such sad eyes - michael "robby" robinavitch x reader
michael "robby" robinavitch x nurse!reader
synopsis: a newly hired nurse who's dating preferences shake up the whole er; little does she know her attending is exactly her type, and little does robby know how guilty as sin he feels around her.
warnings: some mature themes
part one
June 28th 10:34am
“That place literally has rats in the posting,” Mohan pointed out. Facebook Marketplace. Sometimes Heaven. Sometimes Hell.
“And please don’t go to Craigslist, unless you want a freak as your roommate.”
The nurse sighed, rubbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers. She’d been looking at new places for the past couple weeks, crashing on Santos’ and Whittaker’s couch in the meantime. Trinity had been in a good mood one day, she even suggested it. So, when she said, “You can crash on the couch if you like.” She jumped at the opportunity, wishing nothing more than to forget the fact she had moved in with the boyfriend because she had just moved and didn’t have a place to stay, he was a soft place to land. Momentarily at least.
“So who’s bright idea was it for you to have moved in with your bum-old boyfriend anyways?” Princess asked, a single eyebrow raised.
She couldn’t respond, knowing damn well it was too embarrassing to say either way. She only responded with, “Are we absolutely sure no one needs a roommate here?” She felt like she was whoring herself out for the emergency department; at least buy her a drink first!
“Put a note on the bulletin board. Maybe you’ll get something?” She nodded, liking the idea and making a mental note of it.
July 2nd 6:22am
And although she was able to put on a face every day, she was struggling. Not struggling to keep up but struggling to handle it all; moving, stupid ex-boyfriends, quick hookups, student debt, car troubles, work stress, it was all a lot. She was just trying to take it day by day. But the men who came afterwards were just as bad if not worse than the bum-ass boyfriend from before. But no one could tell, she left all that shit at the doors and walked in everyday like it was nothing. She’d shrug it off, she had to.
But she struggled to keep the two far away from each other. She’d be getting dropped off by a new man almost every week, arguing and yelling at him before slamming the passenger door and flipping him off as he sped away from the ambulance bay. It was all too much; all too heavy. They all wanted everything and nothing at all. And it killed her inside.
“What the hell was that?” Dana questioned, holding a cigarette in her fingers but not lighting it; surely trying to quit again.
She flashes a fake smile, watching as the car drove off. “That? Oh that’s nothing.”
“Sure as hell doesn’t look like nothing.”
The woman couldn’t look her in the eyes, just pointing at the object in her hand and saying, “those things kill you ya know.” And walking away, knowing damn well Dana knew that and that she was just trying to avoid speaking about herself at all.
Dana tossed the thing in the trash and went after her, slowly, gently. They both ended up in the locker room, Dana watching as the woman practically threw her bag in and slammed the door, a couple of tears falling down her cheeks. She wiped them off harshly, smacking her cheeks, and turned to weakly smile.
“Listen I don’t care what you do in your personal life, who you go home with, whatever. It’s none of my business. But my business is how you handle things in here, and I’m worried.”
It hits her, how bad things are getting, “I’m sorry.” She pauses, fingers fidgeting on placing her nametag onto her scrubs. “I don’t want to have to be something you worry about.” She wiped another tear away, hands shaking, lip quivering slightly.
Dana steps forward, taking the thing out of her hands and placing it on her correctly in a swift motion. Leaving her hand on the other’s, a gentle, motherly affection she needed. It’s a safe place to land, so she lets another tear fall and chuckles, feeling embarrassed that she’s so sensitive in the moment. She sniffles, wiping away the tear and mouthing “thank you,” she can’t utter anything right now, afraid if she squeaks it’ll come out as a sob. Dana gives a tight lipped smile, eyes still gleaming with worry but grateful for the moment passed between them.
And they walk out; ready to take on the day.
And Robby is nosy and immediately notices there’s something up.
“Anything I should know about?” He questions Dana, readers on and fixated on the board floating with colors and names.
“Not your business,” she responds, phone ringing and signaling someone coming in, in critical condition.
She gets off the phone, relaying the information and checking if trauma two was ready.
“Could be my business,” Robby says in passing, getting ready for the incoming mess.
2:22pm
Breathing felt like drowning, air thick enough to drink. Wasn’t enough to deter her from inhaling smoke into her lungs, feeling like she was burning from the inside out.
She didn’t hear the steps until it was too late, watching as her attending stepped towards her in the ambulance bay. He raises his eyebrows, a pretend shock in face as he eyes the cancerous object in her right hand.
“Oh no, you caught me” she responds sarcastically, cigarette lodged between fingers and palms facing his way in surrender.
It isn’t enough to make her stop though, she takes another inhale of the cigarette.
So he plants himself next to her, hands in his pockets of his black scrubs, no jacket today. “So, everything all right?”
“Dana put you up to this?” She doesn’t look at him, too fixated on the emt folks arguing about their rig.
“No? I can’t worry about my nurses?”
She turns, clearly annoyed, “you’re not my boss, why do you care?”
“No I’m not your boss,” he’s taken aback, watching as she bites.
“Then I’m not your problem.” She puts the cigarette out, tosses it in the ashtray and walks back in, ignoring how his eyes follow her. Ignoring how he lets out a large, heavy sigh.
July 11th 9:42pm
All he wanted was to go home, to wash this long day off of him. And yet, there she was, yelling obscenities into some older man’s face. Her head leaned up, chest forward, hands flailing, teeth bare in her words; she was like a dog barking, angry and about to bite. And frankly Robby would’ve let her continue at it, until he saw the man shove her back.
“What the actual fuck is going on here?!” Robby shoved himself in between the two, pushing the man back with his forearm. But she’s lunging at Robby, hand ready to make contact with this other man’s face.
“This is a hospital, not the WWE.”
Too enraged to laugh she leapt off her attending, straightening her scrubs out and flattening her hair.
“Crazy bitch.” Is the last thing the man says before storming off into the night.
She just watches, watches him leave, feeling nothing in his wake. And Robby is transfixed by her stare, eyes glossy and lifeless.
“What the hell was that?”
“None of your business,” she turns away, fully getting ready to just leave him to clean the emotional mess she’s made. She can’t look him in the eye, it’s too much, too embarrassing. But she wipes a rebel tear from her cheek, wincing when her hand makes contact with her face.
He’s cautious, but Robby steps forward, trying to see closer to her frame. And without warning he grabs her fragile hand and she whimpers at the sudden contact, then hissing an insult, “What the hell?” But he sees it; splashes of red, violet and blue in drag paths underneath her skin. An indication it wasn’t the first time she was “biting” back. He only stares at it, diagnosing what it needs, trying to ignore the imploring question of how it happened. No, all he needs to do right now is do what he knows; treat the patient.
“I thought you were off?” Abbott says offhandedly, watching as his friend was practically dragging the nurse he’d seen clock out 45 minutes ago into an empty room. “I thought so too.”
White sheets, disinfectant, ringing, chatter; all familiar to them both, but in a different light as she sat down on the hospital bed.
Abbott walked in, nosy as usual but more concerned than anything. He doesn’t speak (hard for him to do), rather he sees Robby’s hands holding hers, sees the bruising and looks up at her face. “It’s fine,” she says.
“She’s going to need an x-ray,”
“I don’t need an X-ra-“ Robby pushes on her hand slightly and she hisses out in pain.
“Probably isn’t broken but we should still look at it,” Abbott comments. “Clean it up and then we’ll send her to radiology, it’s slow tonight, shouldn’t take too long.”
Robby nods, grabbing some gloves and cleaning kit from the corner and sits in a stool, setting it all up in a tray.
She just rolls her eyes and watches, sighing at how ridiculous this has all become. The woman watches as Dr. Robinavitch puts on the blue latex gloves, how they stick to the veins in his hands. Watches as he takes his glasses out of his pocket and sighs, gaze from the kit then to her. There’s nothing but tender care from him; she’s seen it on occasion, a pedes patient, the elderly folk, an unhoused woman, there’s this empathy that drips into his gaze. And it’s making her feel awful.
He begins working, knowing he doesn’t have to walk her through the steps of what he’s doing; she could probably do it better. His large hand practically consumes hers, and yet he’s tame with his movement. He takes an alcoholic wipe and slowly begins wiping the wound down, her skin has cracked a little so there was no need for stitches but a little dried blood. Getting the crevices with a sterilized q-tip. She could only watch; watch as the man does what he knows best; treat the patient.
He had questions he wouldn’t ask and she had answers she wouldn’t tell.
“You wanna judge me don’t you?”
“Not even a little.” He said it under his breath, light and honest.
The scent of lilies still coated her skin, even at the end of a 12 hour shift. She could feel the warmth of his hand even through the layer of latex.
“But,” he began, “Why do you waste your time with them?”
Her eyes are glued to the tray, his question echoing in her head. “I don’t know.”
She shakes her head, looking up at the fluorescent lights, the worn down ceiling tiles. Robby doesn’t prod further, waiting for her to drop her shoulders, to put down her guard, to see if she ever will.
“I have to ask, are there any other injuries I should know about?” Only his eyes move, searching her, reaching out in his gaze. “Or you want to tell a nurse about?”
She looked down, catching his gaze, seeing his reach. “No, nothing else.”
It’s here the shoulders slowly drop; no more biting.
“You should see the other guy.”
The man’s chest rumbled with a chuckle, she watched as it rose and fell with every breath.
“I guess,” she begins, gaze going back to the tray. “I always think the best of them; I know they’re not perfect but I’m not asking them to be. I’m not asking anything from them really; not to settle down, not to give me a key, a ring, nothing.”
Robby keeps on, hanging on to every word spilling from her lips.
“But they get scared. Like most men do.”
He tilts his head, side grin apparent on his face.
“And I hate it, the avoidance, the detachment, and yet that’s all they do. I can’t escape it. No matter the age range.” She hissed as he poked a bit too much with the q-tip, he mouths an “Sorry.”
“All I want is a nice,” she began and he paused, watching the words leave her softened pink lips.
“Older,” doe brown fixated on the movement.
“Man.” Deep brown was glued to her mouth, entranced by the way her voice had gotten quieter when she spoke. It was as if she was casting a spell, words sticking to him like honey. He couldn't look away, he couldn't think of anything else.
“All done here?” Abbott piped in, watching as his friend jolted even just slightly at his words. Robby gave a tight lipped smile, finally broken from the spell. He pulled the latex off and tossed it, watching as Jack pulled her away to radiology, that floral scent in her wake.
A couple hours and x-rays later turned out it was a hairline fracture in her wrist, she would need to wear a small cast for 6-12 weeks. She resented it but this was her punishment for acting before thinking.
Robby couldn’t sleep that night, or the night after, or the many many nights after. Suddenly there she was; poisoning his mind, seeping into every part of him. Into his house, his bed, his shower. The idea of her so small, so needy, so fragile. He could be nice, could be giving, couldn’t he? Could he? He kept questioning it. And slowly it became a fantasy, one he surely shouldn’t entertain. Yet he couldn’t help it. Not with all of their moments following that night.
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.
Chapter Sixteen: I'll Just Wait For The Wind To Sweep Away My Words
Summary: An interlude before the Fourth of July shift.
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest Memories, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient/s, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (it's unserious, I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Noelle Hastings (this is its own warning bruh), Therapy Session,
Word Count: 5.7k
A/N: Before we move on to S2, we’ll have some snippets of their lives in the past 10 months. Cuz I think that’s fun and it adds to the angst lol. Here, have a short chapter filled with some fluffy moments and a lot of angsty ones, tehe. 🤭
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/noahwhyle. 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: Pagtingin by Ben&Ben and pretty isn’t pretty by Olivia Rodrigo
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3 MONTHS LATER…
HOME — NIGHT
Your apartment is quiet in a way the ED never is.
No alarms.
No overhead pages.
No smell of betadine or iron.
Just the soft hum of your refrigerator and the blue glow of your laptop screen balanced on the edge of your kitchen table.
Neil Stevens adjusts his glasses on the other side of the screen. The lighting in his office back home in the Philippines is warm, yellow. Familiar.
“It’s been a while,” he says gently.
“Yeah.” You tuck one leg beneath you in the chair. “My shifts have been hectic for the past few weeks.”
You say it lightly, but your shoulders are still tense from today’s twelve-hour stretch.
You know you’re lucky. Most residents and nurses in Pittsburgh have months-long waitlists. You found Neil years ago—back when panic attacks first started carving out space in your chest—and you held onto him. Even across oceans. Even through time zones.
“How’s your sleep?” he asks.
You glance toward your bedroom doorway.
“The nightmares come back then and again.”
Not every night, just enough to keep you from trusting sleep.
“Same theme?” he asks.
“Mostly.” You hesitate. “Mass casualty stuff. The morgue. Sometimes the screaming...”
He nods slowly. “Did you notify your psychiatrist?”
“Yes.” You nod. “We adjusted the Diphenhydramine.”
“Any topics you wanna bring up first?” Neil asks.
You stare at your hands. “Not really.”
He waits.
“Wanna start with your wins?” he offers.
You nod and pull up your Notes app, scrolling through the messy bullet points you’ve been keeping since that night.
“Okay. Um.” You clear your throat. “I was able to talk through with a patient. He’s in outpatient therapy now. He actually thanked me last week.”
Neil smiles. “That’s big.”
“Yeah.” You scroll. “Robby found out about my birthday.”
You can’t help the small smile that creeps in.
“And?”
“It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.”
Neil tilts his head knowingly.
“He sang to me on the rooftop and then walked me home.”
You don’t add how you cried. How he walked you home. How you replayed it in your head more times than you’d admit.
“Losses?” Neil prompts gently.
You swallow.
“Leah.” The name still stings. “Jake still won’t talk to Robby.”
You inhale slowly.
“The MCI.” You don’t elaborate. You don’t have to.
“And one of our Senior Residents is on leave,” you add. “Substance use. It… hit the department harder than we expected.”
Neil lets the silence sit respectfully.
“Do you still think of him?” he asks softly.
You don’t pretend to misunderstand.
“Every day.”
Maybe grief and love have started sharing the same hallway in your chest.
“What do you think would happen,” Neil asks carefully, “if you did ask Robby out?”
You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.
“I don’t know if I can risk ruining one of the most important relationships I have, Neil.”
You say it simply. Just truth.
The ED is chaos.
Your life is chaos.
He is one of the best things to happen to you.
You don’t know who you’d be without that.
“What are you doing after work?” Neil asks. “How’s the hobby situation?”
You huff softly.
“I still read. Take long walks by the park. Journal every now and then.”
“You seeing friends?”
“Sometimes. Dana forces me out.”
He smiles.
“And him?” Neil asks.
You look away from the camera.
“We’re… good.”
Not closer. Not further.
Just orbiting.
6 MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The board is finally manageable.
Not empty. It never is. But manageable.
Day shift gathers at Central for sign-out, coffee cups half-finished, gloves snapped off and stuffed into pockets. Night shift filters in, trading tired looks and quick updates.
“Room 12’s abdominal pain is actually a gallbladder,” Shen says.
“Called it,” Dana mutters.
“You did not,” Robby shoots back.
“I absolutely did.”
The banter is back. Sharp, playful, and occasionally irritating.
But it’s back.
You lean against the counter, listening, chart open but forgotten. Six months ago, the room felt fragile—like one loud word could crack it open again. Now the sarcasm has teeth again. The teasing has rhythm.
It feels… normal.
Robby bumps your shoulder lightly as he reaches for the coffee pot. “You’re on nights tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll survive without me?”
“Barely.”
He smirks.
It’s in the small things now.
He hands you coffee without asking how you take it.
You slide his reading glasses across the desk before he realizes he’s misplaced them.
He notices when you tug at your sleeve—the tell that means your heart rate is climbing.
You notice when he presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose—the tell that means he hasn’t slept.
It’s never spoken.
But it’s there.
A quiet catalog of details that says I see you.
Later that week, you’re on the rooftop again.
The city hums below like it’s breathing—low engines, distant sirens, the metallic sigh of buses turning corners. The hospital’s exhaust fans whirr behind you. The air smells faintly like rain and asphalt.
Robby leans against the railing, sleeves pushed up, tie long abandoned somewhere downstairs. The skyline glows against the dark like a pulse you can see.
“You’re smiling,” you accuse, nudging his shoe lightly with yours.
“I am not,” he says immediately.
“You absolutely are. I made you smile.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You squint at him. “You can’t gaslight me on this. I will never forget.”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but there’s a laugh trapped behind his teeth, fighting to get out.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” you reply softly.
And yet you’re here.
And yet you keep coming up to this rooftop like it’s neutral territory—no attendings, no nurses, no titles. Just Michael and you, and the city that doesn’t care what either of you are carrying.
He crosses his arms. “What exactly did you say that was so funny?”
“Oh, so you admit you laughed.”
“I did not admit anything.”
“You did that nose thing.”
“What nose thing?”
“That thing.” You mimic him, scrunching your face slightly. “Like you’re trying not to smile because you think it makes you look unprofessional.”
“I do not—”
“You do. It’s the same face you make when Dana wins an argument.” You say as you squint your eyes at him.
He stares at you.
You hold the look.
Your heart is doing something reckless in your chest—like it’s trying to outrun you.
“Okay,” he says finally, conceding a little. “Maybe I smiled.”
“Ha.” You point at him like you’ve won something. “Knew it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You still came up here.”
That one lands softer than you meant it to. Not teasing or triumphant. Just… true.
He doesn’t answer right away.
A helicopter passes overhead, blades thudding heavily against the night. The vibration hums through the concrete beneath your shoes, rattling something loose in your ribs. You both look up instinctively, following it as it disappears toward the river.
The wind picks up. The city keeps breathing.
When he finally speaks, his voice is different—quieter, like he’s stepping around something fragile.
“Teach me something in Tagalog.”
You blink at him.
“What?”
“Tag-a-log,” he says carefully, over-enunciating each syllable like he’s defusing a bomb.
You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”
“What? That’s how you say it.”
“It’s Ta-ga-log,” you correct, trying—and failing—not to grin.
He groans. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not!” You wipe at your eyes. “It’s just endearing.”
He narrows his eyes. “Endearing.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a loaded word.”
