeze his hand gently. “She was one of your best.” He nods immediately. “Yeah.”
You lean over and kiss his cheek softly, smiling when his beard tickles your lips.
“She’s smart,” you murmur. “Resilient. Kind. Every bit as hardworking as she thinks she has to be.” You smile a little. “She’ll be okay.”
Robby stares quietly at the river for another moment before admitting softly, “I wish I wasn’t such an asshole to her last shift.”
The Fourth of July shift. You both know the one, the shift that cracked him open. You lean back slightly to look at him properly. The regret on his face is real, and you brush your thumb along his wrist gently.
“We were all trying to survive that day,” you say quietly. “Some of us just did it better than others.”
His eyes flick toward yours.
You shrug softly.
“We make choices with the version of ourselves we have at the time. Sometimes they’re messy. Sometimes we hurt people.” Your voice gentles further. “That doesn’t mean we stop deserving the chance to become better afterward.”
Something in his expression falters at that. Because he still doesn’t fully know what to do with forgiveness when it’s offered freely.
Especially yours.
The silence that settles afterward feels comfortable, the kind you don’t need to fill.
You curl closer beneath his coat, tucking your face against his chest while his arms close around you automatically. The steady weight of him surrounds you instantly, grounding and safe.
You can hear his heartbeat as it slows down to a rhythmic calm. His chin rests lightly on top of your head, listening to the ambience that Central Park provides
After a while, almost without thinking, you begin humming softly against him. Just a little melody under your breath. Quiet enough that anyone else would miss it beneath the wind and distant traffic.
But Michael notices immediately, because you always sing when you’re content. He figured that out months ago during rare late-night shifts when you’d hum absentmindedly while organizing meds or charting at three in the morning.
Now, wrapped up together while the city glows gold around you, he closes his eyes briefly just to listen.
Your voice is soft, sleepy, and tender around the edges. Suddenly, he’s struck with the terrifying realization that this—this right here—is the closest he’s ever come to peace.
You in his arms, humming softly while the world keeps moving around the two of you. His hand slides slowly up your back, holding you closer, and quietly, against your hair, he whispers, “I could listen to you forever.”
You smile faintly against his chest. “Forever seems like a really long time.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, then the expression on his face is so unbearably tender it almost hurts to hold. The kind of look that makes you understand, all at once, why poets used to write themselves sick over love.
His thumb brushes softly beneath your eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kinda the point.”
Your breath catches a little because he says it so simply, as if forever isn’t frightening to him anymore if it includes you.
The wind shifts colder around you, but his coat is wrapped around both your shoulders now, his warmth completely surrounding you. “I used to think forever sounded exhausting,” you admit softly.
Michael hums quietly. “How come?”
You shrug a little against him.
“I don’t know. I think…” Your fingers twist lightly into the fabric of his sweater. “I think when you spend most of your life waiting for good things to disappear, you stop trusting permanence.”
His face changes immediately at that, since he understands that feeling too well. So instead of trying to argue with it, he just presses a slow kiss against your forehead and says quietly, “Then we’ll take it one day at a time.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. No promises too huge to carry or impossible guarantees. Only choosing each other again and again for as long as you can. Something about that feels even more romantic than forever ever did. You smile shakily. “That sounds suspiciously healthy.”
“I’ve been to therapy now,” he says dryly. “I’m insufferable.”
You laugh softly, and the sound lights something warm inside his chest immediately. The terrifying, miraculous realization that happiness still exists for him after all.
He wraps his arms tighter around you instinctively, burying his face briefly into your hair. And quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—he says, “I really thought I lost my chance with you.”
Your heart squeezes painfully.
You pull back enough to look at him fully. The evening light catches in his tired brown eyes. The faint silver at his temples. The softness he spent years trying to bury beneath competence and exhaustion and grief.
You touch his face gently. “You came back.” A pause, then his forehead rests against yours. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.”
Later, after the picnic is packed away and the blanket folded up unevenly because Michael absolutely refuses to let you help, he carries nearly everything despite your protests.
The basket hangs from one hand while the tote bag digs into his shoulder. “You’re gonna throw your back out,” you warn.
“I’m fifty-three, not eighty.”
You snort immediately. “You made a dad noise standing up earlier.”
“That was on purpose.”
“Mhm.”
“It was.”
You give him a skeptical look while walking beside him through the glowing November evening. Then, without missing a beat, he adds, “Besides, you liked the noises I made last—” You choke on your own spit. “Okay!” you yelp loudly, scandalized. “Calm down, ER Cowboy.”
Michael looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You started it.”
“I literally did not.”
“You looked at me in a manner.”
“Oh, my God.”
He laughs then, open and warm and surprised out of him. The sun begins to set slowly by the time you make it to the Hudson River promenade. The skyline stretches across the water in shimmering gold and glass. Sunset melts through the sky in layers—orange fading into pink, fading into deep bruised blue. The river catches all of it, liquid fire rippling beneath the wind.
People pass around you bundled in coats and scarves, couples walking hand in hand, joggers slowing as evening settles in. Michael walks slightly closer to the street side automatically. You notice that quickly, the tiny unconscious things he does now that scream care louder than words.
When the wind gets sharper, his hand settles against your lower back. You shiver slightly, and he immediately asks, “You cold?”
“I’m Filipino,” you deadpan. “Anything below seventy degrees feels like psychological warfare.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and immediately starts unwrapping his scarf. You try to protest, “Michael, no.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m literally fine.”
“You’re lying.” Before you can argue further, he loops the scarf gently around your neck anyway, fingers brushing your skin in the process.
Your cheeks warm instantly.
“There,” he says softly, adjusting it once. “Better.”
“You know this is how old men flirt, right?”
His mouth twitches. “Good thing I’m ancient.”
