#shooting tw

[skymouth]

tipping point — michael robinavitch x reader | part 2

Since the incident, things are different between you and Robby. Something has to give.

(Something finally does.)

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader Word count: 15k+ Tags: Reader is multilingual; Yearning; Injuries; Stalking; Justice systems; Inaccurate legal proceedings; Jealous Robby; AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral receiving; P in V sex); Gun violence; Shooting. Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: I fear I lost reader’s personality part way through writing this. Hopefully it’s not noticeable idk. This isn’t my best work and I’ve been trying to rework this so long that I’m lowkey hating it now. TP2 is now my least favourite child lmao

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Series tag. [COMPLETED]

Cross posted to AO3.

Three days into your mandated time off from work, Robby shows up outside your apartment.

You look through the peephole before opening the door for him.

You both blink at each other—you hadn’t been expecting him, and somehow, he looks surprised to see you on the other side of the door.

“Dr Robby,” you exhale. You feel incredibly dressed down, even though you’ve never once been dressed up while in the Pitt. Varying levels of barefaced, tired, and hair up. It’s different when you’re lounging in your ratty loungewear than your scrubs, you think.

“Hi. And it’s just Robby,” he says, a little breathless. You live on the third floor to an at least 70 year old apartment building—there are no elevators. But it was cheap, and the landlord treated the apartment like dead weight; happy to unload it onto some unsuspecting tenant.

“Uh—come in.” You shuffle back, inviting him into your place. “Oh, um, shoes off, please.”

“Sure.” He toes off his shoes while you nudge some spare guest house slippers towards him.

It feels awkward, the strange song and dance of work colleagues outside of work. He’s known you for a little longer than six months now. Through work, he feels somewhat he’s well acquainted with you, yet somehow, knows very little about you.

“How are you?” Robby asks.

You head over to the kitchen, filling up the kettle to boil. “Bored, mostly. Feels like I’ve been given all the time off in the world, and I’m just… bored.”

Robby grins, following you. “Sometimes I think our brains aren’t wired for not working. Too much adrenaline.”

You chuckle. “You want tea?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

“Probably chamomile.” You take out the box of tea bags you’ve stashed in your cupboard. “It’s supposed to help you sleep.”

Robby pauses, studying your face. “Is it working?”

You duck your head. “Not really.” Brain too preoccupied with resurgent fears to sleep. And when you do manage to welcome the unconsciousness, it’s fitful. You’re never able to remember the nightmare that’s startled you awake. Only the dreadful feeling that you can’t outrun anything.

The only sound is the kettle boiling.

“You change your bandage yet?” he asks, after a moment.

“I am also a doctor, Dr Robby.” You’re more than capable of the aftercare of stitches and bandages. Have sent patients home with the list of care instructions multiple times in a day, across the week.

“It’s just Robby,” he says again. It feels weird to upkeep the titles when he’s not in the hospital, even though he’s worked relentlessly for it. “Can I see?”

“Just—give me a second.” When the kettle’s done, you pour out two mugs, dunking the tea bags in. You let them steep. Shuffling towards your first aid kit, then to the stool that he’s parked in, sitting in the one next to him.

“Have at it,” you say.

“Thank you,” Robby says, maybe a little too earnestly. Not seeing you at work after waking up from a hazy dream that reminded him that your heart had stopped—despite the knowledge that he saved you—brought upon a sense of impending doom. He needed to see you, needed to make sure that you’re still alive under his hands. He hasn’t told you that you died. It’s not something that he wants to relive.

It’s quiet as he works, like he’s back in the ED. This time, without all the bright lights and the machines and the bustle of nurses and doctors.

His thumb is a gentle thing, digit gliding over smooth skin under the wound.

You shiver.

“Does it hurt?” Robby asks.

“No,” you manage to utter out, barely breathing. Head angled up so he can work. Examining every inch of his face while his attention is on your neck.

“You sure?” There’s a furrow between his brows, moulded by worry from the tremble to your frame. He looks down to meet your gaze.

You feel frozen. Staring, drawn into those expressive brown eyes that carry the world within them.

You rise and he falls.

Lips almost touching.

Robby’s thumb absentmindedly strokes back and forth over your pulse.

Your mind is filled with buzzing static; white noise. Hovering closer to him. Your breath hitches.

The sound disrupts the moment.

He remembers himself. Clearing his throat as he rights his posture. Avoiding eye contact as he busies himself, rifling through the first aid kit. “You’ll have to come in to get the stitches out.” He takes a bandage, sticking it over the sutures.

“I know,” you say, impossibly small and quiet. You’re not sure he even hears it.

Harried motions, a whirlwind that takes him towards the front door. Guest slippers off, his own shoes on. “I’ll—I’ll see you. Around. At work.”

You don’t move from the kitchen, watching him flee like this is—like you are—something terrifying. “Yes, sir.”

Robby opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but closes it. Nods. “Okay. See you.” Door opens, stepping out. Then, softly, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Attention drifting back onto you. Lingering.

The door closes.

You sigh, turning back to the kitchen counter to pack away the first aid kit.

You empty out one of the mugs of chamomile tea, keeping the other for yourself.

Your first day back is accompanied by a message from Dr Ellis. You send off an hours late response and pocket your phone, coming in from the stairwell to head into the ED. You’re at least 30 minutes early.

“Nuh uh, I get first hug.” Ellis bodily shoves Shen as soon as she sees you, wrapping you into a hug.

“What the fuck?” Shen demands, mouth parting in a betrayed expression.

“She messaged me as soon as midnight hit,” you explain, arms awkwardly wrapped around Ellis. Your bags swing—your usual tote bag, and your care packages of extra food to make up for the fact that you weren’t in. They’re filled with an increased amount of tupperware and thermos.

“Some of us were busy working at midnight,” Shen scoffs.

“You snooze, you lose, loser,” Ellis says.

Shen, at least, has the decency to wait until Ellis detaches herself before he also latches on.

“I missed my boba buddy,” Shen says.

“You couldn’t get it yourself?” you ask.

He stretches back, lifting you.

You don’t want to admit it, but you’re sure you’ve let out some kind of undignified sound. Your feet don’t touch the ground for a solid three seconds.

“It’s not the same, pookie.” He lets you back on your feet, taking your tote bag from you.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He’s rifling through your belongings like a raccoon.

“You’re a grown ass man.”

Shen makes a victorious sound, grabbing the boba. “I knew it.”

“Uh uh, and who said that was yours?” Ellis asks.

He turns to you, smug. “Is it?”

You sigh loudly. “I hate proving you right.”

Shen cackles, poking the straw into his drink. Who else would want matcha flavoured boba half an hour before their shift ends, despite the fact that they have yet to sleep all night?

“Still distracting my doctors, I see.” Dr Abbot, again. He looks a little more amused, entertained by the antics of his doctors. And it’s good to see you back—everyday that you weren’t in was a reminder that the PTMC almost lost one of their own.

He saw you briefly when you came in during his night shift, needing your stitches out. He can’t remember exactly, but he’s sure that Dr King had been the one that had taken them out. If he found it weird that you hadn’t come in during the day shift, he didn’t say anything.

“Yeah, well. You know me,” you say.

Abbot’s hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. Tweedledee and Tweedledum over here wouldn’t shut up about missing you.”

“Is that so?”

“Dibs on being Tweedledee,” Ellis says.

“I can’t be dumb,” Shen gapes, crestfallen.

You grin, shaking your head. Part of you wishes you could transfer into night shift just to keep up with their tomfoolery. Alas, replacing Dr Langdon means sticking to his day shift schedule. “Dr Abbot, before you go—” you pipe up, just as the older attending turns to leave, “I have dumpling soup for you.”

“What the fuck?” Shen asks. He stares at you.

“For me?” Abbot asks at the same time.

With Shen still holding onto your bag, you grab one of the insulated food jars to pass over to Abbot.

“Seriously?” He gingerly takes it from you, disbelieving.

“This one’s for you, specifically. And the lovely Dr Ellis gets—” You take out another food jar.

Ellis opens up the container, mouth dropping open in delight. “Stir fry noodles. Hell fucking yes, dude.”

“This is a hate crime,” Shen sighs dramatically, shaking his head.

“I’m two seconds away from showing you a real hate crime,” you tell him, staving off a large grin.

He makes a face at you, because he’s five years old.

“Go stick to your boba, kid,” Abbot laughs. He holds the food jar to his chest, like it’s something precious.

You spy Dr Robby over Abbot’s shoulder, watching from a distance. You think he seems tickled by whatever the hell is happening, but he’s better at hiding it. He starts towards the direction of the break room.

“Um—give me a second to put everything away,” you say. You’re early, but you have food that would fare better in the fridge. You quicken your pace to fall next to Robby. “Dr Robby.”

He greets you as you do him. “It’s good to have you back,” he says. Even he has to admit that the atmosphere in the Pitt has been different when you’re not here. In six short months, you had made everyone value your presence.

When you enter the break room, he beelines towards the coffee machine, and you to the fridge.

You take out the large tupperware container. “I made fried rice for everyone on day shift. If you don’t have any dietary requirements.” You briefly hold it up when he looks your way before tucking it into the fridge.

“I’ll be sure to let everyone know.”

“It’s for you too, Dr Robby.” You stick in your other containers. With your bag mostly empty, you close the fridge door.

Robby’s watching you, leaning against the counter.

You idle by the fridge, unexpectedly feeling insecure under his analytical gaze. Especially when it flickers to the side of your neck. You shift, tugging the collar of your shirt up like it can hide it. If you could have gotten away with a turtleneck underneath your scrubs, you would have. Alas, the weather’s too warm for that.

“I should—um, go. Lockers,” you manage out.

“Okay,” Robby murmurs. You can’t parse out the expression that he has on his face. Pinched, maybe.

You pass by, and he straightens from the counter. His hand on your shoulder, burning. His proximity reminds you of the two of you in your kitchen, some nights ago.