“Relax,” you tease. “You’re the one asking for language lessons.”
He leans his elbows on the railing, closer now. “Then teach me something.”
There’s something about the way he says it.
Not flippant. Not joking.
Like he wants in.
Like he’s asking for a door to open.
“What do you want to say?” you ask.
He thinks about it seriously, which makes your heart do something reckless again.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Something useful.”
“Useful like ‘where is the bathroom’ useful? Or useful like ‘I would like extra rice’ useful?”
“Definitely the rice one.”
You laugh softly.
“Okay. You can say, ‘Gusto ko ng kanin.’”
He repeats it slowly. “Goo-sto co nang… ka-neen.”
You shake your head, stepping closer without thinking. “No, no. Not ka-neen. Kanin.”
You reach up instinctively, touching his jaw lightly, angling it.
Your fingers brush the beard along his cheek.
You freeze.
So does he.
Your hand is still there.
His skin is warm, real, and solid.
Your pulse slams in your ears.
“Kanin,” you say again, softer.
He swallows.
“Kanin,” he tries.
“That’s better.”
Neither of you move.
You drop your hand first.
“What does it mean?” he asks, voice lower now.
“I want rice.”
He snorts. “Romantic.”
“You asked for useful.”
He watches you for a second longer than necessary.
“What’s something less… culinary?” he asks.
You hesitate as your brain offers up a hundred safe options.
Magandang gabi. Good evening.
Ingat ka. Take care.
Instead, your heart betrays you.
“Pwede ba kitang samahan?” you say quietly.
He frowns slightly. “Pweday bah kee-tang…?”
You smile. “Pwede ba kitang samahan.”
He tries again, careful. Concentrated.
“Puwede ba kitang… samahan.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s good,” you say.
“What does it mean?”
You hesitate just long enough that he notices.
“What?” he presses.
“It means… ‘Can I walk with you?’ or ‘Can I go with you?’”
He doesn’t laugh this time.
He just looks at you.
The city noise feels distant now. The rooftop smaller. The air is thinner.
“Can I walk with you,” he repeats quietly, testing the shape of it in English.
You nod.
He leans a little closer. Not touching. But close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“You already do,” he says.
It’s simple.
Casual.
But it lands like a meteor.
You look away first, staring at the skyline like it holds instructions for what to do next.
“Okay,” you say, pretending your voice isn’t shaking slightly.
“Teach me how to say… something else,” he adds.
“Like what?”
He thinks about it while his fingers drum lightly against the railing, restless energy wrapped in restraint.
“How do you say… ‘I’m glad you’re here’?”
Your heart stumbles.
You swallow. “Masaya ako na nandito ka.”
He repeats it carefully.
“Ma-sa-ya ako na nan-di-to ka.”
You nod. “That’s really good.”
“What does it literally mean?” he asks.
“It means… I’m happy that you’re here.”
Silence.
The kind that isn’t empty.
The kind that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground beneath you is very, very high.
He looks at you then. Really looks at you.
“Masaya ako na nandito ka,” he says again.
You can’t breathe for a second.
You force a smile to keep it light. “You’re just showing off now.”
“Am I saying it right?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once, satisfied.
The wind pushes your shoulder against his slightly.
Neither of you step away.
Your heart is racing so loud you’re convinced he can hear it.
It feels like spoken word poetry written in muscle memory. Like two magnets held just apart. Like the moment before rain when the air turns electric and everyone pretends they don’t smell it coming.
He clears his throat lightly.
“So,” he says, tone shifting back toward safe ground. “Next lesson next week?”
You nod.
“Sure.”
Because if you keep teaching him the language of where you come from—
Maybe one day he’ll understand the language of how you feel.
And maybe—you won’t have to translate it at all.
“You still reread that same book when you’re stressed?” He asks.
“It’s predictable. No surprises.”
“You’re an ER nurse. Your entire life is surprises.”
“Exactly.”
He nods like that makes sense.
“And you still need white noise to sleep,” he adds.
“You sent me that stupid rain app.”
“You said it helped.”
“It did.”
You don’t say that you think about him every time it rains now. He doesn’t say he downloaded it, too, to try to stop sleeping with the TV on.
The wind lifts a strand of your hair and pushes it into your face. He reaches out automatically, tucks it behind your ear without thinking.
His fingers brush your skin.
It’s barely anything, but your pulse spikes like someone just called a code.
He seems to realize what he’s done a half second later. His hand lingers just a breath too long before dropping.
“You tug your sleeve when you’re nervous,” he says quietly.
You freeze.
“I do not.”
“You are right now.”
You glance down.
Your fingers are twisted in the cuff of your scrub jacket.
You release it like it burned you.
Silence settles—not awkward. Just charged.
It feels like standing too close to an open electrical panel. Like one wrong movement and something will spark.
“You know,” you say carefully, eyes on the skyline instead of him, “if we ever went on some weird game show where you had to answer questions about each other to win money, we’d crush it.”
He smirks. “What, like Newlyweds but with trauma?”
“Exactly.”
He huffs a laugh. “We would.”
The word hangs there.
Would.
The city keeps humming. The rooftop lights flicker on automatically, and it feels dangerously close to something.
Like a sentence that wants to finish itself.
Like a bridge neither of you are brave enough to step onto.
He clears his throat. “It’s late.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you move as your shoulder brushes his again when you both adjust your weight. This time, neither of you steps away.
You can feel the warmth of him through cotton and worn fabric. Solid. Steady. Familiar in a way that feels dangerous.
Before you can overthink it, you lean your head against his shoulder.
It’s tentative at first. Like you’re testing gravity.
He goes still.
Not stiff.
Just aware.
The space between you feels smaller than it used to. Or maybe you’re just finally noticing how small it’s become.
The city stretches out in front of you—bridges lit gold, headlights threading through streets like veins. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rises and falls. The world keeps happening.
“You made me smile,” he admits quietly, not looking at you.
The words vibrate through his chest before they reach your ear.
Your heart trips over itself. Stumbles. Recovers.
“I know,” you say.
You can hear your own pulse, loud and traitorous.
He glances down at you then—just a quick look—but it lingers long enough to make the air feel thinner. His jaw softens. His mouth almost curves again.
You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating where your temple rests against him.
It would be so easy.
So easy to lift your head and say it.
To tell him that you think about him when it rains. That you’ve memorized the cadence of his footsteps in the hallway. That you can tell which version of his sigh means exhaustion and which one means guilt. That your chest feels like a house with the lights left on whenever he’s near.
It would be so easy to say, I think this is more.
Instead, you stay quiet.
He shifts slightly, and his arm brushes yours. Not an embrace. Not quite.
But he doesn’t move away.
“You’re cold,” he says after a moment.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Your hands are freezing.”
He says it like a fact. Like something he’s observed and cataloged.
He slides his jacket off one shoulder and drapes it over you without ceremony.
You inhale automatically.
It smells like him. Laundry detergent and coffee and something faintly metallic from the hospital.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He shrugs. “You’d do the same.”
You would.
You already have, in a hundred different ways.
A helicopter passes again, farther this time. The thudding blades echo through the sky like a second heartbeat.
“You ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.
The question lands between you.
“Leaving the hospital?” you ask.
“Leaving… here.”
You know he doesn’t just mean the building.
You lift your head slightly to look at him.
“No,” you say honestly. “Not anymore, anyways. Do you?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “On bad days.”
“Today wasn’t bad.”
“No.”
You both know what a bad day looks like.
You settle back against him as if his shoulder fits under his like it was measured. Two people standing shoulder to shoulder, cataloging the details of each other like they’re collecting evidence.
It feels like building something out of glances and shared coffee and rooftop air. Like laying bricks without calling it a house.
He clears his throat softly.
“You’re heavy,” he mutters.
You gasp. “Excuse me?”
He smiles without looking at you. “Emotionally.”
You swat his arm lightly. He laughs—low and warm and close enough that you feel it in your bones.
You stay like that longer than you should. Not naming it or defining it. Just two people pretending this isn’t already something that matters.
9 MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
“What do you think of Noelle?” Robby asks casually, like he’s asking about the weather.
Like it doesn’t matter. Like your answer won’t land anywhere important. You don’t miss the way he doesn’t quite look at you when he says it.
He’s staring at the board. At a potassium of 6.2. At anything but your face.
Your heart misfires once. Then keeps beating like nothing happened.
You paste on the most convincing smile you’ve ever manufactured. If the Academy Awards committee were hiding in Trauma Two, you’d have a statue by now.
“Noelle Hastings?” you say lightly. “She’s great.”
She is.
She’s pretty. Effortlessly so. The kind of pretty that doesn’t need angles or lighting. Confident. Smart. The kind of woman who doesn’t hesitate before she laughs.
The kind who laughs with her whole mouth open. The kind who doesn’t overthink whether someone is looking back.
You noticed them early.
The way she lingered by his workstation longer than necessary. The way she leaned in just a little too close. The way his voice changed half a pitch when he said her name.
The way they both pretended it wasn’t happening.
“She’s sharp,” he says, finally glancing at you. “Good instincts.”
“Mhm,” you hum, charting something you don’t actually read.
You keep your tone even.
“She keeps pushing for more trauma exposure,” he adds.
“That’s good,” you reply. “She should.”
Your mouth is moving. You’re saying the right things. Inside, something sour blooms, and you hate that part of you.
You count how many times he says her name in a shift. You notice when she touches his arm, and he doesn’t pull away. You want to be better than this.
“She asked about that pelvic case from last week,” he says. “The one we packed.”
You nod. “That was a good call.”
“We,” he corrects automatically.
You look at him.
He doesn’t realize what he just did.
We.
Your heart lurches traitorously.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “We.”
You watch from the corners of rooms now.
In Central. In the ambulance bay. Outside Trauma One.
You watch him laugh with her and it feels like your heart is stretching toward sunlight it will never reach.
Like a plant pressed against glass.
Close enough to see warmth.
Too far to feel it.
She says something you can’t hear. He throws his head back and laughs.
You memorize the shape of it anyway.
“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t make movie night.”
“Oh?” You keep your eyes on the med cart.
“Something came up.”
You don’t ask what.
“Yeah, of course it’s okay if you reschedule,” you say lightly. “I hope you two have fun.”
You make it sound generous.
You are not generous.
You are bleeding quietly behind your sternum.
“Thanks,” he says. “We’ll catch it next week.”
We.
You nod, “Yeah. Sure.”
It starts slowly as it always does. A drink after shift. Then two becomes a habit. He stays later again. Finds reasons to linger, to debrief cases that don’t need debriefing. He buys a motorcycle and refuses to wear a helmet.
You hear about it secondhand.
“They closed the bar,” Dana mutters one morning.
“Who?”
“Robby and Noelle. Apparently, they’re unstoppable.”
You laugh like it’s funny.
It isn’t.
He misses a department wellness meeting he swore he’d attend.
“I just forgot,” he says, shrugging.
You remember the night in Peds when he said he’d do better. You remember the way he meant it.
“I’m fine,” he says when Abbot corners him in the supply room.
You’re restocking suture kits. You hear it all.
“I’m fine.”
The lie is so clean it could pass as sterile.
Abbot doesn’t look convinced, and neither are you.
He throws himself into trauma cases like penance. Volunteers for the worst ones. The messy ones. The ones that leave blood under your nails even after you scrub.
You watch him choose vices over growth.
Over rest, over himself, and it shouldn’t matter to you. Technically, it doesn’t concern you. You are not his partner. You are not his girlfriend. You are not even—
Whatever that rooftop thing was.
But every time he picks apathy over progress, it feels like he’s choosing a world that doesn’t have room for you.
Because the version of him that wants to get better? That version looked at you like you were worth trying for. This one looks through you.
“Hey,” he says one afternoon, catching you in the hallway. “You good?”
You nod automatically. “Always.”
He studies your face like he almost believes you.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“You’ve been busy.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah.”
With her.
You don’t say it.
Instead, you say, “Trauma Two’s ready.”
Professional and polite.
Dying a little.
The shifts continue, and the board fills. Codes get called.
People live. People don’t.
You move through it all like muscle memory, handing him instruments without looking.
He says “thanks” without thinking.
You know the exact moment he’s about to snap at a resident.
He knows the exact moment you need a break.
None of it changes.
And yet everything does.
At night, in your apartment, you stare at the ceiling and replay the rooftop.
The Tagalog lessons. The jacket. The way he said, You already do.
You hate that you still want him. You hate that jealousy crawls up your throat like bile or that you measure yourself against her in mirrors you didn’t know existed.
You hate that you’re waiting for something that might never come.
In the ED the next morning, he laughs again at something Noelle says.
You look away before your face gives you away.
You adjust your sleeves, check your patient’s vitals, and swallow the ache like it’s just another symptom to manage.
Because none of it ends, and you are very, very good at functioning through pain.
PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT
This time, you come up alone.
The city is quieter tonight, or maybe you are louder inside your own head.
You stand on the ledge in front of the railing. Not close enough to fall. Not stupid. Just… closer than you should be. Close enough to feel the pull of gravity and imagine what it would be like to let go of something for once instead of holding everything together.
You only thought it for a minute.
But it was a loud minute.
The kind of feeling where you’ve got something to cry about and all the talking in your head turns to screaming. Where every memory sharpens at the edges. Where you can’t tell if you’re heartbroken or just exhausted or both.
You’d finished vomiting in the bathroom downstairs first. Locked the stall. Flushed twice so no one would hear the dry heaving. The nausea clawed up your throat so violently you thought you were going to faint on the tile.
You told yourself it was something you ate.
You know it wasn’t.
Now the cold air burns your lungs clean. You scratch at the inside of your forearm absentmindedly, nails dragging over skin until it stings.
The door opens behind you.
You don’t turn.
You don’t really care right now.
Abbot’s voice cuts through the wind. “You’re not subtle, you know.”
You stare straight ahead at the skyline. “Didn’t realize I was performing.”
“You are. It’s just not a good show.”
Silence.
He steps closer but keeps his distance. Always careful with you when you look like this. Like you’re made of glass instead of bone.
“I joined the SWAT team as their physician,” he says casually.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Of course you did.”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby.”
“You couldn’t knit?” you snap, the words coming out sharper than you mean. “Or garden? Or collect stamps like a normal traumatized adult?”
He snorts softly. “You think I’d look good knitting?”
“I think you’d look less likely to get shot.”
“That’s fair.”
The wind lifts your hair. You keep scratching.
“Your allergies acting up again?” he asks, watching the movement.
You don’t answer.
“If you roll up your sleeves right now,” he says carefully, voice lowering, “what am I gonna find, Ducky?”
Your hand freezes.
You don’t know when the tears started. They just slip down quietly, cold against your skin.
You still haven’t turned around.
You let out a shaky breath. “It’s getting bad again.”
The confession feels like breaking glass in your mouth.
He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t fill the silence with bullshit reassurance.
“For who?” he asks finally. “You or for him?”
Your laugh cracks. “God. That’s so humiliating.”
“That wasn’t judgment.”
“I know.” You swipe at your cheeks angrily. “I know.”
You finally turn halfway, enough that he can see your face. Your eyes are red. Your mouth is trembling and you hate that he can see that too.
“This is so embarrassing, Jack,” you whisper. “And pathetic. I know it is. I hate feeling this way. I feel like I’m going insane again.”
“You’re not insane.”
“I am.” Your voice rises, then falls again. “I’m a grown woman. I should not be spiraling because a man is dating someone else.”
He tilts his head. “It’s not just that.”
You shake your head hard. “It is. I mean— it isn’t. It’s everything. It’s watching him laugh with her and feeling like my chest is being peeled open. It’s knowing I have no right to feel that way. I’m hating myself for feeling that way.”
You press your palm to your sternum like you can physically hold your heart still.
“It feels like I’m fourteen,” you say hoarsely. “Like I’m some stupid teenager with a crush. Except I’m not fourteen. I work in a trauma bay. I’ve held people’s hearts in my hands. I should be bigger than this.”
“Love doesn’t care how competent you are,” he says quietly.
You swallow hard.
“It’s not even love,” you snap. “It’s just— longing. It’s wanting something that was almost there and never got named. It’s standing next to someone for months thinking maybe, maybe, and then watching them choose someone else like it was easy.”
You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it.
“I keep thinking maybe if I were prettier. Or less complicated. Or less sad. Maybe if I didn’t need therapy. Maybe if I didn’t spiral. Maybe if I didn’t feel everything so loudly.”
He stiffens at that.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t shrink yourself into something more convenient.”
Your eyes burn again.
“It feels like a part of me is broken,” you whisper. “Like there’s a crack somewhere and everything I see just… drains through it. I go home and it’s quiet and I think about him and I hate it. I hate that I still want him. I hate that I’m jealous. I hate that I’m not enough for him and I don’t even know if that’s true or if I made it up.”
Abbot steps closer now, still behind the railing, elbows resting on it beside you.
“You don’t get to decide you’re not enough for someone,” he says. “That’s their call. And if they don’t choose you, it doesn’t automatically mean you’re lacking.”
“It feels like it.”
“I know.”
You sniff, wiping your face with the heel of your palm. “He said he’d do better. He said he’d try. And now he’s— he’s staying out late again, riding his stupid motorcycle without a fucking helmet. It’s like watching someone walk back into a burning building and I can’t even pull him out because I’m not… I’m not anything to him.”
“That’s the part that hurts,” Abbot says softly.
“Yes.” The word comes out small. “Yes.”
The wind howls between the buildings.
“I keep thinking if I had just said something,” you murmur. “On the rooftop. That night. If I had just told him. Maybe it would be different.”
“Or maybe it wouldn’t.”
“That’s worse,” you say. “Not knowing is worse.”
He studies you carefully. “Are you in front of the railing because you’re thinking about jumping?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. I just— I wanted to feel the edge. Not cross it.”
He nods once. Accepts that.
“I don’t want to die,” you say. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
There it is, the truth.
He exhales slowly. “That I understand.”
“I’m so tired, Jack,” you whisper. “Of being the strong one. Of being the understanding one. Of smiling and saying ‘I hope you two have fun.’ I feel like I’m swallowing glass and calling it maturity.”
He lets out a low breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it’s not.
“You’re allowed to be heartbroken,” he says. “Even if he never technically belonged to you.”