You glance over at him then. At the softened lines around his eyes now. The healthier color in his face from months away. The way he doesn’t seem quite so haunted standing still anymore. Somehow, the sight of it makes your chest ache worse than the sadness ever did.
Because this version of him—hopeful, trying, letting himself want things—feels unbearably precious. “You okay?” he asks quietly after catching you staring again.
You blink. “Yeah.” He studies your face for another second like he’s checking whether you mean it. Before he gently bumps his shoulder against yours. “C’mere.”
You move closer immediately, your arm slipping through his while you continue walking beside the river.
The city glows around you, alive and bright. The kind of evening that makes even strangers seem softer somehow.
Michael starts telling you another story from the cruise, then. Something about accidentally ending up at a family karaoke night in the Philippines section of the ship because a Lola physically dragged him there after hearing him say he knew one Filipino word.
You’re already laughing before he even finishes. “She made me sing.”
“Oh no.”
“I didn’t know the song.”
“What song?”
“I don’t know,” he says defensively. “It had emotions.” You laugh so hard you nearly walk into the railing. “And then,” he continues with growing offense, “they scored me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“How bad?” You asked, and his silence answers for him, while you gasp dramatically. “Robinavitch!”
“I was set up.”
“You lost karaoke to Filipino titas?”
“They were vicious.”
You are fully doubled over laughing now, clinging to his arm while he watches you with that helplessly fond expression again, because the truth is, your joy itself is something sacred to him.
Eventually, your laughter softens into quiet again as you both stop near the railing overlooking the water. The sun hangs low now, huge and golden, while the skyline burns softly beneath it.
You lean against the railing beside him, shoulders brushing lightly in the cold. Softly, almost without meaning to, you say, “I’ve never really liked sunsets.”
Michael looks over immediately. “Why?”
You shrug a little, eyes fixed on the horizon. “They always made me sad.” The wind lifts your hair gently. “Like…” You pause, searching for the right words. “Endings, I guess.”
Your fingers curl together against the cold metal railing.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then quietly, you add, “But today…” You glance toward the water again, sunset painting everything gold and amber. “…today I like it.”
Michael’s expression softens instantly.
“It’s beautiful.”
He steps closer behind you then, both arms wrapping loosely around your waist while his chin settles lightly against your shoulder. The kind of closeness that quiets something restless inside you.
The river glows ahead in streaks of molten gold while the sun slowly sinks behind the skyline, buildings turning amber at the edges as evening settles over the city.
You lean back into him instinctively, and somewhere between the cold air and his heartbeat against your back and the way his fingers absentmindedly trace slow patterns against your coat, you realize something has changed inside you, too.
Ever since Robby showed up at your sister’s apartment, soaked from the rain, heart cracked open in his hands, asking you to come back, mornings have stopped feeling so heavy.
You used to wake up with dread sitting quietly in your chest. The kind that came from too many shifts, too much grief, too many years spent surviving instead of living. Even good things used to feel temporary. Fragile. Like happiness was something borrowed that would eventually be taken back.
But now—now you catch yourself looking forward to things.
Waking up to coffee in the kitchen while he stands there, sleepy and warm and annoyingly handsome. Hearing him shuffle down the hallway in the morning. To the way he always reaches for you first without thinking. To sunlight creeping through apartment windows while New York wakes up around the two of you.
You started looking forward to the sunshine greeting you every morning.
Because for the first time in a very long time, tomorrow no longer feels like something you have to endure alone.
Robby presses a soft kiss just beneath your ear.
“What’re you thinking about?” he murmurs.
You smile faintly, eyes still fixed on the sunset. “That maybe life doesn’t feel as scary anymore.”
His arms tighten around you slightly at that, while you turn your head slightly toward him.
“And I think…” Your voice softens. “I think you ruined me a little.” That earns the quietest laugh from him, warm against your skin. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“How?”
You glance up at him finally, and fuck, the tenderness in his face nearly undoes you again. “You made me want things.”
You can actually see the impact your words have on him happen. His expression falters slightly, emotion moving across his face too fast to fully hide. Because he knows exactly what you mean. Wanting things again is terrifying. It means hope, risk, and imagining a future and caring enough that losing it would hurt.
Robby’s hand slips into yours carefully, fingers threading together while the last light of sunset catches against the silver strands of his beard. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then quietly, honestly, he says, “Good.”
End Notes:
writing smut and fluff with my mood being all over the place is a testament to my meds and my therapist, so gg on that
lol sorry for not updating as frequently as before but I told you guys I was gonna take it slow for a bit cuz brain go brrrr and that one anon pmo lol
The whole pigeon and rat convo is based on an actual convo I have with my older sister, so… yeah.
^^It’s because we have to be smart all the time, so it’s fun to sometimes shut down your brain and think of silly, whimsical, “stupid” things.
Halfway through the haze of smut, I wrote I was like “OH SHIT PROTECTION WAIT—”
When they mentioned Ho'oponopono during S1 of the Pitt, I was like, oh my god I KNOW HOW I'M GONNA MAKE EM ADMIT THEY’RE IN LOVE— ahem anyways, Chekov's gun.
“Who took care of Bowie while you guys went out?” - Answer: The dog walker/ neighbor. Me. I am the dog walker. Just imagine me, Grace is the dog walker. He’s fine, guys dw. I, the author, deem him fine and alive. Gave him belly rubs, too.
Been switching back and forth with this, my Jack Abbot fic, and then the soulmate au I’m still cooking up on…
Anyways, yay, HR mess is gonna be fun. Dw, it’s light angst. I’m sure irl if this were to happen, HR would be unhappy! Cause ethics or whatever 😔
But I am the author, therefore I say… HR can eat my ass—
Ok, I’m tired. Thank you for reading my ramblings. If you made it this far, you get a cookie and a gold star.
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