Your mouth dries at the memory.

“Just—” Robby starts. Licks his lips; your eyes inexplicably drawn to the movement. His thumb strokes against the bone of your shoulder. Even though it’s over the layers of your clothes, you’re certain you feel it scorching against your skin. “Ask if you need help, okay? A second opinion, diagnoses, extra pair of hands, more eyes. Anything. Please.”

You blink, nodding. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”

His fingers flex against your shoulder, before he lets go. “See you out there. Thank you for the food.”

“Yeah. Yes, I’ll… see you.” You’re not sure if you exit the break room before or after the end of that sentence. Fuck, you’re so awkward.

Lockers—your belongings stashed away, stethoscope around your neck. Then into the ED, where Robby is now conferring with Abbot.

You hear your name called.

Then Javadi is propelling towards you. “Hi!”

“Hi—oof.” You manage to catch her before she bowls you over. You rub her back. “It’s good to see you, Dr Javadi.”

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker get in at the same time. When they see you, they head towards you. They hover—close, but not going in for a hug. “Thank fuck you’re back,” Santos says, her arms crossed over her chest.

“That bad?” you ask.

“Yes,” Javadi agonises, where she’s still attached to your side.

“It’s only been ten days,” you say.

“Ten days too long,” Whitaker says.

“They didn’t get an acting senior resident in,” Santos says, pitching her voice lower. Eyes skate towards Robby and Abbot.

“Dr Ellis pulled a few doubles. Same with Dr Yeo.”

“Good thing you like Dr Ellis,” you note, grinning as you fix your gaze on Santos.

Santos rolls her eyes as Whitaker chuckles into his fist. “She’s a good doctor.” Santos elbows her roommate.

“She is.”

“I’m missing something, here,” Javadi mutters, low enough that only you can hear.

You rub her back again.

“No love for the old gal, huh?” Dana’s voice from somewhere to the side.

“Dana! Come join the hug,” you say.

Dana squeezes into your other side.

“Is Dr Collins in today?” you ask.

“Yeah. You’re still at least 20 minutes early. She’ll probably be another five.”

Santos and Whitaker take that as their cue to head towards the lockers.

You’ve give yourself time to settle in.

Robby hears you first, before he sees you.

“What?” You blink, a furrow between your brows as you mingle with Dr Santos at the desk near south.

Robby has the belated thought of wanting to smooth it away, thumb against the grooves on your skin.

“Dude, your heart fucking stopped,” Santos explains. “It was so weird seeing you like that—”

Robby interrupts both of you, calling both your names. “If you have time to chat, you have time to check on your patients.” He looks at Santos—an easier target to face.

Santos salutes him, making herself scarce. She knows the disapproving dismissal when she hears it.

You, on the other hand, feel like you’re reeling. You were dead. Sure, you knew you had been injured. You knew you lost consciousness. But they never mentioned anything about losing your pulse. Robby never mentioned anything about it.

Your gaze gravitates towards him, to find that he’s already looking at you. “Robby, I—”

“Don’t,” he says. Pleads, really. “I can’t have this conversation.” As much as he is expounds upon fated timing on the mortal coil when he reassures his students that they’ve done all they can after losing a patient, he can’t broach this with you.

With God given hands, he would have pillaged the afterlife to bring you back.

And he did.

And for some reason, he doesn’t want you to know.

Your lips part like you want to say something, disagree, maybe. Demand your right to know what happened to you.

“Please,” he whispers.

Your mouth shuts, teeth sinking into the plush of your lower lip. Face creasing. “Okay.” With a nod, you make your rounds down to the rooms in south.

In the down time after a few more traumas, you head back up to the nurses’ station in north, using their computers to look at your chart. Robby is less likely to hang out up here—more inclined to busy himself in near central.

“You sure you want to do that?” Kim’s voice. Her hand over yours, stopping you from moving the mouse any further.

“Kim,” you sigh. You tilt your head, turning to her instead of the computer monitor in front of you.

There’s a frown on her face. “What are you trying to find out? You survived. That’s all you need to know.”

“I died.”

“Yeah. And it sucked. For everyone. Like—really, really sucked.”

You turn away, staring at the keyboard instead. Kim’s hand is still over yours. “I don’t—I just wanted to know.” And you’re not even sure why.

“Talk to Dr Robby,” Kim suggests.

You snort. “I’ve tried. He shut me down.”

“Because it sucked for him too.”

You dip your head into a nod. If Kim isn’t willing to let you take a peek into your file of what happened that day, you’re sure the other nurses have already been tasked to keep an eye on you. “Sure,” you agree, even though you have no intention of talking to Robby about this, specifically. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to, and you don’t want to push him into it.

Kim pats your back, taking your hand to lead you away from the desk. “Back out there, Doctor.”

In another attempt, you find Dr Collins by the central desk. She’s typing notes on the computer.

You inch over.

“Yes, Doctor?” Collins asks, when you’re close enough to her. She’s been watching you not so surreptitiously try to vie for her attention.

“You were there,” you say. Not quite posed as a question. “When I… when I got hurt.”

Her face softens, less guarded. Eyes flicker down to the side of your neck, where you know she observes the raised scarring. It’s been a point of focus—subjected to unspoken looks by other staff, questioned by patients that think there’s a cool story involved. “Yeah, I was,” Collins says, despite the non-query.

“I died. Right?”

Collins draws in a breath. “I shouldn’t really—”

“Because of Robby?”

Lips press into a line. She sighs, a slow nod in response.

“Tell me. Please. Kim wouldn’t let me check my file. And Robby’s probably scared all the other students from telling me.” You know Collins would be exempt from that. “I want to know.” You don’t quite know why. Some kind of morbid curiosity, a sick fascination with the knowledge that you escaped death. Maybe something deeper, needing the secure knowledge of your survival.

“You were gone three minutes,” she says, eventually. “Robby did compressions.”

You swallow.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A quick response.

“Does it hurt?” She gestures her chin towards your neck.

Your fingers are running over the healing scar. You didn’t even notice; your hand drops. “No. No, nothing hurts. I’m okay. Alive.”

Collins looks sceptical, but doesn’t probe any further. “You know,” she starts, “you’ve got the whole hospital to talk to if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” you say. Earnest.

By the end of the work day, Robby finds you before he leaves. You know he has a tendency to disappear after a shift. You don’t quite know where he runs off to, and you haven’t yet explored the hospital of all of its hiding spaces.

“Can we talk?” Robby asks, leaning against the locker next to yours as you shove your things into your bag. His own backpack is already strung across his back.

“Depends. What about?” You click the locker shut, making your way to the break room.

He falls in place next to you, matching your strides. “You wanted to talk. Before. About… when you were—hurt.” His words are almost gritted out, like it pains him to acknowledge what happened to you.

You take the empty containers from the fridge, leaving behind the larger tupperware of fried rice. Surprisingly, day shift hadn’t finished it. “You didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to force you.”

“Kim told me you tried to look at your file.”

You close the fridge door, harder than necessary. You let out a sigh. “And?” You’re already suspecting that Collins told him as well.

“And Collins told me you talked to her, too.”

Great. It’s not a fair judgement to make, but you feel a little miffed at her loyalty to Robby. It makes sense—you’ve only known these people for a little over six months now. They’ve been working with each other for years without you.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” Robby asks. His arms are crossed, peering down at you. Scrutinising.

“I… I don’t know.” You suck in a breath, casting your gaze elsewhere. “Would you believe me if I said I want to know how much time he took from me?”

Robby’s attention still remains on you, despite the fact that you refuse to look at him. “Is that the truth?”

You shrug, shouldering your other bag. “Maybe.”

The door opens—Mateo comes in, failing to fight a yawn. “Oh—hey.”

Robby waves, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” you say. “There’s still food in the fridge if you still want some.”

“If I want some? Of course I do.” Considerably more energetic, he heads for the fridge.

You and Robby step away from it, heading for the door.

“You’re literally an angel,” Mateo says.

“Please make sure it gets finished,” you add.

“That would be my absolute pleasure.”

You grin, calling out a farewell before you exit the break room. Again, Robby follows as you make the parade of goodbyes with your coworkers. It’s silent between you two as you head to the underground staff parking lot.

“I moved because of him,” you finally say. You’re idling at your car, next to the driver’s door, car keys in hand. It chirps as you unlock it. You hadn’t realise he’s been walking you to your car.

“You said,” Robby says, voice low. There’s that pinched look on his face again.

“I uprooted my whole life—left everything I knew. Everyone. Because I was… scared,” you admit. “And I don’t know—maybe knowing that he took three more minutes of my life means nothing—”

“17 seconds,” Robby interrupts.

“What?”

“It was three minutes and 17 seconds,” Robby says.

You swallow past a viscous thing in your throat. “You counted,” you realise. Down to the last second.

Robby gives an exhausted twitch of his lips. “Of course I did.” He would have counted to the last millisecond, if he could. Noted it down, internalised those moments.

“Robby,” you breathe.

“I…” He doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision to move closer, but he does so, fingers pressed against your pulse point. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you,” he murmurs.

You wonder if he knows the racing of your carotid is because of him. “I’m still here.” Your voice comes out equally soft.

“Yeah.” Stepping further into your space, fingers shifting. Palm splayed against your cheek, thumb brushing against warmed skin.

You let out a shuddering breath, leaning into his hand.

His eyes flicker between yours, gaze diving down to your lips.

Oh, you want him to kiss you. So, so badly.

Impossibly close.

You hear the click of the car door opening behind you.

Lips brush against your forehead before Robby steps back. “Get home safe,” he says, quiet.

You look at him, more than an arms length away. You can’t help feel the disappointment clog your throat. You’re sure it reflects on your countenance—you’ve never been much for poker faces. Instead, you nod, lips pursing. “Yes, sir.” You get into your car.

He doesn’t move until you drive away.

You’re about a third into your fourth shift back when Gloria arrives in the ED.