You close your eyes.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting him.”
“Maybe you don’t,” he says gently. “Maybe you just… withstand it.”
You look at him finally.
“Does it ever get easier?”
He considers that.
“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes it just gets quieter.”
The city hums below you. Life goes on, indifferent while you wipe your cheeks again, embarrassed by how wrecked you look.
“You’re not pathetic,” he adds. “You’re human. And you loved someone quietly. That’s not weak.”
You laugh wetly. “It feels weak.”
“It’s not.”
The wind dies down for a moment.
You step back from the ledge, just an inch.
Not enough to fix anything.
But enough, and for now, that has to be something.
You don’t look at him when you ask it.
“You ever think about leaving?”
It comes out quieter than you intended.
Jack glances at you, then back at the board. “Sometimes.”
You nod, like you expected that.
“Robby asked me that a few months ago,” you say. “Back when everything felt… different. I told him no. Not anymore.” You swallow. “But now…”
You trail off.
Now you wake up tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
Now you measure your emotional stability in milligrams.
Now you count exits in crowded rooms without thinking about it.
Jack shifts his weight beside you. “You’re allowed to change your mind, Ducky.”
There’s no judgment in it. Just a fact.
You laugh softly, but it sounds brittle. “I love working here. I do. The Pitt gave me everything. Training. Friends. A life. Everyone’s been kind to me.”
You press your thumb into the heel of your palm like you’re grounding yourself.
“But I don’t know if I can keep doing this version of me,” you admit. “The version that keeps shrinking to fit inside a place. The version that survives everything and calls it strength.” Your voice tightens. “I didn’t know I was capable of bending this far without breaking. And I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of.”
Jack studies you now.
You look exhausted.
Honest.
“I look in the mirror some days,” you continue, softer, “and I don’t recognize who I had to become just to function here.”
Jack nudges your shoulder lightly. “You didn’t turn into something ugly,” he says. “You turned into someone who survived.”
You exhale slowly.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “But surviving isn’t the same thing as living.”
And for the first time, you don’t feel guilty for thinking that.
End Notes:
By some miracle, I was able to watch S2 of the Pitt without any spoilers while I was still writing S1.
fUCK IT WE BALL YALL
Call it fate or whatever, I really, swear to God, did not know S2 was a Fourth of July shift.
I had talked about the Fourth of July in previous chapters because of all the stupid people doing stupid things, from ER nurses and doctors.
Ya’ll Americans be wildin’ during that holiday LOL
Ah, Noelle, your character pmo so bad bruh :///
Get ready for The Secret of Us, Good Riddance, Tortured Poets Department vibes in S2 LOL
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Always An Angel, Never A God
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Flinching, Choking
Word Count: 11.4k
A/N: Highkey, a lot of my thoughts during this episode was why is it when Robby does something reckless (career, life whatever) he gets praised for taking risks, for being the hero. When the women do it, it’s completely unacceptable.
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/bieddiediaz. 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: Not Strong Enough by boygenius, Stay by Gracie Abrams, and Graceland Too by Phoebe Bridgers
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6:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
It happens too fast.
One second you’re standing—chart in hand, voice steady, trying to de-escalate—and the next, Curtis’s hands are suddenly on you—fingers wrapping around your throat, thumbs pressing in hard beneath your jaw.
Crushing.
Your airway collapses under the pressure of his grip. Not a chokehold—this is direct. Intentional. His palms tighten, cutting off both your breathing and the blood flow along your carotid arteries.
You try to inhale.
Nothing.
The world narrows instantly—like someone’s pulled a curtain over your senses. Sound dulls first. The noise of monitors, voices, footsteps—everything fades into a distant, underwater hum. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud and frantic, a drumbeat you can’t escape.
His palms tighten, cutting off both your breathing and the blood flow along your carotid arteries.
Your hands shoot up, grabbing at his wrists, nails digging into his skin as you try to pry him off. But his grip only tightens. Your pulse spikes violently, heart slamming against your ribs as your body registers the threat all at once.
You can’t breathe.
You can’t—
Your chest convulses, desperate for air that won’t come.
Your body feels… heavy. Slow. Like it’s slipping out from under you.
You think, dimly—I’m going to pass out.
“Hey!”
Dana’s voice cuts through the haze—sharp, commanding.
The hold breaks.
You don’t even see it happen. One second you’re trapped, the next Curtis is ripped off you with force. His body stumbles back as Dana shoves him, hard enough that his face connects with something—there’s a sickening crack and the immediate bloom of blood from his nose.
You collapse as you roll to your side.
Your knees are on the floor.
Air rushes back into your lungs in a ragged, painful gasp—like breathing through broken glass. You cough violently, your body rejecting the sudden return of oxygen, your throat raw and burning.
Behind you, chaos erupts.
Perlah rushes past you toward Emma. Dana is already moving—efficient, practiced—drawing up medication and injecting Curtis as he struggles, restrained now by multiple hands.
“Hold him—hold him!”
A flood of nurses fills the room. Movement everywhere. Voices overlapping. Controlled panic.
You can’t process any of it.
You’re still on the floor, coughing, your hands braced against the tile as you try to remember how to breathe properly.
In.
Out.
In—
It stutters.
PEDES — DAY
Robby pushes open the door to Peds, his expression tight, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “Donnie, thank you. I’m sorry. We’ll get another nurse to replace Jesse.”
Donnie looks up, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Do we even know where these ICE assholes took him?”
Robby exhales, already shaking his head. “No, but the hospital attorneys are all over it.”
He glances over his shoulder—movement catches his attention. A cluster of nurses rushing past, urgency in their steps.
He tries to continue, “I know you got child duty—”
But it dies on his tongue.
Something’s wrong.
He steps out, catching Antoine mid-run. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a code Hula Hoop, Central 14.”
Robby doesn’t hesitate.
His stethoscope is already off his neck as he moves—fast, purposeful, adrenaline hitting hard.
CENTRAL 14 — DAY
Ahmad is right behind Robby.
“Move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move!”
Robby pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning—assessing, calculating. “What the hell happened?”
Dana doesn’t look up from Curtis, breathless but controlled. “He attacked Ducky and Emma, so I gave him a shot to settle him down.”
Robby’s attention snaps to Emma. “Are you all right?”
“Let’s see,” Perlah says, already checking her over.
Curtis grunts as he’s forced back onto the bed, restraints securing his wrists and legs this time. He thrashes weakly, the medication beginning to take hold.
Robby’s gaze flicks to the blood. “How did he get a bloody nose?”
Dana answers without missing a beat. “He slipped.”
Then—
A sound.
Not loud; subdued and restrained.
But it cuts through everything.
A broken, desperate cough.
Robby turns.
And sees you.
On your knees. Folded in on yourself. Gasping like every breath is a fight you’re not sure you’re winning.
Everything in him drops.
“Can I see?” he asks, already moving.
Perlah answers quickly, voice tight with what she just witnessed. “He had her in a headlock. Then he was choking Ducky.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Something in Robby shifts. It’s not loud, and it doesn’t show in any obvious way. No raised voice. No sudden movement.
Just a sharp, internal shift.
His jaw sets. His shoulders square—too still. And for a fraction of a second, the math runs in his head—clinical, automatic, terrifying. Airway compression, Carotid pressure, Time.
How long it takes... How little it would’ve taken.
His stomach drops. Not because he doesn’t understand what happened—
But because he does.
Because he knows exactly how close that line was.
And he wasn’t there.
A quiet, simmering anger curls under his ribs—at Curtis, at the situation, at the fact that this happened in his department—
At himself.
It doesn’t have anywhere to go.
So he moves.
Across the room in seconds, cutting through the noise, the bodies, the aftermath. He drops down in front of you, controlled but urgent, like he’s trying to close the distance that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
You flinch.
Hard.
It’s immediate—your body reacting before your mind can catch up, shoulders pulling back, breath hitching.
Robby freezes.
Not fully—but enough.
Enough to see it, and enough for it to land.
His expression shifts instantly, something tightening in his chest as he registers it—not as rejection, but as evidence. Of what you just went through. Of how close you still are to it.
His hands ease, lowering slightly, voice softening in contrast to everything around you.
“Hey—”
Gentler now.
“It’s me.”
Not a command— not a reassurance he expects you to take right away.
Just something steady. Something familiar. Something you can choose to believe when your body finally catches up.
His voice softening instantly, grounding, careful. “Hey—hey… I won’t hurt you.”
A beat.
“It’s me. It’s Robby.”
Your vision is still blurred, tears clinging to your lashes, your throat aching with every breath. You try to focus on him—on his face, on something familiar.
A small, broken sound escapes you.
Not quite a sob. Not quite a word.
Just pain.
Robby shifts closer, but slower this time, deliberate—giving you space, letting you see him. One hand hovers near your shoulder before finally settling there, light, steady.
He angles himself slightly, shielding you from the chaos behind him. From Curtis. From the noise. From everything.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
Your chest stutters again, another cough tearing through you. He steadies you instinctively, his hand firm but gentle at your back.
“In through your nose,” he coaches quietly. “Slow. That’s it.”
You try.
God, you try.
Your hands grip onto his scrub top without thinking, fingers twisting into the fabric like it’s the only solid thing in a world that just nearly slipped away.
“Robby—” your voice is wrecked, barely there. “You need to check on Emma, she—”
“I’ve got her,” Perlah calls from behind him.
Robby doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even look away.
His eyes stay locked on you.
Not just looking—assessing.
Your pupils. Your breathing pattern. The way your chest rises—too fast, too shallow. The faint, angry flush already forming beneath your jaw where Curtis’s fingers had been. He watches for asymmetry, for stridor, for anything that would tell him your airway is about to betray you.
He counts your breaths without saying it out loud.
But beneath it— something fractures.
Fear.
Raw and immediate. The kind that doesn’t belong in an environment like this; the kind that doesn’t fit inside protocol or training or years of experience.
Because this isn’t just a patient.
This is you.
“I’m right here,” he says, quieter now. Not for the room—for you. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His thumb brushes against your arm—light, careful, like he’s testing whether you’re solid. Like he needs the confirmation. The warmth of your skin, the slight tremor in your muscles, the fact that you’re still here, still responsive, still breathing.
You feel it.
That steadiness, a promise.
And God—you want to believe him.
So you do.
For now.
You let your grip tighten in his scrub top, grounding yourself in something that feels unshakeable. Something that feels like it won’t slip through your fingers the second you look away.
Because right now, he’s here.
Right now, he’s choosing to stay in front of you instead of turning back to the rest of the room. To the chaos, and the responsibilities waiting for him just a few feet away.
But you know him.
You know the way his mind works—how it pulls him in a dozen directions at once, how duty always wins, how he gives and gives until there’s nothing left of him to give at all.
You know this moment—
This closeness.
It isn’t something he knows how to keep.
Your throat tightens, not from the injury this time, but from something quieter. Something that settles in your chest and lingers there.
Because when he says it—
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s not a lie.
Not exactly.
It’s just… temporary, and maybe that’s worse.
In the room, Curtis lets out a muffled groan, restrained now, the medication finally taking hold. Monitors continue their steady rhythm. Perlah’s voice carries softly as she reassures Emma.
Life moves— the ER doesn’t stop, and neither does he.
But still, his hand doesn’t leave your arm.
His eyes don’t leave your face.
Not yet.
Not while your breathing is still uneven. Not while your voice is still gone. Not while there’s even the smallest chance that something could go wrong.
You swallow, wincing slightly as your throat protests, your voice coming out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Michael…”
It’s enough.
He leans in just slightly, close enough that you don’t have to strain. Close enough that you don’t feel like you’re losing him just yet.
“I’m here,” he answers immediately.
And for a fleeting, fragile moment—
You are.
Still breathing, and still his to worry about.
CENTRAL 14 — DAY
It takes a moment.
Longer than you’d like to admit.
Your breathing is still uneven, throat raw, every swallow a quiet sting. The world feels a half-second behind itself, like you’re catching up to something that already almost happened.
Robby doesn’t rush you.
His hand stays steady at your elbow as you push yourself upright, your legs unsteady for a moment before they remember how to hold you.
“Easy,” he murmurs—low, meant just for you.
You nod, even if it’s more instinct than certainty.
He watches you for one more second—long enough to be sure you won’t drop—before he turns back toward the room, slipping seamlessly back into command.
“Okay, are we all good in here?”
Ahmad is already at the bedside with the others, Curtis fully restrained now, still groaning under the weight of the sedative.
“Oh, yeah, boss, we got this.”
Robby gives a short nod, but his eyes flick once more to you—quick, checking—before he guides you out into the hallway.
The noise hits differently out here.
Quieter and controlled. But your ears are still ringing faintly, your body still riding the tail end of adrenaline.
Emma stands near the wall with Dana, shaken but upright.
Robby steps in front of her immediately. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Emma exhales shakily. “Uh, I think so.”
“Okay, good. Come.”
He gestures subtly, guiding all three of you a few steps away from the room—out of the direct line of sight.
Space to think.
“So what exactly happened?” he asks, voice steady again—but tighter now, threaded with something restrained.
Dana answers without hesitation. “He grabbed Emma and put her in a chokehold. Ducky managed to get her out. Then he tackled Ducky to the ground and put his hands around her neck. I ran in and gave him a shot.”
Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, “Right. And did he slip before or after the shot?”
“Before.”
Emma nods, still trying to piece it together. “Yeah, he had me in a headlock, then I called out for help. I didn’t see what happened.”
Silence falls.
You’re there—but not fully.
Your eyes blink slowly, like your body is recalibrating. Your throat aches with every breath, voice caught somewhere you can’t quite reach yet. The skin around your neck is already darkening, the imprint of fingers beginning to surface.
Robby looks at you.
Just for a second.
But it lingers, then he turns back to Dana. “What did you give him?”
“Four milligrams of Versed.”
“Who wrote the order?”
“I had it in my pocket. I was on my way to waste it when shit went sideways.”
Robby gives her a look—sharp, assessing.
Dana meets it immediately. “What?”
He exhales, tension threading through his posture. “Okay, so now he’s altered from alcohol, Versed, and a head trauma. Now he’s gonna need a head CT to rule out intracranial bleeding and a fracture.”
Dana’s expression hardens, disbelief flashing across her face. “Would you rather it be Emma with a head injury or Ducky with something worse?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away.
The question hangs there—heavy, unfair, and completely real.
He meets her gaze.
And for a second, it’s not just about protocol.
It’s about you.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dana cuts in before he can respond. “We got this.”
Robby shakes his head. “No, there’s no we here. You need to pass this patient off and report him.”
“Fine.” Dana turns, decisive. “Emma and Ducky, you’re done with this bastard. I’ll handle him now.”
“No, no,” Robby steps in, voice firm now, unmistakably in charge. “This is my emergency department, and I’m telling you to pass it off.”
Dana stiffens immediately. “These are my nurses, and I choose what cases they work, and if you think for one minute I’m putting anyone else from my staff at risk with that asshole, you better give your fucking head a shake.”
Robby lifts his hands slightly—not backing down, but not escalating. A measured pause.
Before anything else can be said, Dana turns sharply, already moving you and Emma along. “Come on. Come on.”
You go, more because your body follows than because your mind does.
As you pass, Samira steps in, catching the tail end of the exchange. Her eyes flick over you—taking in your face, your neck, the way you’re holding yourself.
She gives you a small, reassuring smile before turning to Robby, “MVA coming in.”
Robby nods automatically. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Thank you.”
Just like that, he’s pulled away.
You feel it before you even look. That shift— the invisible line where you stop being the center of his attention and become something he has to trust is stable enough to leave behind.
Behind you, he lifts a hand to his temple, pressing briefly—frustration, stress, too many variables stacking at once.
You swallow carefully, wincing at the burn in your throat, your fingers brushing lightly over the bruising that’s beginning to set in.
You’re still standing and breathing.
But the imprint of it— of his hands around your throat, of Robby’s voice grounding you, of the way he looked at you like you almost—
It lingers.
And even as you’re led away—
A part of you stays.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The ambulance bay doors slide open with force.
Javadi and Whitaker push a gurney in fast—too fast for anything routine. The patient’s chest heaves violently, each breath a fight, a wet, rattling sound that carries even over the noise of the department.
“Drive-in with severe respiratory distress,” Javadi calls out.
“Left-sided dialysis shunt,” Whitaker adds, already moving to reposition the oxygen. “Probable renal failure and fluid overload.”
The smell hits next—uremia, faint but unmistakable.
Robby is there in seconds, slipping into place like he never left the floor. “Have respiratory set up BiPAP.”
“When was his last dialysis?” Al-Hashimi asks, already checking access.
“It was supposed to be yesterday morning,” Mason answers.
Langdon doesn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna need a nitro drip ASAP.”
And just like that, he lets it go—trusting the team, moving on.
Because he has to.
You’re standing near Central, beside Emma, your back lightly pressed against the counter.
Your throat still burns.
Every swallow reminds you. Every breath feels just a little too deliberate. You haven’t said much—haven’t trusted your voice enough to try.
Emma shifts beside you, quieter than usual.
Robby approaches Dana. “Is that the guy who attacked Ducky and Emma? Is he going to CT?”
“Yeah,” Dana answers, clipped. “Ms. Emma and Ducky here needs an H&P.”
Robby nods once, already turning. “Uh, Cassie, can you give Emma here a workup? I’ll do one for Ducky.”
Your head lifts at that.
“You really don’t have to—” you start, voice rough, barely holding.
“Start a chart,” Dana cuts in. “Victim of assault.”
McKay looks up. “Really?”
“I’m fine,” Emma insists, almost reflexive.
Dana doesn’t budge. “He was choking both of you.”
Emma shakes her head slightly. “He had me by the head mostly.”
“You’re both patients now,” Dana says firmly. “Full examine in South 18, McKay, and then Central 9 for Ducky. You both need to make a statement to the police.”
Your stomach twists.
“But we need the beds,” you push, quieter this time, but still there—still thinking like staff, like someone who doesn’t get to stop.
Dana’s look is sharp. Unyielding.
It’s enough.
You exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “Just do mine quickly. We’re understaffed as is.”
“Is that really necessary?” Emma asks, glancing between all of you.