At first, everyone assumes she’s there for Robby. Her presence in the ED always means some kind of discussion or review with an attending. Shen talked to her once in his newly established role as an attending, and she now actively avoids him. Robby kind of wants to know what Shen did.

“Dr Robby,” she says, finding her stride beside him.

Robby tries not to sigh too loudly. “What can I do for you, Gloria?” He’s eyeing the rooms, the trauma bays, trying to find someone that needs an extra pair of hands. Anything to get him away from the impending conversation, really.

“I need to borrow one of your doctors.”

Robby frowns. “Who?”

When she says your name, Robby pauses, pivoting to look at her. “What for?”

She stops, raising an eyebrow. “You know I can’t tell you that, Dr Robby.”

Robby sighs, looking up at the board. “Central 14,” he says after seeing your name attached to the patient. He leads the way, where you’re talking to a young child on the bed, her mother sitting to the side.

Robby knocks on the opened door, drawing your attention.

“Dr Robby,” you say. Your expectant gaze wavers when you see the chief medical officer accompanying him. “Gloria.”

“Gloria wants to talk to you,” Robby says.

You feel like a student being called up to the principal’s office, with no knowledge of what you’ve done wrong.

Robby looks just as confused about the request.

“Sure. Let me…” You turn back to your patient. “Lily, I have to go, but I’m going to leave you with Dr Robby, okay?” You stand from the stool, but Lily snags your hand, something fearful crossing her face.

“Don’t…” she whispers, horrified.

“It’s okay,” you promise, voice soft, sinking back into your stool. You smile at her. “Listen, I’ll come back, but I have to go. Dr Robby looks grumpy but I promise, he’s just a soft little teddy bear inside. He’ll take really good care of you, okay?”

Lily looks over your shoulder, no doubt scrutinising him. Her dark brown eyes turn back to you. “You’ll come back?” she asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Promise?”

You hold out your pinky to her. “Pinky promise.”

She wraps her respective digit around yours. “Okay,” she says, still sullen, but willing to let you go.

You stand from the stool, and Lily’s mother, Mrs Tran, stands with you.

“Thank you,” she says in Vietnamese. She shakes your hand. “Really, thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” you assure, responding in the same language. “It was really nice to meet you, Mrs Tran. Please, take a seat.” You usher her back into her chair.

At the door, you press the chart into Robby’s hands. “Lily Tran, six years old. Came in for severe abdomen pain.” You go through your differential diagnoses. Then you nod towards her mother. “And Huong Tran, Lily’s mom. I’ve been calling her Mrs Tran. She can understand you more than she can speak. Slow down, use less complex words.”

“Got it. Thank you, Doctor.” There’s something soft in his eyes as he regards you.

You feel yourself falter at it. The whole—whatever it is—has been confusing. Moments where you’re close, moments where you think he might finally make the first move, and yet. Nothing. Professional camaraderie maintained at work, whilst he gets close and personal in between. Walking you to your car; brief moments in the break room when you stock up the fridge, ensuring no one else is in there.

You walk with Gloria. “Am I in the doghouse?” you ask.

“No. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She leads you to the elevator. Presses the button that takes you up to admin and records, where her office resides.

You see Princess eyeing you as she passes by. You make a face at her. Send help.

Princess’ look says, You’re on your own.

The door slides closed.

You feel blank, weighed down by nothing and everything all at once. Staring at Gloria from where you’re perched on the opposite side of her desk. The office chair creaks as you shift.

“We’re doing what we can to increase the security team around here. More staff. More roaming,” Gloria says.

“But you can’t do anything about him.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t. We’ve looked at our avenues while you were away. Your best option is pressing charges against him. Under Pennsylvanian law, it’s a felony to assault a healthcare worker. We’d be with you, every step of the way.”

It’s a step, you know. Reports, court, lawyers—a long process. And then what? The maximum he’d get is 10 years, or a fine, depending on how his lawyer argued the case. Based on how shit transpired in LA, there’s no evidence to prove this was targeted. Texts, notes, phone calls—none of it meant anything to the police when there was no way of proving his identity behind it all.

This would be tried as a random attack.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally say.

Gloria slides over a card. “This is our legal’s team contact information. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”

You pocket it without looking. “Thank you, Gloria.”

“I wish there was more we could do,” she adds, apologetic.

You smile, wry. “We both know men like him don’t face legal consequences. Not really.”

Something aged and pained settles in Gloria’s eyes. She’s seen it all—vulnerable people slipping through the cracks while men like Matthew remain untouched by a system that protects their own. “I’m sorry,” she offers.

You haven’t interacted with her much outside of the hiring process, and you’ve heard everyone bemoan her presence in the ED. An easy target to aim ill will towards. But right now, seeing her commiserate with you, you think she seems just as human as you. Worn down, tired of a society that protects only those that look like them. Everyone else cast aside. You and her, regardless of your contribution or hierarchy.

“It’s not… it’s not on you, Gloria.” You know it’s the truth, even though you both wish more could be done. The hospital could ban Matthew Williams from accessing their other services and flag his name, but if he came through the doors of the PTMC as an emergency patient, everyone would have no choice but to attend to him. The most they could do is ensure you and him never crossed paths while he was present.

“Let me know what else we can do for you. Whatever your choice is.”

“Even if…” You pause. “I left?” It’s not something you’re heavily considering, but you know it’s a choice. A backup plan. Running, again. Another state. Another country. Across the sea.

“Even then,” Gloria promises. “Recommendation letters, references—you name it. You have our support.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s head back down.”

Robby notices that you’re gone for almost the whole hour.

He finds Princess and Perlah by the desk near the elevator that you had taken up with Gloria. “You heard anything?”

Princess looks up at Robby, sharing a look with Perlah. “Nothing yet,” she says.

“Probably talking about important stuff,” Perlah adds.

And that’s concerning to him. He’s worried, yes, but he also needs you back on the floor. They didn’t expect to suddenly be down a senior resident in the middle of their shift.

He doesn’t know when you come down with the elevator, but you and Gloria round the corner. You head to the bathroom. Gloria hovers by the door.

Perlah narrows her eyes, studying.

Princess nudges Robby towards Gloria, intentions clear. “Go,” she hisses.

“What’s going on?” Robby asks as he shuffles forward.

“Just give it a minute,” Gloria says.

“I can’t have you going around upsetting my doctors, Gloria.”

“I am not—” Gloria pauses to take in a breath. Like she’s centreing herself. “I cannot tell you anything.” But if you want to tell Robby yourself, then that’s your prerogative, she ends up relaying.

You come out of the bathroom, a little surprised to see Robby outside as well.

He frowns. “Are you—”

“Robby!” Dana calls, across the north nurse station. “Two traumas incoming!” She’s got a phone in hand.

“Alright! Get set up! Let’s go, people.” The ED comes alive. He looks back at you, still with that furrow between his brows.

“Put me in, coach,” you say. There’s no way in Hell you’re sitting this one out.

Robby hesitates. Then, “Trauma 2. Take Dr Santos with you.”

“Yes, sir.” You take a second to meet Gloria’s questioning gaze, nodding. Then you’re off, snagging Santos from central.

You’re okay. You’re going to press charges against Matthew Williams. Even if it takes a year from now, you’re going to push.

“You know,” you say, grabbing your containers from the fridge. Every end of shift, a routine. You taking your tupperware home, Robby accompanying you to the walk to your car. “Gloria told me you volunteered to walk with me.”

What you don’t say, is that you felt stupid after she told you. The pieces clicked into place. Robby wasn’t walking with you every night because he realised his feelings after almost losing you, or whatever dumb fantasy you were entertaining. It was because this was a safety plan that the hospital enacted after realising you had an active stalker.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “She said they’re upping the security guards. They can walk me.”

Robby shoots you a look, like he’s offended by the mere suggestion. “I can walk you.”

“That’s not your job.”

“It’s not,” Robby agrees. “But I want to.”

And—seriously. What the Hell are you meant to say to that? “Oh. Yeah, sure.” The conversation ends awkwardly, and again, you make your rounds to say goodbye to everyone before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Sub-basement level—swipe card access only.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Robby starts, “but you can talk to me. About anything.”

You nod. “I’m… pressing charges,” you say, once you reach your car. “Against Matthew Williams.” You might need Robby on the stand, you realise. A doctor’s opinion on what happened during the attack. On the severity of the injury that was inflicted onto you.

“Yeah?” Robby keeps his face impassive. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s—” you chuckle, humourless. “It’s for violence against an on-duty healthcare worker.”

Almost imperceptible, a frown on his face. Corners of his lips tugging down. “And nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” you confirm. “Nothing else will stick in court. Not against men like him.”

“What do you mean?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t act like that. You’re a smart man, Dr Robby.”

Robby relents. Quiet settles. Outside the parking garage, cars beep and roar among traffic. “What now?”

“It takes however long it takes,” you say. “Months. A year. Maybe longer. They might bury it. They might not. I—I don’t know.”

Disillusionment at its finest. He wishes he could provide more hope in his wizened years. But no. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.

You shake your head, a tired movement. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Let me know if there is?” Robby asks, and it sounds like you’d be doing him a favour instead of the other way around.

“Okay,” you say. It’s not sure thing, though. Even you don’t know what you need to commence the case.

“Thank you,” he says. His hands shoved into his pockets, standing aside.

You’re left staring at each other for the still moments that pass between. You feel embolden, maybe. You’re not sure what possesses you to take the two steps to get into his space.

You hear him inhale sharply.

You rise up, lips against his cheek. His beard scrapes against your skin. “Good night, Robby.” Back down, taking a step back.

“Uh,” he says, aptly. “Good—good night.”

You get into your car. Holy shit. You did that. You kissed him on the cheek. It’s a juvenile thing to be freaking out over, but you are.

He watches you get into the car, watches you wave through the window and drive off before his brain even rewires.

Weeks pass. You meet up with the PTMC’s team of lawyers and settle on a hearing in the meantime.