“Yeah,” Robby answers.
“Absolutely,” Dana adds. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there with you.”
“Come on,” McKay says gently, guiding Emma away. “Let’s get you a spot.”
Emma hesitates—but goes.
You stay.
Of course you do.
“Well, your guy just bumped my guy for CT,” Robby says, tension creeping back in.
“Now he’s my guy?” Dana shoots back.
“Duke’s gonna chew me a new one ‘cause he’s been sitting here forever, and I’m never gonna get out of here.”
“Tell it to someone who cares.”
Robby exhales sharply. “You know what? You should care, because if you gave that guy a serious injury with force inflicted from a sedative you are not licensed to prescribe—”
“Anyone else uses force to stop an assault, they’re a hero,” Dana cuts in, anger flaring. “But a nurse does it, and we’re punished.”
“You just happened to have a vial of Versed in your pocket?”
“It was extra from the medics. Good timing, I guess.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “When we waste a controlled substance, we need a witness to sign off.”
“I was on my way to when I spotted that asshole attacking Ducky,” Dana snaps. “Anything else, Nancy Drew?”
A beat.
“Where you going?” Robby asks.
“Taking a pee,” she fires back, already turning away. “Do I need your permission to do that, too, now?”
She’s gone before he can answer.
The tension lingers in the space she leaves behind.
Robby stands there for a second, shoulders tight, the weight of too many things pressing in at once.
Across from him—
You.
Still quiet.
Still trying to hold yourself together like nothing happened.
His gaze finds you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.
Because now there’s no mess between you.
No immediate crisis to hide behind.
Just the aftermath.
And the fact that you’re supposed to walk away from it like it’s just another shift.
CENTRAL 9 — DAY
The room is quieter than the rest of the department. Not silent—never silent—but contained. The steady hum of overhead lights. The distant rhythm of monitors bleeding in from the hallway. Controlled.
Robby moves through the exam with practiced precision.
“Any dizziness?”
“A little.”
“Vision changes?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“Just… pressure.”
Your voice is rough, each word scraped out carefully, like your throat hasn’t decided if it’s safe to cooperate yet.
He notes it. Of course he does.
He checks your pupils—equal, reactive. Fingers light as he follows the line of your jaw, your neck. The bruising is more defined now, mottled beneath the skin, fingerprints beginning to surface in a pattern that makes something in his chest tighten again.
“Swallow for me.”
You do.
You wince.
His eyes flick up instantly. He hears it more than sees it.
“Any trouble breathing now?”
“No.”
“Any hoarseness before this?”
You almost laugh at that—if it didn’t hurt. “No.”
He exhales quietly through his nose, already building the picture in his head. Airway still patent. No immediate stridor. But he’s listening for it anyway—watching your chest, your throat, the way your voice catches.
Always watching.
You sit there, hands in your lap, shoulders slightly hunched—smaller than you usually are. Like your body hasn’t quite come back to itself yet.
He finishes noting something down.
Silence settles.
Until—
“Dana did it to protect me. To protect Emma,” you say, voice low but steady despite everything. “Don’t punish her for it.”
Robby doesn’t look up right away.
“I’m not going to,” he says finally. “But she put herself at risk.”
You swallow, ignoring the burn. “Doing this job every day puts us at risk.”
The words land heavier than they should. Because they’re true, and they’re obvious. Because they don’t change anything.
A beat passes.
“I run the ED,” he says, quieter now, the edge gone but something firmer underneath. “And you’re my friend. I’m supposed to protect you.”
The word friend sits there.
Careful. Measured. Not wrong—but not everything, either.
You meet his gaze. “I never asked you to. And you never asked me if I even wanted you to.”
The air shifts between you—something unspoken pressing at the edges, something neither of you quite names.
You look away first.
“Besides,” you add, softer now, the thought slipping out before you can stop it, “it’s my fault. I should’ve—”
Robby moves before you can finish.
His hand closes around yours—firm, grounding, stopping the spiral where it starts.
“Don’t even start with that.”
“But—”
His other hand comes up, sliding behind your neck—not rough, not forceful, but steady enough that you can’t avoid him. Not after everything that just happened.
“Don’t.”
Your breath catches.
Not from pain this time.
From proximity.
From the way he’s looking at you—like he’s trying to anchor you in place, like if he lets go for even a second you’ll drift somewhere he can’t follow.
You don’t argue. Not because you agree, but because you’re tired.
So tired.
It settles into your bones, into the space between your ribs. The kind of exhaustion that makes everything feel distant—arguments, anger, even fear.
You don’t have the energy to fight him.
Or yourself.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
Because somewhere deep down, beneath the logic and the training and everything you know—
You would follow him.
Anywhere.
Even if it breaks you; even if he doesn’t know how to stay.
Your fingers tighten slightly in his.
You don’t pull away.
He studies your face for a second longer, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.
Or something he’s not ready to hear.
“Are we good for that talk later?” he asks.
Careful again, like he’s testing the ground.
Your eyes lift to his, “Be here later.”
It’s quiet.
Not a demand or quite a plea.
But close enough.
Something flickers across his expression—too quick to name.
“We made a pinky promise,” he says, softer now, trying—just a little—to pull you both back from the edge. “You know I take those seriously.”
You want to believe him.
God, you want to.
So you nod.
“Okay.”
And for now—
That’s enough.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
Robby steps into Trauma One for a quick check on the father and son—voices low, controlled, reassuring in that way he’s practiced into second nature. You don’t follow. You peel off toward Central instead, slipping back into motion because standing still feels worse.
Your throat aches when you swallow.
You ignore it as best you can. There are charts to update. Labs to chase. A rhythm to fall back into before your body remembers too much.
Robby exits Trauma One a minute later, pressing his palm into the automatic sanitizer mounted on the wall. He rubs his hands together thoroughly—longer than necessary, like he’s buying himself a second to reset.
That’s when he spots Dana.
She’s already mid-stride, stepping back into the chaos, voice sharp but controlled as she says to Monica, “All right, sister. How can I help uncluster this clusterfuck?”
Monica doesn’t even look up, already grabbing the red phone. “PTMC emergency, what do you got?”
Dana snatches up a clipboard, scanning it fast—back in it, like nothing cracked open minutes ago.
Robby approaches, still rubbing sanitizer into his hands.
“You ready to finish our conversation?”
Dana doesn’t look at him. “We talked, okay? Now I got an ED to run.”
“Please.”
There’s something in his voice—not loud, not forceful—but enough.
He steps off to the side, then Dana exhales sharply and follows.
“Okay.”
“Talk to me.”
She sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Tired of this shit.”
“Okay.”
“That’s the second time that Emma was attacked by a patient today. Not to mention Ducky almost—”
She cuts herself off.
Robby nods once, grounding. “Okay.”
“ICE took one of my nurses,” she continues, anger threading through every word now, “and these cyber-assholes have thrown us back into 1999.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Well, I’m worried about you. You are not yourself today.”
Dana lets out a dry scoff. “That makes two of us, then.”
Robby studies her. Not pushing yet—but close. “Do you have something you want to say? Go ahead. I can take it.”
She doesn’t hesitate this time.
“All right, then yeah. Sometimes it’s like you’re just tempting death ‘cause you don’t give a shit anymore.”
Robby’s brow furrows. “So this is about the motorcycle?”
“It’s not just about the motorcycle,” she snaps. “It’s about the whole damn thing. Robby, you’re actually telling people that you’re going to a place called Smash My Head In.”
“Close, not quite. That’s not—”
“Robby—”
You don’t mean to interrupt.
But your body moves before you think.
“Robby, your buddy Duke is insisting on leaving, and that MVA is here.”
Your voice is still rough, quieter than usual—but urgent enough.
He turns immediately. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
And just like that—
He’s pulled away again.
He goes without another word, already shifting gears, already moving toward the next patient.
Dana stays behind.
Her hand comes up, pressing flat against the wall for a second—frustration, exhaustion, everything she didn’t get to finish saying.
“Who’s open?” Samira calls out, stepping into the flow.
“Uh, South 15,” Monica answers, still on the phone, juggling three things at once.
The ambulance doors open again.
“Seventy-eight-year-old woman,” Medic Lidel reports as they roll the gurney in. “Very low speed auto versus pedestrian with ground-level fall. Bruising on her left hip. No head trauma.”
“Her husband, Eddie, came along,” Medic Bosco adds.
Robby is already there to meet them. “Hi. How do you do, sir? I’m Dr. Robby. Come with us—we’re gonna get you set up right over here.”
His voice is steady again, like nothing ever rattles him.
You watch him guide them toward the room, his hand briefly hovering at the patient’s shoulder, directing, anchoring.
He doesn’t look back.
Not this time.
Behind you, Dana finally pushes off the wall, composing herself, picking the pieces back up because there isn’t another option.
And you—
You stand there for a second longer than you should.
Your fingers brush lightly against your throat, wincing at the tenderness blooming under your skin.
Then you move again.
Because that’s what you do. Even when your body hasn’t caught up. Even when part of you is still in Central 14, trying to breathe.
SOUTH 18 — DAY
You step in beside Dana just as McKay finishes up with Emma.
“Okay, let it out. Same again. Deep breath in. Great. All done.”
Emma exhales, shoulders dropping, the tension easing out of her little by little.
“How’s she doing?” Dana asks.
“Pulse ox 100%, normal exam. No evidence of injury.”
“Great.”
Emma gives a small shrug, trying to brush it off. “I got way worse from my older brothers.”
Dana huffs, just barely amused. “I bet.”
“All right, I’ll go, uh, write up her chart.” McKay slips out, already moving on to the next task.
For a moment, it’s just the three of you.
Dana looks between you and Emma, her expression softening in a way it doesn’t out on the floor. “How about we call it a day?”
“My shift isn’t over,” Emma says immediately.
You shake your head, your voice still rough but steady. “I promised Lena I would stay and help you. I’m not going.”
Dana exhales, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This was a shift and a half for anyone today, believe me.”
Emma lifts her chin slightly. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather stay. I’m not a quitter.”
Dana nods, conceding. “Okay, Ms. Emma, good for you. But stick close to Donnie for the rest of the day, would you?”
“Sure.”
“And you also need to make a statement to the police,” Dana adds, more serious now. “If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no one else will. We’re here to help, not to be punching bags.”
Emma’s voice softens. “Thank you for saving me.”
Dana’s answer is immediate. “I got you, girl.”
You watch Emma leave—watch the way she straightens her shoulders before stepping back into the department, like nothing happened.
Dana turns to you then, gentler.
“Are you sure?” she asks, pulling you slightly aside. “With everything that’s happened? You don’t want to go home yet?”
Your fingers brush absentmindedly against your neck.
“If I leave…” you start, quieter now, “I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyways. Not easily.”
You swallow, ignoring the sting.
“Besides, I still need to give a statement to the police. Robby and I are gonna talk after—before he leaves for his trip. So… might as well be useful while I’m here.”
Dana’s expression shifts—soft, almost pained.
“I’ll be okay,” you add. “I always end up just fine.”
The question slips out before you can stop it.
“Why is it,” you say, voice low, thoughtful, “that when we step in and take a risk to protect someone, it gets second-guessed… but when a man does the same thing, he’s called a hero?”
Dana doesn’t answer right away.
She looks at you—really looks this time. At the bruising on your neck. At the way your shoulders are still slightly drawn in. At the fact that you’re standing here asking that instead of sitting down somewhere, shaking.
Her jaw tightens.
“Because they expect you to survive it quietly,” she says finally. “And him to be applauded for it.”
Her voice lowers—not softer, just steadier. “And I’m not interested in playing along with that.”
Her hand comes up, squeezing your shoulder—firm, deliberate.
“Not with you.”
Then she steps back.
And just like that—she’s gone again.
“Hoy…” (Hey…) Perlah’s voice is softer than usual as she steps in beside you.
Princess follows, hovering close, her eyes scanning your face, your neck, the way you’re holding yourself.
“Okay ka lang?” (Are you okay?) Perlah asks quietly.
You nod too quickly. “Oo… okay lang.” (Yeah… I’m okay.)
Princess tilts her head, not convinced. “Sigurado ka? Ang lala nun kanina.” (Are you sure? That was really bad earlier.)
You let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Kaya pa.” (I can still handle it.)
A pause.
Then Princess, softer—careful. “Hindi kita masisisi kung gusto mong mag-transfer sa New York after… all of this.” (I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to transfer after all this.)
That almost breaks you.
Your throat tightens, not from the bruising this time.
You look away, blinking slowly.
“Grabe naman kayo,” you mumble, trying to deflect. “Hindi pa ako aalis.” (You guys are too much. I’m not leaving yet.)
Perlah nudges you gently. “Hindi namin sinasabing umalis ka. Pero… you don’t always have to prove something.” (We’re not saying you should leave. But… you don’t always have to prove something.)
You don’t answer right away.
Because you don’t even know what you’d be proving.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself.
“Okay lang ako,” you repeat, quieter now. (I’m okay.)
Princess reaches out, squeezing your arm. “Andito lang kami, ha.” (We’re right here for you, okay.)
You nod.
That part—
That, at least, you believe.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The department hums at full volume again. The kind you’ve learned to move through without thinking—until today makes everything feel just a little louder.
“Something wrong?” Dorion asks, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
Santos barely looks up from her chart. “That depends. Are you a four-month-old with severe diaper rash?”
Dorion blinks. “No, I’m Dorion Cole, and I’m pretty sure that I broke my collarbone.”
Santos nods once, already half-moving. “Okay, we can help with that. I’ll be back.”
“Wait, wait—are you serious?” he calls after her. “Can I at least get something for my pain?”
“Sure. Sit tight.”
He scoffs under his breath. “This place sucks.”
Santos doesn’t miss a beat. “Tell me about it. Try working here.”
Robby passes behind her, catching the exchange. “Boy, you’re really working hard to boost those patient satisfaction scores.”
Santos exhales, rubbing her temple. “The chart for Central 7 doesn’t match the patient that’s in there.”
“Hang in there,” Robby says. “We’re almost over this.”
“I was over this six hours ago.”
Dana steps into the space, scanning the overcrowded waiting area beyond. “Chairs is looking like Mullaney’s on St. Paddy’s Day. They’re gonna break through the doors like zombies…”
Your hands move automatically over the counter in front of you—sorting labs, stacking charts, flipping through paperwork that blurs just slightly if you look at it too long.
“Incoming,” someone calls.
“If we don’t start moving more of the meat back there—” Dana mutters, already pivoting.
You don’t finish listening.
Because Robby’s right there. Close enough that you catch the faint scent of sanitizer again as he reaches across the counter in front of you, pulling a pair of gloves from the box. His sleeve brushes near your hand—barely there—but you feel it anyway.
Then—
The ambulance doors open.
“Dante Casella, 34,” Medic Nash reports as they roll the gurney in fast. “Blunt trauma from a fireworks explosion in a storage unit. A and O, good vitals, large scalp laceration and bruising to the chest. No meds or allergies.”
“Partial or full thickness burns?” Santos asks, already moving alongside.
“No burns. The blast launched him into a rolled-down garage door frame.”
Robby steps in immediately. “I’m Dr. Robby. This is Dr. Santos.”
“What? I can’t hear you!”
“Try the other side.”
Santos leans in. “I’m Dr. Santos. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah—Dante. Lot of ringing.”
Tinnitus. Blast exposure. You clock it automatically, your brain still working even as your body feels just half a step behind.
They move him fast—straight toward Trauma Two.
“Hey, McKay, Joy, you’re with us!” Robby calls out over his shoulder.
Both nurses drop what they’re doing, clipboards set aside as they follow without hesitation.
The doors swing shut behind them.
And just like that— they’re gone.
Pulled into another crisis. Another room you don’t follow into. You stay where you are, hands still on the counter.
Papers in front of you that you’re not really seeing. Your throat aches again when you swallow. Your body feels heavier now that the adrenaline has nowhere to go.
Perlah’s hand lands gently on your elbow.
“I got this one,” she says, voice low, steady.
Then, softer—
“Magpahinga ka muna ng onti.” (Rest for a bit.)
You almost protest. It sits right there on your tongue—automatic, reflexive.
But nothing comes out.
You just stand there, caught between staying and stepping back, between who you’re supposed to be in this space and what your body is quietly asking for. And for a second, you let yourself feel it.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
You’re back at the front of the counter.
Back where your hands know what to do—even if the rest of you is still catching up.
You cross-check lab results against patient charts, flag a pending CT that’s been sitting too long. Your pen moves across paper in quick, practiced strokes—notations, times, initials. You answer a quick question from a nurse passing by, redirect a transport request, restock a half-empty tray without thinking.
It’s easier this way—when your hands stay busy enough that your mind doesn’t wander back to Central 14.
“Um, hey,” Mel says, glancing over at Samira. “Where’d you learn that shoe trick?”
Samira looks up from her chart. “Oh, I did a clerkship at NJMS senior care. One of the attendings always said you can learn a lot about your patients just by looking at their feet.”
Mel smiles, amused, then reaches over and dings the service bell.
Dana appears almost immediately, like she’s been summoned by instinct alone. She grabs the clipboards, scans them quickly, then hands them off to you.
“Bravo, ladies,” she says. “Now on to the next lucky customers.”
You take them without hesitation, already flipping through the pages.
“Probably gonna have to stay late to catch up on all these patients,” Samira mutters.
“Night-shift reinforcements will be here soon,” Dana replies. “We’re supposed to be speeding up in the eleventh hour, not slowing down. They don’t call it the final sprint for nothing. Chop-chop.”
Samira and Mel peel off, both of them giving you a small, sympathetic smile as they pass.
You don’t comment on it, you just keep working.
McKay steps up beside the counter, glancing toward Behavioral One. “Is that the, uh, mom of the heatstroke?”
“Yeah,” Al-Hashimi answers.
McKay hesitates. “Do you believe it was just an accident?”
Al-Hashimi doesn’t look up. “Does it matter?”
McKay exhales slowly. “As a doctor, no. But as a mom…”
Al-Hashimi’s voice softens just a fraction. “Sometimes I can’t tell if motherhood has made me more understanding or more judgmental.”
The words hang there.
You don’t mean to speak.