“Mr Williams made a generous donation to the PTMC last night,” Gloria says.

A few times a week, before the start of your shift, you’re up in her office with the lawyers assigned to your case. Annalise Keating and Wes Gibbins of K & G Law Firm—an adoptive mother-son duo that you have a feeling owe Gloria a few favours.

You think the proverb about the fury of a scorned woman describes Annalise. She’s extremely competent, and Annalise is as tenacious as Wes is empathetic. As long as you tell them everything they need to know, they can protect you, she had said. Of course, you folded, telling her about your experience with Matthew Williams.

“He’s trying to bury this,” you realise.

“We’re not saying that,” Annalise is quick to correct.

“Officially,” Wes adds. “But unofficially…”

Your lips purse. Even if they won’t verbally admit it, you know you’re right.

“Based on records we have access to, he’s also made several donations to LA General,” Annalise continues.

“How long ago?” you ask.

Wes rifles through a document folder. “They stopped six months ago. But he had regular payments spanning June to September this year.”

You feel your heart stutter. “That’s how long he was…” Texting and calling your phone with private numbers. Leaving unmarked notes at the hospital. Escalating to letters dropped off in your mailbox. Not to mention your parents—you ran as soon as your mother had called, asking about a strange man that showed up to their front door, asking about you.

Four years into your emergency residency, and it felt like the stars aligned when the PTMC were willing to take you in after losing their R4.

Four years worth of connections you made in the hospital, gone; your whole life upturned. You sold your car, trekked to Pittsburgh on your savings and spare cash your dad stashed into your suitcase after he accepted he couldn’t change your mind. When your mother concluded that the police really weren’t going to do anything to protect you.

You’re too scared to even text your parents, despite changing your number. The constant what if ringing in your mind. What if he somehow knew how to track their phones? What if he was still tracking them?

But he’s in Pittsburgh now. With you. Even though the thought terrifies you, you’re comforted by the fact that he isn’t in the same city as your parents anymore.

“We’ll do what we can,” Annalise says, as they shuffle their papers, getting ready to leave. Whatever favour they owe Gloria must be mountainous, since they get here earlier than your 7 AM start.

“Thank you,” you tell them, following them both. It’s nearing the start of your shift. “Really. I know you’re doing a lot for me. This isn’t an easy case.”

“There are no easy cases,” Wes remarks, grinning at you. The elevator dings. You all enter.

“That’s the fun of it.” Annalise adds. Her smile turns kind when she faces you. “You’re a tough one, Doctor. You’ll get through this too.”

You wish you could believe her words. You smile in response, anyway. “I appreciate it,” you say.

No one bats an eye when you walk out with them. Gloria had made her rounds on their first appearance, letting everyone know exactly who they were, and if any staff saw them wandering the hospital floors, they should be redirected to her office, no appointments necessary.

This is what Robby tries to keep in mind when he sees you. Annalise walks ahead towards the ambulance entrance, Wes lingers where you are, halfway between central desks and the doors that lead outside.

“Maybe when this is all over, we can get a drink,” Wes says.

Robby looks up from the computer he’s standing in front of.

You blink. Oh. Wes is cute, you have to admit. But you never considered him as anything other than your lawyer. “Isn’t this case supposed to take a while?”

“Lucky me, then,” he say, the corners to his lips tilted upwards. “Either way, I get to see you.”

You can’t help the responding grin that stretches across your face. He’s got a boyish charm to him. And sue you—you haven’t felt this kind of attention in a while. Open. Someone that’s directly asking you out. Not trying to woo you in the darkness, and treat you like a coworker in front of everyone else. “You’re still my lawyer,” you remind.

“My mom is your lawyer. Officially.”

“Pretty sure the G in K & G is for you, Counsellor.”

He smirks. Leans in close, lips next to your ear. “Maybe it has something to do with that old guy that’s staring at me like he wants to bury me six feet under?”

Do not look. Do not even entertain turning around to see if he means Robby. You’re pretty sure it is. “Um,” you say, head ducking a little, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Maybe. Sorry. It’s—complicated.”

Wes shrugs, easy. “Well, if you ever get sick of complicated, you do have my number.” He steps back, winking. “See you, Doctor.” Then he walks away.

You watch him leave. Shit.

Out of nowhere, Perlah sidles up to you. “So,” she says.

“Do not,” you say. You make the mistake of looking at her face—she looks exactly like a cat that has the cream. Like you’ve made her entire day.

“I’m not saying anything.” Perlah has her hands up. “But that smile on your face is definitely telling me something.”

“Nope. Goodbye, Perlah.” A quick turn of your heels, fleeing to the break room. From the corner of your eye, you definitely spy Robby at central. He had to have been listening. If Perlah knew what was going on, Robby would have too.

You don’t think you can survive his crabby mood on top of everything you’re dealing with.

The end of your shift, like routine, brings Robby walking alongside you. Lingering outside your car.

Robby reaches out like he’s going to cup your face again. Like so many instances before, of soft moments between you, stolen when no one else can bear witness to it. Days of this, weeks of this. Quiet and unknown.

You move away before he can make contact.

His lips thin out, fingers twitching.

“What is this?” you ask, soft and unsure and—tired, you think. Tired of the confusion. You’re running yourself ragged between work and meeting up with Annalise and Wes. Not sleeping well, forgoing attempts at sleep by pretending that you can live vicariously through the food you’re making to feed everyone else in the ED.

Convinced something has to give, floating in limbo. A forever lurch in your stomach in the downward trajectory of the rollercoaster. People treating you like you’re not able to take care of yourself—not able to walk to your Goddamn car on your own. You don’t want more uncertainty piled on. You’re exhausted. You feel it heavy within the hollow matrix of your bones. Weighted.

And this time, you’re the one that’s reached the tipping point.

“We don’t have to do this—” Robby starts.

“What is this, Robby? There is no this. What are we even doing here? What are you hoping for?”

He furrows his brows, like this is inconveniencing him. “I’m not trying to push anything—”

“Then figure it out!” Your raised voice echoes in the parking lot. You take a steadying breath. You’re usually not prone to outbursts; confrontation makes you cry—you tend to avoid authority figures. Somehow, Robby is incredibly adept at bringing it out in you.

You rub at your eyes, stemming the tears. “I’m tired, Robby. I’m not sleeping; I’ve got shit to deal with. I got asked out by someone that made it clear that he actually liked me, but somehow, I’m hung up on you, and I can’t even tell if you want—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

His lips are on yours.

Robby.

In your space, pressing you against the side of your car.

Finally. Fucking finally.

His weight and warmth enveloping you. One hand on your waist, the other slotted to the side of your face, like it belongs there. Like it always belonged there, and you were only denying him his right.

The rough scrape of his beard, his teeth tugging your bottom lip.

Your breath hitches.

He shifts his leg between yours.

You sigh out a moan, thighs bracketing his knee.

“I,” Robby says, and his voice is hoarse. “Want. You.” Kissing, stealing your air. He had envisioned waiting for the right moment, whenever that was. Some kind of softness in your shared first kiss. Asking you out first, maybe.

Instead, you have a way of pushing his buttons, nudging him to the edge of his patience. Even now. Even here, like this. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Reminding him that that punk lawyer of yours asked you out? Yeah, of course he’s seething.

“Robby,” you utter out.

His hand drifting under your shirt. Across the skin of your belly. Hand roughened and warm. “You drive me insane, you know that?” Fingers dipping under the elastic waist.

You gasp, hand wrapping around the wrist of his straying attention. “Robby,” you say. Chasing air. Breathing heavily.

“What?” And by the darkening of his eyes, you have a feeling that he would have no qualms about having you right here and now, up against your car. In an echoing parking lot that any staff member could enter. Anyone could come in and out for shift change.

Lips attached to your neck, tongue wet and heated against your skin.

“Not here,” you pant. “Not—fuck, mmm, Robby—take me home.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Fuck. I don’t—I don’t care.”

He laughs, soft and proud of himself for reducing you, usually so smart and capable, into a mess that stutters through your thoughts. “Mine, then.”

You can’t get into your car fast enough.

You end up in his bed. Legs apart, his face buried between your thighs. “Robby,” you moan, fingers curling into his hair.

He groans, a noise that vibrates through you. Tone low and deliciously spent. Even though he’s the one enacting pleasure on you, he’s the one that feels on the edge.

“Fuck.”

His tongue doesn’t stop, alternating between rings around your clit, up and down, side to side. And his fingers, bigger and longer than yours, buried inside. Digits angled, massaging against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“You’re going to make me come—” Thighs squeezing, grinding up into his face. The sudden release of that feeling in your stomach that he’s been making you chase for the past 20 or so minutes. Moaning aloud, nothing bashful in the sounds you emit. You’ve seen his house—gated. Standing alone. You could be as loud as you wanted and his neighbours would be none the wiser.

“God, Robby, fuck, fuck fuck, you’re—” Bitten off moans.

He’s still going. Fingers sliding out. Mouth lapping at your entrance, tongue pushing into the sticky mess. Tasting you. He groans aloud. His thumb nestles against your clit, rubbing circles.

He’s going to kill you.

“Robby,” you huff. Bending your leg, foot against his shoulder. Pushing. “Robby, get up here and—mm, fuck—fuck me.”

Robby relents. Getting up from the bed, taking off his shirt. Cock straining under fabric. “Who knew the Pitt’s sweetheart had such a dirty mouth?” By the smug lilt to his question, you have a feeling he knew. Hoped, at least.

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the nickname. You’ve definitely heard it floated around, and yes, you’re very aware that it arose from you bringing food in for everyone. But what else were you meant to do when all everyone cared about was comparing you to their precious Dr Langdon?

You crawl towards where Robby’s kneeling on the bed. Help him with his pants. You look up at him, pushing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. “You want to see what else I can do with it?”

Robby’s hand bunching in your hair, groaning. “Fuck, you drive me insane.” Tugging you up to kiss you again. Nudges you back onto the bed, his body laid atop yours. “As much as I would like to, not tonight.”