But you do.
“Two things can be true at the same time,” you say quietly, eyes still on the chart in front of you. “It’s not mutually exclusive.”
They both glance at you.
You don’t look up.
You just underline a lab value, flip the page, keep going.
“Dana, got a couple visitors.” Princess leans over the counter, two people lingering uncertainly behind her.
A man steps forward first. “Uh, my—my brother. There was an explosion.”
A woman follows. “Hi. My mom was in a car accident.”
Dana nods once, already shifting gears. “Uh, okay. Monica, can you help these fine folks find their loved ones?”
“Yeah,” Monica answers, stepping in.
Dana turns back to Princess, narrowing her eyes slightly. “And, Princess, what are you still doing here? Don’t you got some crazy luau pig roast barbecue thing to get to?”
Princess snorts. “It’s lechón, but, yes, I do. I’m gonna sneak out in a few.”
“Okay, yeah, yeah,” Dana waves her off. “Go have some fun for both of us, all right?”
“Don’t stay too late.”
“Okay.”
Princess lingers for a second longer—just enough to look at you.
“Ikaw rin ha?” (You too, okay?)
You wave her off lightly, not looking up from the chart you’re updating. “Bigyan mo na lang ako ng tira bukas.” (Just save me some leftovers tomorrow.)
She huffs a quiet laugh.
But she doesn’t miss the way you don’t meet her eyes.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The shift keeps folding in on itself. You’re back at the counter, halfway through updating a chart when movement catches your eye—Robby cutting across the floor toward Central 11.
Duke.
Of course.
He slows just enough to reach the doorway, already half-turned like he’s about to step in—
“Hey, Robby.” Santos intercepts him before he can. “Our scalp victim is back from CT. They’re prepping him now.”
Robby’s head snaps toward her, calculation replacing everything else in an instant. “Shit. Uh, okay. I’m coming. Um—”
He lifts a hand toward Central 11—just a second, a promise without words. Inside, Duke exhales, frustration written all over him even from where you’re standing.
Robby doesn’t get to go in.
He turns back to Santos. They fall into step side by side, already moving toward Trauma Two.
“Is your friend doing okay?” Santos asks.
“He’s on my flight risk radar,” Robby answers, distracted, already thinking three steps ahead.
Santos nods, then— “Oh, and Dana put McKay on the guy who attacked Ducky and the new nurse. Are they okay?”
You don’t look up.
But you hear it.
“Physically, yes,” Robby says.
Physically— the word lingers longer than it should.
“I heard you had a little chat with Langdon earlier.”
“Yeah,” Santos shrugs. “Water under the bridge.”
Robby glances at her. “You have to figure out a way of working with him now that he’s back.”
“Or until he relapses.”
There’s no bite in it—just honesty. Tired, blunt honesty.
“You’re becoming a very good doctor,” Robby says, quieter now, but firm. “Don’t let old conflicts get in the way.”
They’re almost at Trauma Two.
“Speaking of which,” he adds, “I want you and everybody else to see the trauma counselor while I’m gone, yes?”
“Yes,” Santos answers.
Robby nods once, then—almost like he’s trying to keep things normal, like the day hasn’t cracked open in a dozen places—
“And I asked Whitaker to house-sit for me while I’m gone. I figured that would distract from the whole farmer’s widow thing.”
Santos blinks. “Wait—what?”
“Bring in the mail, water the plants—cool?”
She lets out a small breath. “Cool. Yeah. Fine.”
They disappear into Trauma Two, the doors swinging shut behind them.
You stand there at the counter, pen hovering just slightly above the page before you realize you’ve stopped writing.
You swallow, your throat still tender, the motion slower than it should be, and press your pen back to the chart, forcing your hand to move again—documenting, updating, continuing. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
But your gaze drifts anyway— toward the closed doors of Trauma Two, the space he just disappeared into.
You look at Santos and wonder if she’s okay. If she’s carrying it quietly the same way you are.
If anyone asked her—not as a doctor, not as part of the team—
But as a person.
You exhale slowly, steadying yourself, then flip the page and keep working.
TRAUMA TWO — DAY
The room is bright and focused.
Dante lies on the bed, blood matted into his hair, a deep scalp laceration already irrigated and prepped. The metallic scent lingers faintly beneath antiseptic. Monitors tick steadily—heart rate elevated but stable.
Garcia leans in, inspecting the wound with practiced ease. “That looks good. You can start the repair after this one.”
“Feeling any pain, sir?” Joy asks, glancing down at Dante as she adjusts the drape.
“Uh, no pain,” Dante mutters, slightly dazed. “Just… wet.”
Santos looks up from the tray. “You already numbed him up?”
“I did.”
“1% with epi,” Garcia confirms, not looking away from the wound.
Robby steps in beside them, already gloved, eyes flicking between the monitors and the field. “CT back yet?”
“No, not yet,” Santos answers.
Garcia shakes her head lightly. “I watched the slices come up. Isolated sternal fracture. Everything else looked normal. Could send him home, but given the mechanism, should probably watch him overnight.”
She glances at Robby, a hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “And hey, if I don’t see you before you leave, don’t forget to buy me a souvenir—like a custom elk-bone-carved hunting blade.”
Robby huffs softly. “Nothing less for my favorite butcher.”
Garcia grins as she removes her gloves, “Aww. You’re gonna make a great ex-husband one day, Robinavitch.”
The room hums on—suturing instruments passed, gauze blotted, staples prepared.
But Robby drifts, just for a moment. His attention pulls—subtle, almost imperceptible—toward the glass doors.
Outside.
You, standing just beyond the threshold of Trauma Two. Not doing nothing—never nothing—but… paused. Like you’ve stepped just slightly out of the pace everyone else is still moving in.
The fluorescent lights don’t quite reach you there.
You look smaller from this distance.
Quieter.
One hand rests absentmindedly near your throat before you drop it, like you caught yourself. Your posture is composed, professional—but there’s something in the stillness that doesn’t belong to the version of you that keeps up with everything.
The strongest people don’t usually stop.
You did.
And that unsettles him more than anything that happened in the room.
Robby’s jaw tightens just slightly, something unreadable passing over his expression.
He shouldn’t be looking.
There’s a patient on the bed. A procedure underway. A dozen things demanding his attention.
But his gaze lingers a fraction too long.
Like he’s making sure—
You’re still there.
Still upright.
Still—
Okay.
His voice drops under his breath, almost lost beneath the quiet clatter of instruments.
“I hope not.”
It sounds like he’s answering Garcia.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
Because his eyes are still on you.
Just for a second longer, before he turns back, let the moment go, and the work pulls him under again.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The rhythm of the department presses in from all sides—phones, footsteps, clipped voices, the constant shuffle of paper and movement.
You stand beside Dana at the counter, one hand braced lightly against it as you steady yourself between tasks.
“Hospital’s got a defense attorney looking for Jesse,” Dana says, scanning a chart but clearly not seeing it. “Probably took him to an ICE detention center. Said we shouldn’t hold our breath, though.” She exhales sharply. “Whatever happened to we the people, huh?”
There’s nothing to say to that.
So you don’t.
Your gaze drifts—just for a second—and lands on Curtis being wheeled past, flanked by nurses, restraints still in place as they take him up to CT.
Your chest tightens.
Dana follows your line of sight, jaw clenching. “Anything back on that drunk son of a bitch that attacked Emma and Ducky?”
“Not yet,” Makedah answers.
“Christ’s sake.”
“I’m making a run now. I’ll ask.”
“Yeah.”
Makedah is already gone.
Langdon steps into the space, his eyes flicking between you and Dana before settling on you.
“That’s the guy who attacked you and Emma?”
You nod.
It’s easier than speaking.
“Mm-hmm,” Dana confirms.
Langdon exhales, taking it in. “That’s intense. How you two doing?”
Dana answers without hesitation. “Peachy.”
You try for something similar—but your voice comes out wrecked, scraped thin. “Wonderful.”
Langdon winces slightly, like he hears it. “Hey… you did what you had to do with that guy. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
He says it like it’s a certainty.
Like that’s how these things work.
Then he’s already walking off.
Dana mutters under her breath, “From your lips.”
A few minutes pass.
Or maybe longer.
Time bends a little out here.
Then—
“Oh!” Dana straightens slightly as someone approaches. “So the march of the walking dead night shift begins. First one in—Mateo. Ducky, give him a gold star.”
You don’t look up from the chart you’re pretending to focus on. “I have no gold stars left to give.”
Mateo stops in front of you—and then really looks at you.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “What happened to you? And what happened in here? I left you guys with a layup this morning.”
His eyes land on your neck.
You resist the urge to touch it.
“Don’t ask,” Dana cuts in.
Mateo lifts his hands slightly, backing off—but only just. “Noted.”
Then he shifts gears like everyone here does.
“Speaking of layups—what up, Dr. J?”
Javadi looks up, caught off guard. “Oh—right. That was, um… some sort of basketball player, wasn’t it?”
Dana gasps, mock-offended. “Shame on you. Only the greatest Sixer to ever play the game.”
Mateo grins. “Week one of year four of med school. You’ll be ordering me around before you know it. Gonna join the dark side when you graduate?”
“The emergency department?” Javadi asks.
“The night shift, baby,” Mateo says. “It’s wild.”
Then his gaze flicks back to you—softer this time.
“We’d like Ducky back on the night shift, too. The whole crew misses you.”
Something in your chest shifts.
You shrug lightly, keeping it casual even if it doesn’t feel that way. “Well… they’ll see me tonight. Not leaving for a few hours, so.”
Like it’s nothing.
Like you aren’t about to leave this place earlier for entirely different reasons.
Javadi fidgets slightly. “Um… I haven’t even decided what residency I’m applying for yet.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Mateo says easily. “Got lots of time.”
“Tell that to my parents,” Javadi mutters.
Before anyone can respond—
Makedah steps back in, holding out the results. “Dana, results are back on your guy.”
Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”
Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”
The paper snaps lightly between her fingers as she pulls it in, eyes scanning fast—too fast at first, then slowing, locking in.
You see it happen.
Not the words on the page—but the shift.
Her posture stiffens. Her jaw sets. Something sharp and controlled flickers across her face, then settles into something darker. Heavier.
Dana doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t explain; she just turns. And starts walking—fast, purposeful, cutting straight through the current of the department like she’s already decided what comes next.
Toward Central 14.
You track her movement without meaning to, your chest tightening just a fraction as she disappears down the hall.
CENTRAL 11 — DAY
The room feels smaller than it should. Not because of the space—but because of the waiting. Duke sits upright on the bed, one leg bouncing faintly with restless energy. The door swings open as Robby steps in.
“My man, how you doing?”
Duke lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Like you better roll in a bar cart and a happy hour buffet if I’m gonna be stuck in this place much longer.”
Robby huffs, leaning lightly against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest. “This place is a traffic jam. We’re trying to merge you in, I promise.”
“That’s no traffic jam,” Duke shoots back. “That’s a twenty-car pileup.”
Robby nods once, conceding that easily. “The sooner you get out, the sooner I get out, so you know I’m not bullshitting you.”
Duke watches him for a second—really watches him. “Why are you jonesing so hard to get out and start your ride tonight?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze drops for a fraction of a second, jaw tightening just slightly.
“I’ve got a schedule,” he says finally. “I’ve got places to go. I’ve got people to see.”
It sounds rehearsed, like something he’s already told himself more than once.
He pauses—just enough for it to crack a little at the edges.
Takes a breath.
“I just have to get going.”
Duke leans back slightly, studying him. “You’re worried if you don’t leave tonight… you won’t leave at all.”
Silence.
Robby doesn’t confirm it.
Doesn’t deny it.
But the way he exhales—slow, controlled—says enough.
Duke glances around the room, then back at him. “Look, I get it. I can feel it in the air here. This place is like quicksand.”
Robby nods faintly. “Right.”
A beat.
Then Duke tilts his head, voice softer now—but sharper where it counts.
“And what about your nurse—Ducky?” he asks. “You really just gonna take off without figuring that out first?”
It hits.
Robby stills.
Just for a second.
Your name—your nickname—hanging in the space between them like something neither of them can quite ignore. There’s a flicker in his expression—something conflicted, something guarded, something he doesn’t let fully surface.
He opens his mouth—
But—
The door swings open.
“Dr. Robby?” Joy calls, breath just slightly quickened. “Uh, Dante—the fireworks guy—something’s wrong.”
Robby’s head snaps toward her immediately.
Everything else drops.
“Okay—shit. Um—” He turns back to Duke, already moving. “Do not go anywhere. You are next up. I’m gonna deliver you myself.”
Duke lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m starting to feel like a hostage in this place.”
Robby pauses just long enough to shoot back—“How do you think I feel?”
—and then he’s gone.
Pulled out the door.
Back into the current.
Leaving the question behind—
Unanswered.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The chart racks are overflowing.
Paper clipped to paper. Lab slips tucked between folders. Names, times, numbers—stacked in a way that only barely passes for organized.
You stand at the counter, pen moving steadily as you update a chart—vitals logged, meds reconciled, a note added in the margin for follow-up. Your handwriting is neat out of habit, even if your head feels anything but.
Across from you, Robby and Santos flip through the racks, scanning, pulling, cross-checking.
“Dr. Robby,” Mel calls, stepping forward with Samira at her side. “May we present?”
Robby looks up. “Yeah, what do you got?”
Then, almost as an aside, he glances at Santos. “Hey, you should probably get started crossing your T’s and dotting your I’s for night shift handoff.”
“Right,” Santos says, already backing off. Then, with a small smirk—“Well, vaya con Dios, or whatever the bikers are saying these days.”
She walks off.
Samira and Mel step in closer.
“Our elderly couple—Frida and Ed…” Samira begins.
Mel picks up smoothly. “We’re anxious about their ability to recover at home or to remain at home in general.”
Samira nods. “But a number of Mr. Cohen’s medications are on the Beers List, and they may be contributing to his deteriorating health.”
Robby’s brows lift slightly. “May be?”
“We can’t be certain,” Samira clarifies. “But none of them are critical meds. We could have him stop them right now, follow up with his PCP, see how he’s doing in a few weeks.”
Robby considers it for a little while, then nods. “Run it by the family. Sometimes just affirming a patient’s… independence, autonomy can do a world of good.”
Mel nods, already stepping back.
You don’t look up—but you hear everything.
You always do.
Mel moves off to the side, waiting.
Samira turns to follow—
“Um, hey—Dr. Mohan.”
Robby catches her just before she can leave.
She pauses.
“I heard a rumor that you were looking for an elective,” he says. “Consider geriatrics. It’s as much of an art as a science. There’s usually an opening, and you seem to have a… predisposition to the pace.”
A beat.
Samira blinks.
Doesn’t answer.
Just nods once—small, polite—and turns back toward Mel.
They walk off together.
Your pen stills for a second, then resumes. But your eye twitches slightly—subtle, quick, gone just as fast.
You glance up at Robby, muttering under your breath, “Congrats, you just lost one of your best residents.”
Robby exhales, shaking his head faintly—like he’s already second-guessing it.
Then his eyes land on you and linger.
Just long enough to register— you’re still here. Still pushing through like nothing happened.
“Hey,” he says, voice a touch softer now, grounding back into the moment. “Have you seen Dana?”
You shift your attention back to the chart, flipping the page like it matters more than it does. “I think she went out for a smoke.”
AMBULANCE BAY — DAY
The air outside feels different.
Not calmer—sirens still wail somewhere in the distance, the low hum of engines idling, stretcher wheels rattling over concrete—but it’s wider. Less contained. Like everything inside the ED spills out here and lingers.
Robby steps out, pushing through the sliding doors, eyes already searching.
He finds Dana near the wall, arms crossed, posture tight.
“You ever gonna tell me what really happened in there?”
Dana doesn’t look at him right away. “In where?”
Robby doesn’t let it slide. “You could lose your nursing license.” His voice sharpens, controlled but edged. “Let me guess—that vial of Versed in your pocket, you drew that up for Doug Driscoll in case he ever came back, and now you’ve just been carrying it around ever since.”
Dana turns then, meeting him head-on. “I did exactly what I needed to,” she says, steady, unflinching. “And now two young nurses get to go home in one piece because of me. McKay can sign the Versed order for me if you won’t.”
“I will sign the order!” Robby snaps, frustration breaking through. “I will sign an extra order so you can have one when I’m gone. That’s hardly the point.”
His hands come up, gesturing, pacing a half-step forward.
“It’s not exactly like I’m against nurse safety. I’m trying to advocate for your caution—because you’re the person who’s supposed to be here keeping this running while I’m gone, not roaming the halls like a vigilante with a loaded syringe and a vendetta!”
You push through the doors just then.
You’d come out to find Dana—night shift is ready, reports need to start—but the sound of raised voices stops you short.
You don’t step forward.
You don’t step back.
You just… stay.
Close enough to hear and enough to feel it.
“It’s always ‘do as I say, not as I do’ with you, isn’t it?” Dana fires back. “What is wrong with you today?”
Robby exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, words spilling faster now. “Samira missed a triple-A. Mel and Ellis had a deposition. McKay’s treating people in the park. Ducky isn’t talking to me like we used to. Fucking Langdon—”
Your name—
It hits, quiet but sharp.
“—At some point, you and Langdon got to work this out,” Dana cuts in.
“I don’t want him here!” Robby snaps, the words louder than he probably meant.
“He made a mistake, and he paid for it.”
“Did he?” Robby shoots back. “Did he go to jail? Because I let him get away with a crime. So what does that make me?”
“Human!” Dana says, without hesitation. “Are you angry at him, or are you angry at you?”
“Somebody could have died.”
“Oh, it’s the ED,” Dana says dryly. “Somebody’s always dying.”
“Go ahead and make jokes,” Robby snaps. “Make jokes instead of acknowledging that—”
“Langdon didn’t kill anybody.”
“That we know of.”
“And he saved a lot of lives that we do know of. Our kids disappoint us sometimes.”
Robby drags both hands through his thinning hair, pacing once, like he’s trying to outrun something in his own head. “Langdon is not a kid.”
“No,” Dana agrees. “But he’s your guy, and you’re taking it personally. Langdon fucked up, and you think that makes you look bad—but it’s on him.”