“Not going to last, old man?” you ask.

He laughs, something rough in his throat. “Definitely not.” Lips grazing, soft and almost reverent against the line at your throat, above your carotid. Gentle kisses against the scar on your neck.

You gasp, fingers digging into his hair. Flexing.

He hovers. “That okay?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Definitely.”

Kisses it again, once. Twice. Then detaches himself from you, reaching for the bedside drawers where he keeps his condoms. Rolls it on, returning himself to you. With one hand, he guides himself to your entrance. Rubs the tip of him against you.

“Robby,” you say. Voice bordering on a whine. Becoming desperate for it—for him.

“Yeah, I know.” He sounds so fucking smug. Pushes the fat head of his cock into you. His other palm flat next to your head, against the bed, leaning above you.

Your breath stutters. “Oh, God.” You grip his forearm, something keening in your throat. “Oh my God, Robby.” He’s fucking big. You feel him stretching your entrance.

“You’re—fucking Hell, you’re so tight.” He moves the arm you don’t have in a death grip, thumb circling your clit. “Relax, honey. I got you.”

Your hips buck up, taking another half inch of him inside you. You’re both moaning around it.

“Fuck me,” he breathes. He pulls back a centimetre, then pushes himself in, slowly. Torturously.

You’re groaning. “Robby,” you huff. “Fuck, you’re—you’re too—”

“You can take it,” he hushes, confident. Lands a kiss to the side of your neck, under the scar. Rolls his hips in again, then out.

“It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling your face flood with heat. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but you certainly hadn’t been too keen on trying your hand with dating since those messages started appearing on your phone. When you got to Pittsburgh, you did nothing but work.

Lips finding yours. Reassuring. His thumb still pressed to your clit. Unhurried, despite the desire that permeates, that heaves his chest with short bursts of air. “Been so long you forgot how to take good dick, huh?” he asks. Fucks his cock in further.

You moan—at his words, at the feeling of him stretching you out. “Robby.”

“You’ll learn. One of my best fucking residents for a reason.”

Fuck.

Robby grunts, his hips jerking forward on its own accord. You cry out; he stills, huffing. “Fuck, you liked that one, didn’t you?” Panting. Lips on yours again.

You feel like you’re going to combust, fire pooling under your skin. Exposed for Robby to see, to know everything about you like this.

“Need you,” you say in between kisses.

“I know,” he says. Slow thrusts, and then—finally. Cock fully sheathed inside. He groans lowly.

Squeezing his arm, hand on his chest. “Wait—just, hah, wait. Wait—mmh.”

He tries to pull out, but you’re grabbing hold of his waist.

“Wait. Stay,” you murmur. “Just give me a second.”

Robby lets out a ragged breath, forehead against your chest. The hand previously on your clit trails to the side of your thigh, rubbing up and down the length of your flesh. Patient. Waiting, just as you asked.

Your walls fluttering around him, accommodating the feeling of him inside you. “Jesus Christ, you’re big, Robby. I can feel you.”

He grips your thigh, nails indented into skin. “You gotta stop talking like that if you want me to wait.”

“But you are—”

Silencing you by claiming your lips. Pushing his tongue into your mouth. Exchanging air and spit. Robby trembles with the effort it takes to not fuck into you like this. Underneath him, sounding so pretty while you struggle with the size of him.

You grind your hips up into him, stuttering through a breath.

Robby makes an audible sound, half groan, half growl. “Jesus.” Control dwindling by the second.

“Okay okay, move, Robby, fuck me.”

You barely finish the sentence before he’s thrusting into your tight heat. One of your legs hooked around his back. It’s sloppy, not at all graceful or coordinated. His thumb circling your clit again. Your walls convulsing around him.

“Wanna feel,” he huffs, “how tight you get when you come around me.”

And that rising wave in your stomach again. Crashing tides, falling, lapping. “Coming, coming coming.” Breathy and drawn out. Robby keeps fucking into you until he grunts, low and strung out. You feel his dick twitch inside you, and then he groans something fierce, falling over the edge of his own release.

Bowed over you, forehead against your collarbone. “Fuck,” he murmurs.

“Robby.”

“Mhm?”

“Kiss me. Please—”

His lips are on yours again. Head lifted, pressing into you. Your hand against his cheek, fingers rubbing against his beard. “Stay,” he whispers, when you part for air. “Please.”

So you do.

The next morning, you’re up earlier than your usual time.

“You don’t want to head in together?” Robby asks, voice rough with sleep.

“I have food in my fridge for everyone,” you say. You’re putting your scrubs on, from where they’ve been discarded haphazardly around the room last night. You’ll need to shower as well.

Robby chuckles, sitting up to watch you drift around his space. “Always taking care of everyone.”

“Someone’s got to.” You draw closer to the bed, intending on giving him a parting kiss.

He pulls you on top of him, into his lap. Fingers pushing inside your still wet warmth. Thumb against your clit. And makes you come again. Shaking apart on top of him, grinding into his hand.

“There we go,” Robby murmurs into your ear. Fingers still pumping in and out of you. “Told you you’d learn how to take it. Gotta teach you how to be used like this.”

You’re shuddering, gasping, your hips rolling down. “Robby,” you moan.

“My best fucking resident.” Robby mouths a line down your neck, focusing on the scar again. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Side of your head pressed to a broad shoulder. Catching your breath.

“You should head out,” he says, after you’ve ridden through the aftershocks. “Don’t want to be late.”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, barely coherent enough to gather your thoughts.

“Tomorrow.” You don’t even have to see his face to see that smug grin across his lips.

You snort. Grab his wrist to stop the movement of his fingers, lifting yourself off of him. Kiss him again. “See you in there.”

You don’t do anything that strays from your usual routine—you come in at a different time than Robby, after ensuring you showered and brought along food. Disperse among the night shift to hand them their goods.

And yet. Abbot narrows his eyes at Robby during handoffs. Looks at where you’re talking to Shen and Ellis at central. Then back to Robby. “Good for you, brother.”

“What?” Robby asks, blinking guilelessly.

Abbot just snorts, shaking his head. Continues with the handoff. If Robby won’t say anything, he won’t either.

The rest of the PTMC clock it within two days.

On the third day, during shift change, Ellis takes your elbow as soon as your arrive and drags you into the break room.

“Dr Ellis,” you say, surprised. You use the abrupt opportunity to place your containers of food in the fridge.

“You know I like you, right?” she asks, phrased as a question, but not.

“We’re friends,” you hedge. Outside of the food that you leave for her, you like to think that you’re actually friends. Have finally built a rapport outside of coworkers and co-residents.

“Exactly,” she says. “So, as your friend, I want to say this as a means of looking out for you.”

You frown. “Say what?”

“Dr Robby,” she says. Eyes moving between yours to ensure she has your attention. It feels like something she’s picked up from Abbot. “How much do you—?”

The door opens.

“There you are,” Shen says. He’s boba-less—Ellis had grabbed you before you could give him the drink.

“Get in. Close the door,” Ellis hisses.

“Oh, is it intervention time?” He does as asked, door shutting. He pulls out one of the chairs around the table.

“What intervention?” you ask.

“Dr Robby,” Shen says, somehow wisely and cryptically at the same time.

You’re so sure you look bewildered. Clasping your hands together, looking between them. “One of you guys need to start making sense. Right now, please.” You settle on Ellis, usually the rational, logical one to Shen’s antics.

She sighs. “We,” she says, giving Shen a pointed look, “just want you to be careful with him.”

You blink, mouth falling open. Turn to look at Shen. Then back towards Ellis. “Are you giving me the shovel talk right now?”

“No!” Ellis says. “Fuck, no. Look, he’s just… got a bit of a reputation. And we want you to be careful.”

Your mouth closes, lips pressed into a line. Trying not to laugh.

“What’s with that face?” Shen asks.

“You know,” you start, trying so so hard not to laugh in their faces. You don’t want to besmirch their good intentions, and whatnot. They’re so sweet. “Dana had this talk with me after my first three weeks here.”

“Oh, thank God,” Ellis breathes out, relieved. The burden lifted from her shoulders. This is not a talk she wants to be having about her colleagues.

“Thank fuck for Dana,” Shen says.

You end up laughing, shaking your head. “Aww, I knew you guys liked me.”

“I just want my boba.” Shen stands from the chair. His low effort intervention deed now done.

You take it from your tote bag, tossing it at him. He catches it before it hits him in the head. Then you pull them both into a hug. “I’m never letting you guys live this down.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ellis huffs. Her arm wrapped around you.

“Fuck off,” Shen says, but he accepts the hug.

You don’t bother trying to hide the grin that overtakes your face. Planting grandma-level of obnoxious kisses on their cheeks, despite their half-hearted complaints.

The door opens.

Robby pokes his head in to call out, “We’re doing rounds,” then stops. Taking in the scene with a questioning raised brow. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” Shen is quick to answer.

“Totally.” Ellis, a beat later. Not suspiciously at all.

You cackle as you leave the break room. Robby shoots you a bemused look. You shake your head, grinning. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later ends up being at your apartment, where he insists on doing your dishes after the low effort dinner of leftovers.

“Are we casual?” you ask.

Robby looks over his shoulder from the sink. “No?”

“Wow. Are you asking or telling me?”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me.”

“I don’t do casual,” you say. It’s something you’ve learned about yourself, when you were in your college years, attempting casual hookups for the first time. You always got woefully attached, no matter how hard you tried to distance yourself. Your ego always telling you you were the exception, not the rule. “I realised I never really… clarified before—you know.”

“We’re not.” Clean dishes on the rack, drying his hands with the designated hand towel hanging on the cupboard below the sink. Robby folds his arms, leaning against the sink, hands cupping his elbows. “Where is this coming from?”

You shake your head, biting back a smile at the memory of Ellis and Shen from the morning. Idiots, you think, fond.

Head tilted, eyes narrowed, corners of his lips twitching. “This have anything to do with what happened in the break room?” Amusedly curious, not accusing.

You laugh out loud. “No,” you lie, poorly.

“Uh huh.” Stepping towards you, standing right in front of you. Looking down while you look up. His hand against your jaw. “Are my doctors feeding you bad intel about mean, old Dr Robby?”

You grin, kissing his palm. “Well. Depends what you consider bad.”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure there’s a bunch of rumours and bets floating around.”

“They’ve been floating around for a while, Robby.”

He frowns. “Really?”

“Dana wouldn’t have talked to me about your seven weeks thing, otherwise.”

Robby blinks. “She—what?”

You’re not sure what prompted her to, but three weeks after starting at the PTMC, she told you to be mindful of Dr Robby. That he was a great doctor, and a good man, but he had a thing with relationships only lasting seven weeks, after Dr Adamson passed away. And you knew about Adamson, heard other nurses talk about him, saw his portrait in the hallway.

“You have a habit of seven weeks,” you relay.

“Is that why you were so weird with me? Before—all of this?” he asks. Tipping your face up, pad of his thumb grazing the scar again. Proof of life. Again and again and again. As long as he needs the reminder.

“No,” you say, but all of a sudden, the room feels too hot. Too thick with something other than the banter. All you can think of is him in front of you, the rough skin as he thumbs the raised line.

“Robby,” you manage.

“Yeah?” Distracted. Eyes roaming around your face, taking in the sight of you south of him while he stands. He can’t really be blamed for his thoughts straying.

“I mean it,” you whisper, clearing your throat. “I can’t do casual with you.”

“We’re not,” he promises, soft. His hand moves to the back of your nape, fingers curling around the width of it. “Come here.” Gentle urge as he tugs you up.

And you go. Willing and soft, pressed against him.

His lips on yours. His kisses feel heavy. “Nothing about how I feel is casual,” he says.

You nod, eyes darting between his. Look at him like you’re begging him—the universe—for it to be true. Creases between your brows.

“You.” Lips to your forehead, on the grooves of furrowed skin. “Drive me insane.”

“They’re going to talk about us.”

“They already are. I don’t care. Even if Gloria made up some bullshit about how we shouldn’t be together—I’d choose you.”

You feel prickling behind your eyes, sweet words you want to believe. “Robby,” you sniffle.

“It’s true,” he murmurs. Delicate, like he wants for nothing else than for you to trust him, to find yourself worthy of this.

“Take me to bed.”

You’re leaving Trauma 1, Javadi on your heels.

“And I thought it was a date,” her voice settles somewhere in the breathless and high range. “I got there and he had all these people there, and I had no idea who any of them were, and I think I freaked out and tried to run away and—”

“Baby girl,” you say, resting your hands on both her shoulders. Wait for her eyes to meet yours. “You gotta stop.”

“Stop?” She blinks, wide-eyed and endearing.

“Everything that you’re telling me right now, is telling me that he’s not interested.”

“But—”

“Girl. Victoria,” you deadpan. “That man wanted someone to come cook while he hosted his friends. And you did that. For two whole hours.”

“Whoa, what’s this?” Santos asks, sidling up to the two of you. She’s leaning against the desk, interest piqued by drama.

“A date,” Javadi manages.

“A failed one,” you add.

“Ugh,” Santos says. “Men.”

“You,” you say, attention back on Javadi, “are not allowed to do any more swiping or meeting up without my say so.”

“Seriously?” Javadi asks.

“Yes, seriously. You just played mommy to some fuck ass who didn’t know how to use his grill. Ask more questions. Get more answers. Don’t be afraid to say no if his idea of a first date is to come over so you can just ‘chill’.”

“But what if I don’t get another date?”

“There will be plenty,” you say.

“Start dating girls,” Santos says.

“Not helpful, Dr Santos,” you add.

“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t it be easier if we only dated women and left the men to fend for themselves?”

“Right. Was it easier for you when you moved in together after a month of dating, and then was left with a two bedroom apartment that you could barely pay the rent for?”

Santos’ mouth drops open. “I’m going to kill him. That’s not his business to spread.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault your roomie loves talking to me,” you say.

“Fuck you. You have a Pitt-wide bet about your current relationship, so the only actual long-term man in your life followed you from LA. The same one you’re pressing charges against because he almost fucking killed you!”

“Whoa!” Javadi exclaims, gobsmacked by the audacity. Her eyes are rounded, darting between the two of you.

You maintain the stunned silence for all of two seconds before you break. “Holy shit,” you wheeze out in between laughter.

“Whatever,” Santos says, turning her attention up to the board.

“Fuck, you really got my ass, huh?” You hold out a fist towards her.

She’s bites her lip, refraining from grinning as she fist bumps you. “Don’t ever come for me again.”

“Yeah, you got it, Dr Santos.”

“I’m still killing Huckleberry,” she says.

“Yep, totally. Have at it. We will not be missing him.” You would, but honourable sacrifices need to be made. You are not crossing Santos again.

“Doctors,” Dana says, slipping into the small huddle you’ve created under the board. By the grin on her face, she’s definitely heard what you guys were discussing.

“Hi, Dana,” you say.

“You guys parked in underground today?”

“Yeah,” you and Santos say.

“I—got a ride,” Javadi says. “My mom,” she adds at the look you shoot her. At least it wasn’t from her shitty date.

Dana peers down her glasses to read the registration scribbled on a sticky note, alongside the manufacturer and colour.

“That’s mine,” you say, frowning.

“Shit,” Dana huffs. “Someone busted your windows in, kiddo.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Dana nods towards Ahmad, who has been following Dana at a distance. “Ahmad was patrolling.”

“Fuck,” you say.

“I’ll come with you,” Ahmad says. He relays something into his radio.

“Thank you,” you tell him. Then, to Santos, “I’ve got a patient in Trauma 1. Get Dr Robby if it gets worse, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Dr Santos.”

“I got it. Get Dr Robby. Don’t do shit on my own.” She salutes you mockingly.

“Thank you,” you call out, following Ahmad down to the sub-basement parking lot.

“Any other cars get smashed up?” you ask as he leads the way.

“No. Yours is closest to the outside, though. Alarm could’ve scared them off. You have anything important in your car?” Ahmad ask.

“Just registration,” you say. Spare shoes, spare clothes. Nothing vitally important, outside of your car registration details.

Glass crunches under your shoes. Your car, just as you left it this morning, sans windows. Broken, shattered pieces scattered on concrete ground.

“Can I take a look?” you ask.

“Depends. If you want to press charges, it’d probably be better to leave it alone.” He gestures towards the roof. “We’ve got cameras. I’m sure police can run it back and see who did this.”

A random burglary in the PTMC staff parking lot registers as unusual to you. It doesn’t click until it’s too late. You’d think after being on edge for so long in LA, after fleeing to Pittsburgh and living in paranoia, you’d be a little faster, a little more conclusive, even if it’s not always correct.

But.

“Wait—” you say, pivoting on your feet to turn to Ahmad.

You hear the unmistakable click of a gun safety being pulled.

“Step away.”

“Get back.” Ahmad’s voice. Tight.

And Matthew Williams, with a gun pointed straight at Ahmad. “Don’t move,” he says, when he sees Ahmad going for the weapon on the side of his belt.

Fuck. The windows were a diversion tactic and you fell for it. It had been so peaceful, even with the meetings with Annalise and Wes. They were so sure, so confident that they’d be able to get something to stick on him.

“Hi, again,” Matthew says, grinning. His gun still aimed at Ahmad, but his attention on you.

You’re frozen, eyes flickering between him and the gun. Unsure where to look. You feel helpless with a weapon brandished in your proximity. You lick your lips, shuddering out a breath. “Matthew,” you say.

“I wanted to see you.”

“I’m right here,” you say. Your neck throbs, you feel sweat seeping through your pores. You remember Javadi calling for security, forcing his hand to act early. You can’t let that happen. Not when Matthew’s finger remains on the trigger. Reactive. “You want to talk, right? With me?”

Matthew’s face flexes, like he hadn’t been expected you to understand him. “Yeah. I do.”

“So let’s talk.”

“Don’t—” Ahmad starts.

“Shut up!” Matthew’s slowly flagging arm, straightened, pointed at Ahmad again.

“No!” Instinctual, reckless steps bringing you closer to them.

The gun aimed at you, now. Matthew’s nostrils flaring. Chest rising and falling faster. He’s getting agitated.

“Listen to me, if you want to talk to me, just put down the gun and we can talk,” you say. Hands up and out. “Please. I promise I’ll listen to you. You just need to put down the gun and let him go.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Matthew says.

“I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel your heart thudding away in your chest. The tears that burn your eyes.

You can tell Matthew’s wavering. Your gaze remains resolute on him. You don’t dare look anywhere else. “Please.”

The gun falters. His hand lowering.

You see a blur of the blue security uniform.

Ahmad.

A loud bang.

Echoing in the parking lot.

“Shit.”

“Ahmad!”

You’re on him, hands pressed against his upper right chest. Pressure. Ahmad groans under you. Blood, warm and viscous seeping beneath your palms. Blooming.

“Let me see your back. Ahmad, let me see.”

Ahmad lets out a concerted grunt as he rolls to his side with your guidance.

“No exit wound. Bullet’s still inside. Okay, back down.” And your hands are pressed against the wound again.

“Get off of him,” Matthew says, somewhere behind you. His voice is beginning to sound frantic.

“No.”

Footsteps stepping around. Matthew in front of you, gun pointed at you, now. “Stop that.”

“Come on, Ahmad, I’m going to get us some help.” One hand still on the bullet wound, the other unfastening his radio.

“Stop!”

Ignoring him. Maybe it’s a stupid gamble to take, but you don’t think Matthew would shoot you. Scare you, definitely, just as he is now. But not shoot you. He’d have done so already.