Robby shakes his head, frustration bleeding into something heavier. “How am I supposed to leave this place when it’s a shit show?”
Dana scoffs. “First, you can’t stay. Now you can’t go. What is it, Robinavitch?”
“No, I’m going,” he says, quieter now—but no less strained. “I just thought I could leave it a little better when I did.”
Dana exhales, shaking her head. “Oh, don’t be such a martyr. This place is always teetering on the brink of disaster, with or without you. We do it every night, every day off.”
She steps closer—just enough to make it stick, “This place is bigger than one person. It survived without Adamson, it survived without me, and it’ll survive without you.”
Then she turns and walks back inside.
You move then, enough to make it look like you weren’t standing there the whole time.
“The night shift nurses are all here,” you say, voice steadier than it feels.
Dana pauses, her expression softening just slightly as she reaches out, patting your arm. “Thank you, Ducky.”
You nod, offering a small, almost-there smile as she disappears back into the ED.
The bay feels different now. Quieter and heavier.
Dana’s right about a lot of things. But you know that’s not what he needed to hear.
You can see it.
In the way Robby doesn’t move right away.
In the way his shoulders sit just a little lower than usual. In the way he stands there, staring at his motorcycle like it might have an answer for him.
His back is to you.
Broad. Familiar.
But something about it feels… distant. Like he’s already halfway gone—or not gone at all.
Just stuck.
You linger, longer than you should. Because this is the most human you’ve ever seen him.
Not the attending or the one everyone looks to.
Just—
Him.
Unsteady. Frayed at the edges. Trying to hold everything together and realizing he can’t. And you don’t know what to do with that.
Who are you to step in? Who are you to just… watch?
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as you think about calling his name.
You don’t.
Because some distances aren’t crossed that easily. Because whatever this is between you— It’s still something neither of you has figured out how to hold.
So you stand there, caught between staying and walking away.
Between reaching out and letting him be.
Between—
Almost.
And not quite.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The floor is shifting again.
Not calmer—just different. The kind of transition that happens when one wave of people hands off to the next without ever really stopping.
Dana stands in front of the incoming night shift nurses, voice sharp, efficient, cutting through the noise.
“Make sure discharge charts are bundled and placed in the ‘to be scanned’ bin with nursing notes, order sheets, lab, and X-ray results,” she says, already pointing toward the stacks. “Day shift needs completed T sheets on every patient and to write on the board what tests are pending so nothing falls through the cracks while we wait to come back online.”
Clipboards move, pens scratch, and people nod.
You’re still at the counter, organizing a stack of lab slips into their respective charts, double-checking patient IDs before sliding them into place.
Al-Hashimi approaches Robby, “Westbridge and Good Dominion have settled their cyber dispute.”
Robby looks up. “They paid the ransom?”
“Yeah. Our IT department is confident in our defenses, so they will be rebooting everything soon… slowly but surely.”
“Okay.” Robby nods, already thinking ahead. “So when everything comes back on, all the residents have to do is scan all the completed paper charts and digitize them into the patient’s EHRs before they go?”
Santos passes by, muttering under her breath as she peels off toward another station. “I’m never getting out of this place.”
Al-Hashimi gives Robby a small, reassuring nod. “This means you’re clear for takeoff. Nothing here we can’t handle with night shift coming in.”
Robby lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah, right. Free to go.”
It doesn’t sound like freedom.
It sounds like something he’s not sure he wants.
Movement catches his eye.
Duke.
Being wheeled toward CT.
Robby doesn’t hesitate—he steps in beside him, walking alongside the chair.
“Uh, hey,” he says, slightly out of breath from catching up. “I told you I would get you up there, and I promise I’m not leaving until you’re back and sent packing.”
Duke waves him off with a grin. “Robby, buddy, you got me to come in, got me to take my tests. You don’t got to babysit me. That’s why I have a nurse.” He glances up. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Nurse Vivi, sir.”
“That’s what I have the lovely Nurse Vivi here for.”
Robby shakes his head lightly. “This will not take very long.”
Duke snorts. “Where have I heard that before?”
They round the corner toward the elevator.
Gone.
“Hey.”
McKay steps in, catching Robby just before he disappears completely.
“So, uh… this is it, huh?”
“Uh, yeah,” Robby answers. “Don’t let the place burn down.”
McKay huffs a quiet laugh, then sobers. “You know… in a previous life, I had a lot of friends who liked to see how close the edge was… as if it was a challenge they were called to meet.”
Robby listens—but there’s a distance in his eyes now.
“Trouble is,” McKay continues, “they all inevitably found it.”
“Okay,” Robby says.
“I’m just picking up on a weird vibe from you today is all.”
“Yeah,” Robby exhales. “Well, it’s been a weird day.”
That’s one way to say it.
Across the department—
Langdon catches Joy heading toward the ambulance bay doors, her bag slung over her shoulder.
“You leaving?”
Joy pulls her stethoscope from around her neck, tucking it into her bag. “Uh, yeah. My shift is over, and I ain’t getting paid to be here. Quite literally the opposite, in fact.”
Langdon gestures around. “Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re sort of, uh, in disaster mode here still. We put in the extra time if we’re needed.”
Joy hums. “You know 62% of ED docs report suffering from burnout?”
“Painfully aware.”
She shrugs. “Mm. So maybe all you lunatics need to learn how to set some boundaries, like me.” A small wave over her shoulder. “Well, see you tomorrow, Doc.”
The doors slide open.
She’s gone.
Shen steps in at the same moment, iced coffee in hand, pausing mid-step.
“Good luck in there,” Joy tosses over her shoulder. “Sorry about the mess.”
“Mess?” Shen echoes.
Then he looks, really looks at the department. At the overflowing charts, the constant movement, and tension hanging in the air like something you can almost touch.
“…Yup.”
You catch his eye and lift a hand in a small wave.
He smiles—then freezes as his gaze drops to your neck.
The bruising.
Darkening now, and impossible to miss.
His grip on the iced coffee falters, tilting dangerously before he catches it.
“What the—”
“Incoming!” someone calls.
Everything snaps back into motion.
“Head trauma,” Medic Nguyen reports as they wheel the patient in. “Unwitnessed fall from the warehouse catwalk where he works as a security guard.”
Samira steps forward—then stops dead.
“Oh, my God,” she breathes. “Orlando.”
Her voice cracks just slightly, “He left five hours ago.”
The room shifts again.
From busy to something sharper, more personal. Because no matter what just happened, there’s always another patient.
End Notes:
:D
YAY! ABBOT COMES BACK. MY SOLDIER HAS RETURNED FROM HIS NAP YAYYYYYYYY!!!
SORRY FOR THE CHAPTER DELAY! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
YIPPE PAIN AND SUFFERING YIPPEEE :D
Okay, anyways, blacked out again while writing this. I’m catching up with the new episode and ABBOT PLS GIV ME A CHANCE
Good heavens, everything is falling apart. Oh deer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: They See Right Through, Can You See Right Through Me?
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Noelle Hastings is back, Jack Abbot x Reader if you squint, Spiraling,
Word Count: 13.1k
A/N: This one is just sad… as if this fic wasn’t sad already lol. We are in the last three episodes of Season 2! :D
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/foregut. 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: Cautionary Tale by Laufey, Will you cry? By Gracie Abrams, and The Archer by Taylor Swift
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7:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The stretcher rattles over the threshold, wheels catching for half a second before correcting—controlled chaos snapping into place around it.
Samira immediately recognizes him.
“You know this guy?” Medic Nguyen asks, already moving.
“Orlando Diaz,” Samira says, breath catching just slightly. “We were treating him for DKA when he eloped.”
Her voice is barely steady.
Robby steps in immediately, eyes already scanning—airway, breathing, circulation, mechanism.
“How far did he fall?”
“Twenty feet or so.”
Al-Hashimi moves to the other side, checking responsiveness. “Anyone see him pass out?”
“No. They went looking for him after he didn’t answer his radio.”
Javadi’s penlight flicks on, quick and precise. “Pupils equal but sluggish.”
Samira swallows. “He left against medical advice.”
The words hang there. Not blame. Just… context. History. The piece of the story that makes this worse.
“Trauma One,” someone calls.
They pivot as a unit, hands on rails. On equipment. On him. They move fast and purposefully together.
You watch as they disappear into the room—Robby, Samira, Al-Hashimi, Javadi—voices already overlapping as orders start to form before the doors even close.
The glass swings shut behind them, and just like that—they’re in it fully. Another case, another life balanced on seconds.
You stay where you are, just outside. Close enough to see through the glass—blurred movement, figures shifting, gloves snapping into place.
Samira’s posture is different in there. Tighter and personal. And you know that feeling, too well.
Your hand lifts slightly toward your throat before you stop it—letting it fall back to your side. Your breathing is stable now, mostly. But something lingers, the echo of earlier; the imprint of hands that aren’t there anymore.
You shift your weight, grounding yourself. Because there’s work to do. There’s always work to do. But for a second—just a second, you let yourself stand there watching them.
Watching him move inside that room—focused, controlled, exactly where he’s supposed to be.
While you’re still catching up to where you are.
The hour flips, but nothing really changes. If anything, the energy sharpens—like the whole department is bracing for the next wave instead of winding down. Night shift bleeds in through the ambulance bay and front doors—fresh faces, fresh scrubs, the same underlying exhaustion already waiting for them.
“Is there a card to sign for Robby?” Shen asks, glancing around as he sets his iced coffee down.
McKay doesn’t glance up from the chart she’s writing on. “No. He said no card, no presents.”
“Oh.” Shen frowns slightly. “Was there a cake?”
You let out a quiet sigh, flipping through a stack of lab results. “Oh, he didn’t want that either.”
“That sucks,” Shen mutters. “I need some cake.”
“You and me both, buddy,” you murmur, voice still a little rough, barely lifting your gaze.
You scan the labs again—electrolytes, CBC, flagged values circled in pen—then gather a few sheets together. “Dana, I’m gonna quickly go up and run these.”
Dana looks up immediately. Her eyes flick to your neck, then back to your face. There’s a hesitation there—brief, but real.
“…Alright,” she says finally, with a reluctant exhale. “Be back for rounds?”
“I’ll try.”
You nod once, then you’re moving.
Behind you, the shift keeps unfolding.
“Patient was injured when they raided a restaurant,” Santos says to Crus, voice low but fixed.
“And they actually arrested the nurse?” Henderson asks.
“With a takedown and zip ties.”
“Damn.”
“Crus, you, uh, know the computer downtime drill?” Langdon adds.
“Yeah, no biggie,” Henderson shrugs. “I prefer to treat ’em without labs and X-rays. Welcome back.”
Whitaker gestures toward the stations. “If you do have orders for labs and X-rays, clipboards go here. If it’s just nursing orders—here.”
“Please write neatly, for God’s sake,” Monica adds without peering up.
“Oh—Monica, this is Nazely, new intern.”
Monica barely glances over. “I don’t need to know that.”
Nazely smiles anyway. “So nice to meet you.”
The ambulance bay doors slide open again.
Jack steps in—backpack slung over one shoulder, already scanning the room like he’s catching up in real time.
“Looks like you and me, Jack,” Shen calls.
Jack drops his bag at the workstation, pulling out his stethoscope. “Yeah, who’s our senior?”
“Dr. Henderson.”
Jack grins. “Excellent. Night shift’s on Crus control.”
Crus shoots him a wink.
Dana leans in slightly. “You hear ICE brought us a patient?”
Jack slips the stethoscope around his neck. “Oh, yeah? How’d that go?”
Dana’s tone shifts—quieter, heavier. “There was some collateral damage. They arrested Jesse.”
Jack stills. “For what?”
“Assaulting a federal officer.”
He lets out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Dana hesitates for a second.
Jack notices immediately. His eyes narrow. “What?”
“…Ducky got hurt.”
The name lands like a strike.
Jack’s expression changes instantly—anger, sharp and protective. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”
“She’s fine,” Dana says quickly. “Just a couple of bruises—”
“Where is she?” He’s already looking, scanning the room, searching for you.
“Went to send some labs… she’ll be back in a bit.”
Across the room—
“Dr. Al-Hashimi, this is Nazely Toomarian—new intern.”
Al-Hashimi smiles, switching languages seamlessly. “So nice to meet you.”
Nazely lights up. “You speak Armenian?”
“A little. Enough to get by.”
“Okay, everybody, let’s huddle up,” Jack calls, stepping forward, pulling the room together.
People gather—loose, tired, attentive.
Dana steps in beside him. “Before we start, let me address the elephant in the room. For those of you who don’t know, Jesse tried to intervene when a federal agent was handling his patient, and both he and the patient were taken away by ICE.”
“Did he punch the guy?” Jack asks.
“No,” Al-Hashimi answers. “He put out a hand to stop him, made physical contact.”
“It was a little bit more than that,” McKay adds.
“The hospital lawyers are on the case,” Al-Hashimi continues. “And we will brief the staff every 12 hours at sign-out rounds with an official update.”
“In the meantime,” Jack says, “don’t feed the rumor mill.”
Dana nods, then continues. “You may have also heard that new grad nurse Emma here was assaulted by a patient, along with Ducky.”
Emma forces a small smile. “I—I’m fine.”
“Please don’t forget ‘code hula hoop,’” Dana says. “And with risky patients, always keep a path to the door clear.”
“Sounds like one hell of a day,” Jack mutters. “And we’re still dealing with downtime, so day shift should brief night residents about the protocol—”
The monitors flicker, various screens blink, then they come back to life.
A ripple moves through the room.
“Hey!”
“Oh—alright!”
McKay exhales, “Oh, thank God.”
Jack doesn’t celebrate.
He steps forward, pushing the whiteboard aside slightly. “Yeah, not so fast. Every chart from the last five hours needs to be scanned into the Electronic Health Record and checked for accuracy…”
“Um, whose job is that?” Mel asks.
“Day shift,” Shen answers immediately.
“With a completed and signed T-sheet,” Jack adds.
McKay groans. “Are you kidding me?”
“That’s gonna take forever,” Langdon mutters.
“We will set up stations for scanning,” Jack says. “Okay, everybody—let’s get moving.”
“Triage is twenty behind,” Donnie calls out. “Gotta help ’em clean up. I’m skipping rounds.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” Dana mutters.
Emma glances at her. “Should we join them?”
“Might as well witness the magic,” Dana says dryly. “It’s like changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.”
Emma smiles faintly. “Except we’re allowed to smile.”
Dana’s lips twitch—but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Smile though your heart is aching.” She says it lightly.
Almost joking, but as she turns—there’s a flicker of something else. Because she’s thinking of you.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
The room is already in motion, the kind you could catch the edge of it through the glass—voices overlapping, monitors constant, the kind of organized urgency that means they’ve found a rhythm.
“Plain films, right tib-fib and right forearm after CT,” Samira says, voice controlled, but there’s something tighter underneath it now.
“Got the chem-8,” Mateo answers, glancing at the printout. “Blood sugar’s 284.”
“That’s not too bad,” Robby says, already scanning the numbers. “Potassium looks good.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ellis adds. “Anion gap’s up at 14.”
“It was 24 this morning,” Javadi says, moving around the bed, efficient. “He’s definitely improving.”
“The DKA is resolving,” Ellis confirms.
Garcia glances between them, then back at Orlando. “So what made him pass out?”
Samira doesn’t hesitate—but her voice carries just a fraction more weight than before. “It’s hot as hell out there. He could have been dehydrated from sweating.” A beat. “Or he could have had an N-STEMI or a posterior CVA.”
Worst-case thinking, covering every angle.
Mateo reaches down, unlocking the gurney wheels. “Ready to roll.”
“I can babysit him at CT,” Ellis offers.
“Thank you,” Samira says, already stepping back just enough to let the transfer happen.
“I’ll stay in case he needs the OR,” Garcia adds.
They move together—hands repositioning, lines secured, monitors checked. Then Orlando is rolling out of Trauma One and up to CT.
Samira follows for a step— then stops; she lets them take him. Because she has to. The room empties quickly, and the energy shifts. Less urgent now—but not calm. Never calm.
Robby’s gaze flicks to the monitors mounted along the wall.
They’re back, systems online.
“Hey—we’re back up.”
“It’s about time,” Javadi mutters as she passes him, already moving toward her next task.
Robby steps back into Central, the noise swallowing him whole again. He moves straight to the chart racks, flipping through them quickly—papers shuffled, names scanned, something else clearly on his mind even as he works.
Perlah approaches, lowering her voice just enough, “Ooh, Robby.”
“Yeah.”
“I got intel on where ICE has taken Jesse.”
That gets his full attention.
“Intel from who?”
“Uh—my brother-in-law’s a cop.” She glances around instinctively before continuing. “So he’ll be processed at DHS Southside and then transferred to ICE detention in Clearfield.”
Robby’s head lifts. “Clearfield? That’s two hours away.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Okay,” he says, already shifting gears. “I’ll let the hospital attorneys know.”
But he doesn’t move right away; instead, his eyes scan the room. Once. Twice. Like he’s looking for something specific.
Someone.
“Uh… have you seen Ducky?”
Perlah follows his gaze, scanning the same space. The counter, the stations, and the flow of people moving in and out.
“Mmm… no?” she says slowly. “Maybe she could’ve gone home? She’s been put through enough today, so I wouldn’t blame her if she decided she wanted to go home already. Go through her emails, get some good off—”
She stops.
Too late.
Robby’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Good what?”
Perlah doesn’t answer. Doesn’t correct it. She just walks off, leaving the sentence unfinished. And something else—a secret unsaid lingering in the space between them.
Across the room, you’re not there, and for the first time, all shift—Robby feels it.
SOUTH 20 — NIGHT
Rounds move like a dependable current. A small group flows from room to room—clipboards in hand, voices low but efficient, each patient a brief stop in a much longer night.
Jack leads without fanfare, scanning, listening, absorbing. But there’s a flicker of distraction there—subtle, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. He glances once down the hall, then back to the patient in front of them.
They start anyway.
“How are you doing, Oliver?” Al-Hashimi asks as they step into South 20.
“Alive and kicking,” Oliver answers, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
“Mr. Haas,” Whitaker adds, reading off her notes. “Pulmonary edema after missed dialysis, now stable. His son Mason’s at the bedside.”