Blood coated fingers slipping against the black surface. You press the button. You know it goes to the small hospital dispatch room and to the radios the other security guards have. True to Gloria’s words, there were more guards in the hospital now.

“Mayday, mayday, hospital staff in distress. Gunman in sub-basement parking level 2, east side.”

“Stop that!”

“Shots fired. Security down. I repeat, Ahmad is down—”

“Stop touching him!” The gun shoved in your face.

You flinch. But you don’t budge. You can’t. If you do, Ahmad dies. He bleeds out. You cannot let that happen.

The radio crackles. “We’re coming to you.”

Radio discarded, both hands on top of Ahmad again. “Just hang in there. We’re getting you help.”

“Get off of him!”

“No!” Face upturned, glaring. Chest heaving. Tears, angry and bright. Tracking from your eyes. “You’ll have to shoot me too,” you say, staring down the barrel of the gun. He won’t do it, you think. As twisted as it is, you don’t think he ever intended to hurt you. Your neck feels raw.

Ahmad makes a protesting noise.

Matthew’s jaw tightens. He aims behind him.

Another loud bang.

You flinch at the noise, hunching over Ahmad.

The muzzle of the gun, fiery hot.

Jammed against your cheek.

You cry out.

Heated metal pushed into flesh. Twisting.

Dermal layer burning.

Yelling.

Do not move. Hands on the wound.

Ahmad reaching, swatting weakly at Matthew’s ankle. It does nothing.

Matthew moves away, pacing. “Look what you’re making me do,” he says, frenetic. “I just wanted to talk.”

You’re sobbing. Tears clouding your vision, stinging your cheek. Second degree burn, maybe. Hard to tell the severity. It stings. Your whole cheek feels like it’s on fire. Heaving breaths. Trapped.

“Drop the case,” Matthew begs. “I just wanted you to drop the court case.”

You shake your head. You can’t see if Ahmad eyes are opened or closed. “Ahmad, come on, stay with me. They’ll be here soon.”

“Look at me!”

“You need to go!” Gaze turned up again. Glaring. “If you’re not planning on getting caught right now, you need to leave.”

If security comes up with more guns, you know Matthew will start shooting. You can’t let that happen. No one else needs to get hurt.

The elevator dings. Doors sliding open.

A gunshot, again.

Shouting.

You flinch once more, body lowering over Ahmad’s. Protecting. Ears ringing. Hands on the wound. You cannot move.

“Hey, hey hey, let me see. Let me see.”

Hands on you.

“No!” Recoiling away.

“Hey, it’s just me. It’s me. Look at me.”

Unfocused eyes. Landing. Then, “Robby.”

“We’ve got him.” Mohan across from you. Replacing your hands on top of Ahmad. Gauze packed onto the entry wound.

Falling back on your haunches, heaving out breaths.

“Jesus, honey, what happened?” Robby’s hands inspecting your cheek. Crouching before you.

McKay, Mohan, Jesse, Donnie, and Olsen hauling Ahmad onto the gurney.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Dislodging Robby’s hand.

“It’s okay, I just need to look—”

“Robby. Ahmad. You need—I need you on Ahmad. Please. He can’t—he can’t die.” Robby had saved you. Before. When it was you that had gotten hurt. He has to save Ahmad, too. You can’t be responsible for Ahmad dying here.

“I—”

“Robby. Please. I need you to. Please.”

Robby’s jaw clenches. Nodding. “McKay, swap out.”

“Got it.” McKay’s by your side.

All of you into the elevator.

In the ED, Ahmad gets rushed into Trauma 2. McKay ushers you into an empty room. You don’t register which one.

You sit on the bed, numb. Empty. Staring at your hands, slick with Ahmad’s blood.

Robby knocks on the opened door but you don’t pay him any attention. Lost in your thoughts, probably. You had been conscious but mostly unresponsive when McKay fixed you up. Treated your third degree burn, used wipes to clean Ahmad’s blood off of you.

Dana’s already taken your name off the board and today’s roster. Disseminated your patients throughout the other staff. Scheduled days off with Gloria.

He’s in front of you. “Hey,” he says, softly.

You blink. See him. Then register what it means. “Ahmad—” Your voice is hoarse with disuse.

“He’s alive,” Robby says. “We got the bullet out. No organs were hit. He’s fine.”

Relief floods you with tears. You crumple forward, into yourself.

“Can I…”

You nod, and Robby’s in your space, arms wrapped around you. Your arms just as tight around him.

“Fuck,” he huffs. “You scared me. I heard your voice on the radio and I… Jesus. I was so scared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

You have plenty to be sorry for, you think. “Is… is Ahmad awake?”

“Yeah. You want to go see him?”

You’re nodding before he can finish the sentence. “Please?”

“Yeah, honey.” Robby shuffles back, helping you up from the bed, even though you don’t need it. Only your cheek is hurt. “We moved him into South 17.” He guides you to the room.

Ahmad looks worse for wear, but alive. Alive. “There you are,” he says.

You try not to cry as you smile at him. Busy yourself with checking his vitals. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got shot,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. Feel tears loosen from the movement. “I’m sorry.” Sinking into the stool that one of the doctors probably used. Take his hand.

He squeezes back. “Not your fault, Doc.”

You give him a look that expresses how much you disagree with his opinion.

“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t drop the case.”

“What?” Robby asks.

You look over to where he’s by the door, frowning.

Oh. Outside of you and Ahmad, they don’t know. You had said a gunman on the radio. Never specified who it was. The last shot he fired probably gave himself the chance to run before they could see his face. “Matthew Williams,” you say.

Robby stills.

Then pushes himself off where he’d been leaning against the doorjamb. Face stony. Jaw clenching. “This was him?” Eyes flicker down to the bandage on your cheek. “He did this to you? Both of you?” Gaze slicing towards Ahmad on the bed.

You nod. “My windows.”

Robby furrows his brows, confused.

“Dana said there was a car that had its windows smashed in. It was mine. Ahmad took me down to see. And then we—he—um, he had a gun.”

“Jesus Christ.” The gut sinking knowledge that this wasn’t some random attack. It never had been. Everything had been premeditated. You were targeted specifically. “Fucking Hell.” Robby hovers behind you, close. A hand on your shoulder like he’s reminding himself. Alive. Here. Wants to never let you out of his sight. To keep you safe from whatever the fuck is going on out there.

There’s a knock on the door.

Gloria says both yours and Robby’s names. “If you have a moment,” she says to you, after Robby steps to the side. “The police would like to take a statement.”

You look at Ahmad.

“You need to,” he says. “Hell, I’ll make one too.”

You nod before you can second guess yourself. Proof. At least there are cameras in the parking lot. “Okay.” You get off the stool, bumping your fist against Ahmad’s offered one.

Robby remains a steady presence beside you.

“They need you down here,” you tell him.

Robby shakes his head. “Jack’s already here.”

You blink. You check the time on the clock on the wall. It’s still an hour until night shift starts.

“Police scanner,” Robby says, in lieu of explanation.

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t know how to rest.”

“Probably why he’s so grumpy.”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

You shake your head, exhausted grin on your face.

Robby smiles back, soft and worried.

You take his hand, giving it a squeeze, and head out with Gloria. There are two police officers stationed outside the room, waiting for you. The ED bustles like usual. You spot Abbot breezing past.

“Is this something we need to fill paperwork on?” Gloria asks, gesturing between the two of you.

“I have a feeling you’re going to make us sign something anyway,” Robby says.

“At least you’re smart enough to know that.”

He’s your attending. Chain of command dictates that you report to him. There’s bound to be some kind of power imbalance that HR needs to get ahead of. It’s worth it, he thinks. Promises made in your kitchen—he’d choose you.

“I can’t go home,” you say. Your fingers digging into your thigh, breathing through your nose. Agitation in your movements. Shifting. Leg bouncing where you’re sitting.

All the symptoms of a panic attack, but you’re not slowing down. Not giving yourself a moment to breath.

“He could be there,” you continue.

It shatters something inside of Robby. Noticing. Wanting to reach out. But you’ve already sunken into the furthest corner of your chair, refusing any contact. It’s clear—do not touch.

“We don’t know that,” one of the officers say.

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I have no idea where he is. And I know he can find out this kind of information. He knew about my car. If he took my registration from there… he’ll have my address.”

“We’ve taken your car into evidence. We’ll see if anything’s been taken.”

You nod. “Can you—if I give you the name of a detective in LA, can you organise a check-in on my parents? I just—I need to know he hasn’t been near them again.”

Again. He wonders how long you’ve suffered this alone. It’s not happening to him, but it’s terrifying, feeling helpless. He can’t do anything to keep you safe.

“You can’t call them?” the officer asks.

“I can’t risk it.”

Robby’s fingers curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out.

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Your hand reaches for the scar on your neck. Scratching. Pinching the skin. “Whatever evidence you get, can we inform my lawyers too?”

“Of course,” Gloria says.

“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a quick goodbye, stumbling out. Opening a random door into a dark room.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re having a panic attack—”

“I know. I just—I just need a minute.” Heaving breaths, collapsing into the corner of the room. Facing the wall. Making yourself as small as possible.

He inches close. A hand on your back.

You shrug him off. “Don’t. Please—don’t touch—”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back here.” Robby’s chest aches for you. He wonders how many times you’ve been alone like this, in your apartment. Too scared to call your friends and family back home. Too new to make connections with everyone here.

He lowers himself to the ground, back against the wall. Waiting. He’s been here before, in the Pedes room during PittFest. Wonders what went through Whitaker’s mind when the student saw him like this.

Eventually your breathing slows to your regular pace. You shift from the corner. “Sorry,” you whisper, ragged.

Robby only shakes his head. Lifts an arm. And you slot yourself next to him. Head on his shoulder. “Don’t be.” He knows exactly what it feels like; the lack of ability for control when that composure finally fractures. It’s been a long day, for you especially.

“Ready to go home?” he asks, instead.

“I can’t go back to mine,” you remind him. Tired.

“Come home with me.”

You give him a sidelong glance. It feels different, somehow. This isn’t born from cavernous exhaustion but still wanting to see each other after a shift. From staying the night because you had dinner together, and it’s already getting late, so there would be no point of going back home after.

Creases between Robby’s brows. A silent plea etched between lines.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Robby nods. Groans as he stands, then holds a hand out for you.

Taking it, you let him haul you up. His thumbs brushing across your cheeks, careful of the bandage. Swiping through the tear tracks. Lips to your forehead, like he’s trying to impart all the care and gentleness he can.

“Home, first,” he says.

Home. Somehow, that included Robby, too.

You refused to take more than a week off of work. Even though some part of you froze at the idea of seeing the PTMC again, you hated the idea of not being there even more. You couldn’t let Matthew Williams take anything else from you.

Your first day back is met with less fanfare. A quick “Good to see you” from Ellis just as a trauma bursts through the ambulance bay.

It’s a change of pace you welcome.

Ahmad comes back to work a week after you. Gloria meets you in the break room with Annalise and Wes. Usually it’d be up in her office, but they didn’t want to pull Ahmad too far from the ED.

Wes eyes the scar on your face, something saddened in his eyes. “You okay?” he asks.

“Depends what kind of news you’re here to give us,” you tell him. Half joking, half not.

The expression Wes makes lets you know it’s nothing good.

Annalise looks between you and Ahmad. Sighs. “They’re going to argue for a misdemeanour.”

You freeze.

Ahmad had gotten shot. Had to take two weeks off of work. You almost died—Hell, you did die in that trauma room. And they’re trying to write it off as a misdemeanour. Jail time for less than a year, a fine, or community service. One or the other, not all.

“That’s bullshit,” Ahmad seethes.

“I’m sorry, Mr Zidan,” Annalise says, sincere.

“That’s not good enough,” Gloria says, cold.

“We’re doing our best, Dr Underwood.” Annalise’s tone clipped. It’s the first time you’ve heard her professionalism slip. You can’t tell if it’s anger at the situation, or at Gloria for questioning their competency as lawyers.

“We’re going to do whatever we can,” Wes addresses you, figuring the best way around the iciness is to talk to you instead.

But you’ve heard these platitudes before—said them yourself. To patients and their families when you can’t predict the outcome of a procedure. We’re going to do everything we can. One of the first things you learned as a doctor was not to make any promises.

It feels like you’ve dedicated your life to being here, to being a doctor, and this is how they churn you out. You died, and this is how they deem the value of your life.

You’re shaking your head. This case… what the Hell were you thinking, pursuing this? That you could set a precedent? That you could pave a way for other medical professionals by pushing this? That you could finally get some peace?

Instead you feel sick, exhausted, and small. So fucking small, in this break room, with Gloria and Annalise and Wes and Ahmad.

“Hey,” Wes starts. An attempt at a comforting hand on your shoulder.

You need to leave. You can’t be here. You’re out of the break room before you even realise it. Into the rest room right next door.

Not five seconds later, the door opens. Dana inside with you.

“Hey,” she says, gentle.

“There’s a new rule that says I can’t be alone, now?” you ask. You’re by the sink, running cold water over your hands, your wrists.

“We’re just trying to look out for you, hon.”

Water on your face, over your eyes. On the still healing, itchy skin of your cheek. Down your neck, where the scar is. Proof of life. Proof of fucking bullshit. “I’m so tired,” you manage. “I can’t do this anymore, Dana. I can’t. I can’t—”

“Okay, hon, it’s okay. Just breathe.” She draws closer to you.

You back away, shuddering. Breath hitching. “No, don’t touch—it’s not—”

“It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll be okay.” And somehow, Dana has her arms around you.

You don’t fight her. Can’t. You face against her shoulder. Her hand cupping the back of your head as she shushes you. You’re reminded, inextricably, of your mother. It makes you cry harder; you feel like a child, again.

“I want to go home,” you sob. “I miss my mom.”

“I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.” And Dana’s voice is a little wet, too. Arms tightening around you. Just you and her in this bathroom.

By the time you get out of the bathroom, most of the hospital staff have already heard what the unofficial verdict is going to be. Reactions oscillate between pissed off and resigned. This is the reality of the system they’ve grown up in.

“Hey,” Robby says, frowning. Folding you into a hug. Any notion of showing favouritism in the workplace can be damned. Kisses the top of your head. “I heard.”

“Yeah,” you sniffle. You hate this side of you. The one that seeks out comfort like you haven’t had to deal with this on your own. “They’ll keep—working on it.” You know Annalise won’t take this lying down.

“You okay?”

“I’m not leaving early,” you say.

“Wasn’t asking that.”

“I’m okay.”

You both know it’s a lie. That he’d probably do the same if he were in your shoes.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“A vacation,” you say, not missing a beat.

Robby snorts. “You’ve been hanging out with John too much.”

You rise up to kiss his cheek. Then back to work. Even though you’re falling apart, this is what you’ve signed up to do.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should take a should take a vacation,” Robby yawns from where he’s lounging on the couch.

It’s been two weeks since then. You’ve essentially been living together. Your car is still in evidence, and you’re still concerned about the safety of your apartment.

You’re on the floor, papers and files spread out on the carpet. A smattering of snacks on the coffee table—most of which he only started purchasing for you since he was never really the type of entertain them at home. In the hospital, yes, but not quite at home.

“When are you thinking?”

Robby hums in thought. “July.”

“I’ve got this case, Robby,” you say, albeit regretfully. Nothing sounds more appealing than disappearing from the world with just the two of you.

“When you’re done, then.”

You look over at him. He’s been watching the TV on its lowest volume, following along with the subtitles. “I don’t know how much longer this is going to take.”

“I can wait for you,” Robby says. He’s chewing on one of the gummy bears you put into the list for him to buy. He never made a habit of snacking, but you’re rubbing off on him.

“Don’t do that,” you say, underlining something on the document. “You should go.”

“On my own?”

“You deserve a break. Aren’t you due for a sabbatical? You get one every five years for long service, right?”

He blinks, something passing over his face—too quick for you to properly interpret. “Yeah. Last one I did… fuck. I cut it short because of the start of the pandemic. If I hadn’t gotten home early, I never would have been able to come back.”

Sympathy filling your features. “That sucks, baby.” Your papers set down. Knees across the carpet, shuffling towards the couch where he’s lying. “You could do something nice for yourself this time.”

“What? Like travel the world for three months?”

“Yeah, around the world in 80 days.”

Robby snorts.

“Yeah, of course you’d like that, you old man.”

“Hey, you made the reference. Not me.”

Chin on the cushion, his thumb brushing against the burn on your cheek. Healing. He’s been diligently taking care of it everyday until you didn’t need to keep it covered anymore. Every night, rubbing ointment on your wounds. Like traces of this mess can fade with time and healing.

“Or,” you grin, cheeky, “you could tell everyone you’re travelling. Then lock yourself in here for three months. And it’d just be me and you and my wily ways.”

Robby blinks, then laughs. Leaning down to kiss you. “You’re insatiable.”

“It’s good stress relief.”

“For you or for me?”

“For both of us.”

Lips to your forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So that’s a no, then?” Faux disappointment. Pursed lips.

“I’ll think about it.”

Eyebrows raised.

“The sabbatical. The proper one,” he adds after seeing your expression. “Not your degenerate one.” He pulls you up onto the couch.

You sprawl on top of him, head pillowed against his chest. Breathing in each other’s company. “You’d deserve it. Taking a break.”

“Yeah?”

“Hm.” You close your eyes, feeling the rumble in his chest. “I’d miss you, but yeah. You deserve the break. You’re always working at 100%. You need to slow down or you’ll burn yourself out.”

“You deserve a break too.”

“I’ll rest when the case is over.”

Robby tuts disapprovingly, hands rubbing up and down your back. “How am I going to leave if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself?”

“I’ll be okay,” you say, even though you want to tell him that you wouldn’t want him to go for three months. The last thing you want to do is guilt him into feeling like he needs to take care of you. You’re not a lost cause. You wriggle up slightly to kiss his jaw.

“You would?”

“Mm. I’d miss you. But you can send me pictures of things you see that remind you of me.”

“I thought the point of a sabbatical was to take a break.”

“Not from me, asshole,” you say, without any heat behind it. Pinching where you think his nipple is.

“Oh—ow. You’re incorrigible.” Grabbing your wrist. Kissing your palm. “I’ll think about it,” he says again.

Things have been good.

It should’ve been your warning.

All of a sudden, it’s the 3rd of July, the night before Robby goes off on sabbatical.

You thought that once you had passed that seven weeks mark, you’d been in the safe zone. You remember promises of this not being casual. Of choosing you.

And yet. You’re staring at a text.

Robby: We need to break up.

Part 3.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I used AI to write a fanfic, so South Park Jesus came and shot up my house as punishment.

[dykesynthezoid]

Out of everything about this I think this might be the particular headline that breaks me

[aenslem]

1.06 – Book VI: Acts of the Apostles || MIDNIGHT MASS (2021)

[solemnsalem]

I'm gonna wish for the carbine. Yeah, and that's how I'd do it. Right fucking there.

I want...I want a carbine. No. I want that carbine.

Day twelve of @juneofdoom - last wish

[a-lil-strawberry]

Please pray for a young man named Sam who was shot by his younger brother three times, as well as for the other young men who share an apartment with him who witnessed it and had to administer first aid and call 911. Pray for the younger brother as well. Sam was released from the hospital and is doing okay, but please pray for continued healing, both physically and mentally

[comehellorhighwatertheywillwrite]

Didn’t really hurt me but I posted a chapter and my country had a mass shooting (uncommon here). I then posted another chapter a little while later and my country immediately had ANOTHER MASS SHOOTING. Didn't post for like a year after that

[flowerbloom-arts]

It's been so hard to draw or write anything lately, I think the heat is killing my creative braincells.