“Hello,” Mason says quietly.
“I’m Dr. Shen,” Shen replies. “I’ll be back.”
Oliver shifts slightly, gesturing toward the machine. “Dialysis tech says I’m off the machine at 10:42.”
“Hit the call light,” Shen says, already stepping back. “And I’ll come running.”
Jack nods once. “Sold to Dr. Toomarian. Moving right along.”
Dana lingers just a second longer, offering Digby a warm smile. “Get enough to eat?”
He nods.
“We’ll be back.”
South 22.
“Lillian Stegman,” McKay reads. “Tweaked her knee water-skiing.”
“Doing a 360 off a five-foot ramp,” Lillian adds, almost proudly.
Henderson grins. “Ooh, respect.”
“X-rays ordered in triage,” Mel says.
“That was hours ago,” Lillian mutters.
“Ma’am,” Henderson says, stepping forward, voice easy, confident. “I’m Dr. Crus Henderson. Let’s get you home real fast.”
“That would be wonderful,” she sighs.
“Okay,” Jack says, already turning. “Heading to North.”
“Thank you,” Lillian calls after them.
As they move out, Jack’s gaze flicks again—toward the far end of the hall. Toward where someone should have been by now. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps walking.
He pauses briefly near a table where equipment is being set up—scanners, stacks of paper charts waiting to be digitized.
“Looks like our first scanning station is almost ready,” he says. “Whitaker, Santos—after rounds, this will be your post.”
Santos groans under her breath. “Seriously?”
Whitaker glances at the pile. “For… how long?”
Jack doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Till we mop up this mess.”
A beat before he continues walking, “And away we go.”
Dana hooks an arm lightly through Emma’s as they walk.
“All right,” she says, a hint of humor returning to her voice, “now you know everything there is to know about rounds. Fascinating, right?”
Emma lets out a small, unsure laugh. “Uh… yeah.”
Dana glances at her, then smiles—something gentler, more intentional. “Here. I got something better for you.”
She turns back toward South 21.
“Digby,” she calls, stepping in again, “we’re gonna find you some new clothes, but my friend Emma and I wondered if you’d like to get cleaned up a bit first.”
“I already had a shower,” he says.
“I know,” Dana replies easily. “And you look good. But the offer also comes with a shave and a haircut, if you’re interested. No pressure—like I said, you already look great.”
Digby hesitates—then nods. “Sure… I guess.”
Dana brightens. “Fantastic.” She nudges Emma gently. “All right, kid—fill that basin with some warm water and lather him up.”
Emma moves to do it, more confident now, something consistent returning to her hands.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
The floor has settled into a different kind of motion now. Less frantic than before—but heavier. Everything that was delayed is catching up at once. Charts shuffle. Screens glow again. Voices layer over one another in a constant, low hum.
Perlah passes Medic Nguyen on her way through, offering a quick, familiar nod. “Hey—stay safe out there.”
“Back at you in here,” Nguyen replies, already moving.
Samira intercepts her before she can get far. “Hey, Cary—you were on scene with Orlando, right? Did you notice anything about his fall?”
Nguyen slows just enough. “Like what?”
Samira hesitates, choosing her words. “Like… if there was a break in the railing? Or security cameras?”
Nguyen shakes her head. “Too busy working on the guy—IV, intubation, backboard, splint.”
Samira nods, absorbing it anyway. “Thanks.”
Nguyen is gone again.
Al-Hashimi glances up at the screens as names begin to populate the system again. “Oh—two names is a start. Pretty soon we’ll retire the clipboards.”
Jack’s eyes track the updated board overhead, scanning quickly. “Baby Jane Doe in Pedes?”
“Uh, yeah,” Mel answers. “Abandoned in the waiting room bathroom at 7:30 a.m. Ducky has been taking care of her.”
There’s a brief pause.
“Safe haven drop-off?” Henderson asks.
“No,” McKay says. “She’s too old for that. At least two months.”
“I’ll take her,” Nazely offers, stepping forward.
“Awaiting foster placement by CYF,” Al-Hashimi adds.
Nazely hesitates. “What if the mom comes back?”
“Call the cops,” Santos says bluntly.
Jack doesn’t linger on it. “Day shift, get to work scanning. Night shift—the room numbers on top of the dry-erase board need a doctor.”
“Who’s in BH-1?” Shen asks as they walk to BH-1.
“Psych hold,” Al-Hashimi says as they approach. “Danger to self.”
“What’s the story?” Jack asks.
“Doctors King and Langdon were on the case.”
Langdon steps in, voice quieter now. “It’s a sad story. She says her five-year-old snuck into the back seat of the car to take a nap.”
“Heat stroke,” Mel murmurs.
“Mom was extremely distraught,” Al-Hashimi adds. “Walked out into traffic.”
No one comments; they don’t have time to, because the ambulance bay doors slide open.
“Incoming!”
The shift snaps.
“Grady Barnhill,” Medic Pozsonyi calls out as they wheel the patient in. “Wheezing and not responding to albuterol. Pulse ox 87. His mother, Naomi.”
“Ready?” Henderson says. “On my count—one, two, three.”
They transfer him.
“Does he take any other medications?” Mel asks.
“Just the albuterol. He used to be on montelukast and Symbicort.”
“Why did you stop that?” Shen asks, already reaching for the next step.
Naomi’s voice cracks slightly. “Because he lost his Medicaid two months ago.”
A flicker of something passes through the team. Then it’s gone, replaced by urgency.
“Mel—EpiPen,” Shen says.
“On it.”
“0.3 milligrams.”
“That may open his lungs so the nebs can work,” Henderson adds.
Mel steps in. “All right, Grady—shot in the thigh.”
A sharp intake of breath, then a small, strained grunt from the boy. And the room keeps moving.
NORTH NURSES STATION — NIGHT
The station is crowded—clipboards stacked, scanners humming, people talking over one another as the system comes back online and everything from the last few hours starts catching up all at once.
Nazely hovers just behind Jack as he steps up to the counter, dropping a clipboard in front of McKay. “Hey.”
McKay doesn’t stop writing, eyes flicking up briefly. “Something to scan?”
“Critical labs on North Three.”
She exhales through her nose. “Oh, it’s, uh—it’s not my patient.”
“She’s about to be.”
McKay finally pauses, pen hovering. “I’m, uh—I’m off the clock, so…”
Jack doesn’t budge. “These were ordered three hours ago from triage, so technically she is a day-shift patient.” He gestures lightly toward Nazely. “Just get the intern started. I’ve got a meeting upstairs with admin to get things back on track.”
There’s no room to argue, as he turns, already walking. Already moving on to the next task.
ELEVATOR — NIGHT
The system reboot finishes just as you drop off the last of the labs. Perfect timing, of course it is.
You step into the elevator alone, shoulders finally lowering a fraction as the doors close and the noise of the ED dulls into a distant hum.
You hit the button for the lower floor, and the car starts descending.
Your reflection stares back at you from the metal panel—drawn, tired, bruising dark against your neck where the collar of your scrubs doesn’t quite hide it.
You look away.
The elevator slows and eventually stops. The doors slide open and there he is.
Jack Abbot.
Standing right outside, one hand still half-raised like he was about to press the button.
He sees you, immediately, and everything about him stills.
Your stomach drops, because you know how you look. You don’t need a mirror for that.
So you move fast. Trying to slip past him—back into the hallway, back into the noise, back into something that doesn’t feel like being seen—
But Jack is faster.
His hand catches your arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you—and in one smooth motion, he guides you back into the elevator.
You stumble a half-step.
“Jack, it looks a lot worse than it is, I swear, I’m fine—”
“Stop.”
The word is quiet, but there’s a finality to it. He steps in after you, reaches past, and presses a button to Admin. The doors close, then the elevator moves up.
Neither of you speak, not at first. The silence stretches—thick, heavy, filled with everything you’re trying not to say.
You shift your weight, arms folding across yourself without thinking, like you can somehow make yourself smaller. Like you can make it less.
Jack doesn’t look away, not once.
The doors open to the Admin floor. Dimmer lighting, quieter, and removed. Jack steps out first, catching the door with his hand before it can close on you.
You hesitate… then step out. His hand comes to your back—gentle, steady, guiding you forward. Not pushing, just there as he leads you down the short hall and out onto the terrace. The air hits you immediately. Warm. Humid. Evening settling in with that faint blue cast before full dark.
It’s not the roof—but close enough. It’s safe. Guard rails are high —no edges to step too close to.
You walk ahead of him, stopping at the railing, your back to him as you stare out at the skyline. Lights flicker on in the distance, and cars move like slow streams of gold below.
You cross your arms, holding yourself together without meaning to.
Jack steps up beside you, leaning his forearms against the railing, turning just enough to scan you.
“You wanna tell me what happened,” he says, voice low but tight, “or should I find this son of a bitch downstairs and beat the shit out of the guy that did this to you?”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Your throat tightens—not from the bruising this time– then you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, trying to find the words.
“He got Emma in a chokehold,” you start, voice quieter than you expect. “I managed to get him off of her, but he tackled me to the ground and began—”
You stop…. Your voice catches. Then, you clear your throat, swallowing through the ache. “He began to choke me. With his hands.”
Jack’s jaw tightens visibly, something dark flashing behind his eyes—anger, sharp and immediate.
“Emma called in a code hula hoop,” you add, trying to keep it clinical, distant. “Dana ran in, got him off of me and then Robby… well. Yeah.”
The kind of silence that presses in.
“You gonna press charges?” he asks.
You shrug, but it’s small. Tired. “They took our statements, but…”
You exhale—long, heavy, like it’s been sitting in your chest all day.
“I don’t know, Jack. This guy has money. Connections. He’s a white man and rich.” Your voice flattens slightly, not bitter—just resigned. “He’ll barely get any jail time… if at all.”
A moment.
“I know how the system works.” You glance down, fingers tightening slightly against your arms. “And it doesn’t work for people like me.”
That’s the part that costs you something to say. The part that hits harder than the rest. The exhaustion creeps in right after, like a wave you can’t outrun anymore. You let out a small, broken laugh—more breath than sound, like it catches on the way out.
“And I’m so tired, Jack,” you admit, the words slipping past whatever’s left of your guard. “I’m so exhausted. With everything. All of it.”
Your voice wavers, and you hate that it does. It feels like losing control in slow motion—like your body is betraying you after you worked so hard to keep it together.
You shake your head slightly, like you can steady it, like you can pull yourself back into something more composed.
But it keeps coming.
“Just—” you swallow, your throat tight, aching, “Robby and Noelle… and I don’t even know if he’s coming back after his sabbatical. I don’t know where I stand with him, if I ever did.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“And then I hear him and Dana arguing out there like everything’s falling apart behind the scenes too. And you—” your eyes flick up to him, something raw there, “you’re out here throwing yourself into god knows what, like you don’t care what happens to you.”
Your chest rises and falls unevenly.
“Jesse gets taken by ICE for doing the right thing. And then—” your voice cracks, sharper this time, “then a patient nearly kills me on shift and we’re all just supposed to… move on from it?”
Your hands lift slightly, then fall again, like you don’t even have the energy to finish the gesture.
“I just—” you exhale, shaky, overwhelmed, “everything feels like it’s slipping. Like I can’t get a grip on anything anymore.”
Your gaze drops for a second, unfocused. “I don’t recognize this place like I used to. I don’t recognize… any of it.”
Your voice softens at the end, quieter, more fragile. “And I…”
You blink, but it’s too late. The tears come anyway—slow at first, then uniform, tracing down your cheeks before you can stop them.
You turn to him then.
Not to hide it or to fix it.
Just to be seen—it takes more effort than it should. Your shoulders shift, your arms loosening from where they’ve been braced across yourself, like even that small movement costs something. Every instinct still tells you to turn away—to minimize, to make it easier.
But you don’t.
You meet his eyes.
Hazel—secure, searching, and lit with something too sharp to ignore. Anger, maybe. Guilt. Something heavier that sits beneath both, something he doesn’t know where to put.
The city hums behind you. Warm air presses against your skin. Somewhere below, a siren cuts through the distance and fades. Up here, it’s just the two of you, and everything you’ve been holding in.
Your breath stutters slightly as you swallow, your throat still tender. Your hands fall from your arms, fingers flexing like you don’t know what to do with them now that you’re not holding yourself together so tightly.
Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than anything you’ve said all day. Not clinical or controlled. Just raw honesty.
“I can’t remember the last time I was happy.”
It doesn’t sound theatrical. It sounds like something you’ve known for a while and only just admitted out loud.
Your gaze flickers—just for a second—like you might take it back, but you don’t.
“So why do I miss it so much?”
The words nearly disappear between you.
And for a moment—
Nothing.
Jack doesn’t answer. Because he can’t.
There isn’t a version of this that can be fixed with the right words. No explanation that won’t feel thin against everything you’re carrying. He knows that the second you say it.
So he doesn’t try, he just stares at you. At the way your shoulders are still trying to stay squared. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The bruising along your neck you’ve been pretending doesn’t hurt. The way you’re holding yourself together is like it’s something expected of you.
Something shifts in his expression. The sharpness softens. Not gone—just… redirected.
Decision.
He steps forward. Slow enough that you can see it, close enough that you feel it before he even touches you. Then—his arms come around you. Firm and certain. There’s no hesitation. No distance.
A full, grounding pull that brings you against him, one hand settling at your upper back, the other wrapping around your shoulders like he’s anchoring you there—like he won’t let you slip through.
You don’t resist.
You can’t.
Not when your body has been holding itself together for hours without permission to stop. Your forehead presses lightly against his shoulder. Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, gripping like it’s the only solid thing left.
And then— it breaks.
Your breath shudders, the first quiet sob catching in your throat before it spills over. Everything you’ve been containing—every measured response, every swallowed reaction, every I’m fine—unravels in small, uneven waves.
Jack doesn’t say anything.
He just holds you.
One hand shifts, briefly cradling the back of your head—gentle, soothing—before settling again. His grip tightens just enough to remind you he’s there. Not going anywhere.
The city carries on around you—distant, indifferent. But here—it’s muffled. You breathe in, uneven, catching the faint scent of antiseptic, clean cotton, his shampoo, and light cologne. Familiar. Grounding.
And for the first time since— you let yourself feel it, the fear, anger, and exhaustion. All of it, pressed into the space between you. And he lets you. Doesn’t rush you or interrupt. Just stands there, holding you together while you come apart.
While downstairs, the man you can’t seem to stop caring about keeps moving through the ED. Even as he keeps pushing everything that does further away.
Even as he keeps pushing you.
He doesn’t let go right away.
Even after your breathing evens out. Even after the worst of it passes and your grip on his shirt loosens, your hands slipping back down like you’re suddenly aware of where you are—what you’re doing.
Jack eases back first. Not far, just enough to look at you. His hands linger for a second longer at your arms, like he’s making sure you’re steady on your feet before he lets go completely.
The space between you returns—but it feels different now. Not empty. Just… quieter and safe.
Jack exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck before dropping it.
“What happened after I left?” he asks, voice lower now, steadier—but no less intent.
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him. But because saying it out loud makes it real in a way you haven’t fully let it be yet.
Still, you know he won’t drop it.
“There was… a lot,” you admit quietly. “I had a panic attack after ICE came in and took Jesse away. I went to the stairwell.”
Jack’s jaw tightens, the muscle feathering just beneath the skin, but he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you.
You keep going.
“Robby brought me there,” you say, careful, measured. “He stayed until I could breathe again.”
A flicker passes through Jack’s expression—something quick, contained—but it’s gone just as fast.
“We—” you swallow, your throat still raw, “we said we’d talk later. After his shift.”
Jack exhales through his nose, glancing away for a moment, like he’s filing that somewhere he doesn’t quite want to examine right now.
“And you’re still here,” he says.
It’s not a question.
You shake your head lightly. “I can’t leave.”
“You should,” he says immediately, sharper now—not angry, but firm. “You got assaulted today. You almost lost consciousness. You need to go home.”
“I know,” you say, softer. “I know.”
But you don’t move, and you don’t step back. You don’t give him anything to work with.
“Dana needs help,” you add, voice quieter but steady. “Lena’s not here. Night shift’s short, and everything’s still a mess from the downtime.”
Jack stares at you again. In the way you’ve already decided. The way you’re standing there, like leaving isn’t even an option you’re willing to consider.
You don’t say the rest out loud. That leaving would feel like losing and staying is the only thing that still makes sense. That you’re not ready to sit alone with everything that happened.
The silence stretches between you again. Not uncomfortable, just full. Jack exhales, slower this time, resigned. He glances back toward the door, then at you.
“I’ve got a meeting with admin,” he says finally. “They’re already behind on getting the system fully back up.”
The words settle between you—practical, inevitable.
You nod once.
Of course he does, because the night doesn’t stop for either of you.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” he adds.
You shake your head lightly. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says.
A moment passes.
“I’m going to anyway.”
There’s that tone again. Completely certain.
You move together toward the door, the terrace giving way to the quiet hallway again. The hum of the hospital grows louder with every step—distant at first, then familiar, then all-consuming.
“I’ll still be there when you get back from your meeting,” you say, almost as an afterthought.
Jack doesn’t answer right away.
He just peers at you with that same look. Too perceptive. Like he’s trying to read everything you’re not saying.
You huff out a small breath, half a smile tugging despite everything. “I’ll be fine,” you add, softer this time. “Besides, Dana will be wondering why I wasn’t there for rounds.”
That earns the faintest shift in his expression—something closer to acceptance, even if he doesn’t like it.
You both reach the elevator.
Jack presses the down button for you without asking, stepping just slightly closer as you both wait. The overhead light casts a dull glow, reflecting faintly off the metal doors.
Jack bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. Not hard, just enough to ground you.
You lean into it without thinking, your head resting briefly against his shoulder—just for a second, just long enough to feel something firm again before pulling back.
“Love you, Jack,” you say.
It comes out simple, easy. Worn in by years of something solid and uncomplicated.
He doesn’t hesitate as he kisses your forehead.
“Love you too, kid.”
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Screens glow overhead again, the Google sheet finally populating—names replacing blank spaces, rooms filling, the chaos slowly translating back into something trackable.
You stand beside Perlah, shoulders brushing as you both work through the sheet—cross-referencing patients, updating locations, fixing what downtime scrambled.
“Digby, Haas—now on the big board,” Perlah says, looking up at the screen.
“Progress,” Dana calls from the dry-erase board.
It’s small, but it counts.
You grin at Perlah, a quick, tired spark of relief breaking through as you do a small, barely-contained bounce in place—something light, fleeting. You take the wins where you can, especially after a shift like this.
Robby’s voice cuts in from nearby, phone pressed to his ear.
“So he’s just been waiting in the hall the whole time?” A pause. His jaw tightens slightly. “Okay—well, can you maybe get to him next? Thank you.”
He hangs up, already turning to Perlah, “Duke goes to CT—and they bump him.”
Perlah exhales. “Yeah… he may end up waiting for hours over there.”
Dana glances up at the clock, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Oh, look at that. 7:15 already.”
“Just a few more loose ends to tie up,” Robby mutters, already scanning the racks again.
Dana snorts as she walks past the dry-erase board. “You got more loose ends than a macramé wall hanging. My mom had one—took up the whole goddamn wall.” She crosses her arms. “Seriously, you should think about signing out and hitting the road.”
Robby doesn’t look up. “Yeah, maybe you should too. Oh—that’s right. You sent Lena home. You planning on calling in a replacement, or are you just gonna work till sunrise?”
“If I have to.”
“Oh, so you get to go the extra mile, and the rest of us just get accused of being martyrs.”
It lands, sharp. Too sharp to pass off cleanly.
Dana scoffs, disbelief flashing across her face.
Because—what the hell was that?
Across the counter, you catch it too—the edge beneath the words, the way he tries to let it pass like it’s nothing.
“Robby.”
Samira’s voice cuts through before Dana can respond.
He clicks his tongue lightly, already stepping away. “Excuse me.”
Quickly, he turns toward her, momentum carrying him toward Trauma One. “What’s the word?”
As if he knows that if he stays a second longer, the conversation might turn into something he can’t control.
At the counter, you, Dana, and Perlah all catch it at the same time. A look passes between the three of you—brief, wordless, but loaded with everything that didn’t get said. Dana exhales through her nose, shaking her head slightly as she turns back to the board, muttering something under her breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way out.
Perlah glances after him, then back to the papers, fingers hovering over the pages for a second longer than necessary before she forces herself back into the task.
While you're still looking down the hall. At the space where he disappeared, your chest tightens just a fraction. Because it’s not just about him walking away from that conversation. It’s the way he keeps doing it, all shift.
Choosing movement over stillness. Patients over people. Work over anything that might slow him down long enough to feel what’s actually happening.
You swallow, your throat still tender, gaze dropping back to the board—but not really seeing it. Every hour he stays, every minute he finds another reason not to leave—
The worry shifts and continues to grow. Not about whether he’ll go. But whether he’ll come back. Whether this—this place, this pace, this constant pull—has already taken too much of him. If the sabbatical is something he needs or something he won’t return from.
SOUTH 21 — NIGHT
This area feels softer than the rest of the department. Robby is tied up in Trauma, so you move where you’re needed, with Dana and Emma.
Emma sits at the bedside, careful, focused, finishing the last strokes of Digby’s shave. A basin of warm water sits nearby, the faint scent of soap lingering in the air.
Digby looks… different. Cleaner, lighter. More like someone who belongs in a room with care, not just passing through it.
Dana steps in, taking one look at him and lighting up.
“Holy smoke! I thought it was Tom Cruise for a second over here,” she says, impressed. “Nice job. How’s that feel, Digby?”
“Pretty good,” he admits, touching his face like he’s still getting used to it.
“I bet.” Dana tilts her head, studying him. “What do you say we trim up those gorgeous locks of yours now?”
Digby hesitates immediately. “I don’t like having my hair cut.”
“I get it, Rapunzel,” Dana says easily, unfazed. “But you need your ears lowered. You’ll feel better with a fresh summer look that won’t go unnoticed by the ladies.”
You catch Emma’s eye and step closer, offering a small, reassuring smile. Your arm slips around her shoulders in a brief side hug. She leans into it for just a second, then straightens again.
“Maybe just a trim?” Digby offers.
Dana grins. “Great. I’m thinking a pixie cut.”
Digby’s eyes widen. “What?”
Dana laughs. “I’m kidding. I cut my husband Benji’s hair all the time. Trust me—you’re gonna look fabulous.” She reaches for a towel, draping it around his shoulders with practiced ease. “When’s the last time you had a haircut?”
She starts combing through his hair, working out the tangles gently before picking up the shears.
“Maybe my daughter’s wedding,” Digby says. “A few years ago.”
“Where?”
“St. Sebastian, Our Lady of Mount Carmel Parish.”
Dana nods as she begins trimming, small, careful snips. “Does your daughter know where you are?”
“Of course,” he says simply. “We all live in Pittsburgh. In fact, they live in my old house.”
Emma glances up. “Your daughter lives in your house?”
“Yep.”
Dana’s hands slow just slightly, but she keeps going. “Where do you live?”
Digby shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, “Wherever I want.”
Dana’s hands resume their steady rhythm, but her expression shifts—something softer, something more careful.
You, Dana, and Emma share a look. Brief and knowing, because you’ve all heard it before. Different words, same meaning. And still—Dana keeps trimming, and Emma stays close while you don’t move away. Because sometimes care looks like this, small, quiet.
Done anyway.
The last few strands fall, and Dana steps back slightly, giving Digby a once-over, head tilting as she studies her work like she’s checking symmetry, balance—something more than just hair.
“All right, Digby,” she says, satisfied. “I think you’re good to go.”
She lifts the towel, brushing away the loose hair from the back of his neck—careful, unhurried—before pulling it free from his shoulders.
Emma, still perched on the stool, reaches for the handheld mirror from the tray. “Mm-hmm,” she hums softly, turning it toward him. “Would you like to see?”
Digby hesitates for just a second before looking at his reflection. He looks, and something in his expression shifts.
“I haven’t looked like this in a long time,” he says, quieter now. Almost to himself.
Emma smiles gently. “Your family won’t recognize you.”
The words are meant to reassure, but Digby’s face tightens.
“Then how will they find me?” he asks, the worry creeping in fast. “They—they won’t know what I look like. They won’t know this is me.”
Dana steps in without missing a beat, voice steady, warm, practiced in the kind of reassurance that doesn’t feel forced.
“Of course they will,” she says. “They know your voice. They know where you hang out.” A small smile. “They even remember that you used to look like this. They remember the wedding.”
Digby’s grip on the mirror loosens slightly.
Emma leans forward just a bit, softer now. “Did you dance with your daughter at her wedding?”
A pause.
“I did.”
You step in gently, voice quiet but sure. “Then she will always remember you.”
Not how you look or what’s changed.
You.
Dana nods beside you. “Yeah.”
Digby looks between the three of you, something in his expression easing—not gone, but quieter. Less sharp.
“Okay,” he says.
And for now, it’s enough.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
The board is finally starting to make sense again.
Names line up where they’re supposed to. Rooms fill in. Orders get entered, crossed, re-entered. The hum of the department has shifted from hell to controlled overload—still messy, still relentless, but at least readable.
Robby and Al-Hashimi walk back toward Central together, steps quick, conversation already mid-thought.
“Hey, I was just looking for you,” Robby says.
“What’s up?”
“You tell me. The, uh— asthma patient.”
Al-Hashimi glances at him. “What about him?”
“You seemed like you were hesitating talking about using Aerogen,” Robby says. “I was wondering if you were having second thoughts.”
“No,” she answers evenly. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“The best treatment plan for the patient.” A beat. “And I think he’s on it. Anything else?”
Robby studies her for a second. “I don’t know. You tell me. Anything else I need to know?”
“I don’t think so.”
She doesn’t linger, she peels off, already moving toward her next task.
At the counter, you’re standing, typing steadily into the system, catching charts up now that everything’s back online. Fingers moving faster than your brain wants to, just to keep pace.
You don’t hear him at first, but you feel it. A presence at your side, then a hand, light against your back. Not pushing, just there, grounding and reaffirming.
Jack—he doesn’t say anything—just a quiet acknowledgment as he reaches past you, grabbing a chart from the rack and setting it down on the counter beside you. He starts writing, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush.
Next to you, Robby sees it, and something tight coils low in his chest before he can stop it. He looks away almost immediately, picking up the phone like he’s been meaning to all along.
“This is Dr. Robby in the ED,” he says, voice clipped into professionalism. “I’m checking on a patient—Ekins.”
“Got it,” Monica calls from the board. “We can take Larson and Stevens off the dry-erase.”
“Consider it done,” Jack says without looking up, still writing.
Robby listens on the line, pacing a step. “He’s in the scanner now? Oh—great. No, I was just calling to confirm. Thank you.”
He hangs up, then looks over to Jack.
“Any new information from upstairs?” he asks.
Jack doesn’t glance at him. “Nothing we don’t already know.”
There’s something in his tone, it’s flat, tight, not overt. But it’s there.
“Same old story, huh?” Robby mutters.
From the front of the counter, Perlah leans in slightly. “You think we should take up a collection for Jesse? For—for bail money?”
“They don’t usually set bail until after you’ve appeared in front of a judge,” Robby says.
“With the holiday,” Jack adds, still focused on the chart, “it’s not likely to happen till Monday.”
“So he’s gonna be locked up all weekend?” Langdon asks.
“That sucks,” Perlah says.
“It does suck,” Jack replies.
You glance sideways at him, brows lifting slightly.
“Say it with a little more concern, please,” you murmur. “Like you care?”
Jack’s pen pauses for half a second, then resumes.
“Dr. Langdon!” Mel calls out from Trauma Two, pushing the door open. “Grady’s worse—much worse!”
Langdon is already moving before she finishes the sentence—gone in a flash.
Jack straightens slightly. “Need an attending?”
“Uh—no, we have Shen!”
And then she’s gone too.
Robby and Jack both track the movement toward Trauma Two—the doors swinging shut behind Mel, the urgency already swallowed by the room.
Then, almost in sync, they glance at each other. A fleeting, wordless exchange passes between them—something dry, incredulous.
Right. Guess we’re not needed.
It’s subtle, gone as quickly as it comes.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
The glow from the monitors casts everything in a muted wash of blue-white light. The system is back, but the pace hasn’t let up—if anything, it’s sharper now, every delay catching up at once.
You stand off to the side, half-turned toward the workstations, chart still in your hand—but your attention drifts.
Robby crosses the floor toward Samira. She’s seated at a terminal, posture slightly hunched, eyes on the screen—but not quite there. Fingers resting on the keyboard like she’s paused mid-thought and hasn’t found her way back yet.
“It’s a good thing Dr. Conley was here,” Robby says.
“Yeah,” Samira answers.
Automatic.
“We should probably try to find him a Neuro-Critical ICU bed,” Robby continues. “We don’t want to board a patient like this.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She nods, but it’s shallow and distant.
You see it, the way her focus doesn’t quite land. The way her gaze flickers, not fully tracking. The slight delay in her responses.
Dissociation.
Your chest tightens just a little, because you recognize it. Because you’ve been there. Because you were there.
Robby doesn’t catch it. He’s already looking past her—movement pulling his attention away before the moment can register.
“Hey, Robby.”
Duke.
Being wheeled back toward Central 11 by Vivi. Robby pivots easily, the shift immediate. “Hey—how’d the scan go?”
“Fine.”
“It’s probably gonna take a little while to get the results from the radiologist.”
Duke waves that off like it doesn’t matter. “Well, that’s not a problem. Nurse Vivi and I need a little time to coordinate our schedules over the next few months.”
Robby’s brows lift slightly. “Really?”
Vivi grins. “Yeah. I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride a motorcycle, and Duke offered to teach me.”
“Well, nobody knows motorcycles like Duke,” Robby says.
“He’s giving me the health care worker discount,” Vivi adds.
Robby huffs softly. “He’s quite the gentleman. Let’s get him back to his room.”
Duke leans slightly toward Vivi as they move. “How would next Saturday be for you? Uh—maybe we could have some dinner after?”
Robby visibly rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he falls in step beside them, even lifting a hand briefly to cover one ear like he’s blocking it out.
You almost smile.
Behind you—
“Dr. Mohan,” Perlah calls, stepping in. “Lorrie Diaz is here. She wants to see her husband. She’s heading back.”
Samira blinks, like she’s snapping back into her body. “Okay—I’m on my way.”
She stands quickly, smoothing her scrubs as she moves toward the incoming woman.
“Mrs. Diaz?”
“Hi,” Lorrie says, breath a little rushed. “Did Orlando go up to his room yet?”
Samira hesitates. “No, um—”
“I brought him some dinner from Burgatory,” Lorrie continues, holding up the bag slightly. “It’s a chicken burger—no bun, just lettuce. Figured it would be better than hospital food.”
You watch it all from where you stand. The movement, the conversations, the way everyone keeps going. And underneath it—the things people don’t say. The things they carry anyway.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
The pace hasn’t let up.
If anything, it’s settled into something sharper—less frantic, more relentless. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t give you space to think too hard about anything outside of what’s in front of you.
Emma stands near the counter, bag slung over her shoulders, still a little too bright for someone who’s had a day like this. “Uh, good night, Ducky, Perlah, Monica. Good night, Dr. Robby.”
“Good night,” Robby answers without looking up, eyes still scanning the screen.
“Bye, Emma,” Perlah adds.
You step in before she can leave, pulling her into a quick hug. “Night, Emma.”
She hugs you back just as tightly—brief, but real.
Monica glances over. “You could stay to pitch in.”
Emma shakes her head, already stepping back. “Mm—Dana told me to go and get some rest before tomorrow’s shift.”
“Yeah,” Perlah says. “You had quite a day.”
Emma shrugs, that same bright smile slipping back into place like armor. “Wasn’t so bad.” She heads out, and the space she leaves behind feels noticeable.
You turn, catching Monica’s eye.
“Y’know,” you say lightly, voice sweet enough to pass, “since the systems are up, you could go home now, too.”
The smile you give her doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Tapos wag ka nang bumalik, walang kwentang gaga,” you mutter under your breath. (And don’t come back—worthless bitch.)
Monica side-eyes you and doesn’t respond. Perlah chokes on a laugh beside you, quickly ducking her head like she didn’t.
At the workstation, Robby frowns at the screen. “Why can’t I find Duke’s results?”
“Oh—new patient,” you answer. “No EHR yet.”
“I can run over to Radiology, get a printout,” Monica offers.
Robby exhales, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Thank you, Monica.”
She leaves.
Mateo steps in behind you, tapping both your shoulders lightly. “Ready to pick up a few more? Orlando’s all tucked in for now.”
He leans against the counter, easy, like he’s trying to lighten the air.
Robby pushes up from the swivel chair, turning toward him. “How’s he doing?”
“Numbers are good,” Mateo says. “CPP 22.”
Robby nods once. “Okay—so he’s got a shot at a decent outcome at least.”
“You think he has a chance?” Perlah asks.
Robby hesitates—just long enough for something to convey, “Oh, I don’t know that survival was the outcome he was hoping for.”
Perlah blinks. “What?”
Your stomach swoops, because you already know you’re not going to like where this is going.
“He told Samira he’s got a hundred thousand dollars in medical debt,” Robby continues, voice lowering but not enough, “that his life is probably—”
You stiffen.
Every muscle tightening.
You’re a second away from stepping in—from cutting him off yourself—
“Mrs. Diaz!”
Dana’s voice cuts clean through it, sharp and deliberate as she steps forward, intercepting the moment before it can go any further.
“How can we help you?”
Lorrie Diaz stands just outside Trauma One, clutching her bag. “The bathroom?”
“Uh, yeah,” Dana says immediately, turning. “Perlah can show you the way.”
Perlah is already moving. “Right this way.”
They disappear down the hall.
Dana turns back.
The shift in her expression is immediate. “Not a great idea to have a private conversation about a patient in a public area,” she says.
“I know. I know,” Robby replies quickly.
“You were about to start yapping—”
“But I didn’t!” he snaps, irritation flashing. It’s defensive… too defensive, and then he’s walking off and again, leaving it hanging.
You don’t move, but your jaw tightens so hard it hurts. Your teeth grind together, the pressure sharp, grounding. Dana looks at you, and you—you lean forward and thunk your forehead lightly against the counter.
Not enough to hurt-hurt, but enough to release something.
“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.
Because, of course, this is how the night keeps going.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
The counter is crowded, but the chaos has thinned just enough to breathe. Clipboards are stacked in uneven piles, the dry-erase board finally starting to look manageable instead of overwhelming. The system’s back, the backlog shrinking—slowly, but it’s happening.
You stand between Robby and Perlah at the front of the counter.
Robby has his reading glasses on, head slightly bowed as he scans through the remaining patient charts, lips pressed thin in concentration. Perlah flips through loose slips beside him, organizing, sorting, double-checking.
You’re in the middle of it—updating entries, logging vitals, attaching notes to charts, hands moving on autopilot even as your mind drifts in and out.
“I think another half hour,” Perlah says, glancing up at the board, “we can send this dry-erase board back to storage.”
“With pleasure,” Robby mutters.
“Thank fucking God,” you breathe, scratching absently at your arm—nerves, habit, leftover adrenaline.
Robby’s gaze flicks toward you immediately, noticing—but before he can say anything, Perlah cuts in, light and offhand, like she’s just trying to keep the mood up.
“Hey, at least places like Mount Sinai or New York-Presbyterian probably don’t have to deal with this kind of cyber mess,” she says with a small grin. “Better security, better systems.”
You turn to Perlah too fast.
Your expression gives you away—eyes widening, something sharp and urgent flashing across your face.
Don’t.
He doesn’t know.
Why would you say that out loud?
It’s all there in a split second.
Robby catches it, and his brows knit slightly, confusion and unease flickering across his face as he looks between you two. “What do you mean by—”
“Dr. Robinavitch?”
Monica.
Robby turns around. “Yep.”
“Results on your friend.” She hands over the printout.
Robby takes it, begins to read, and everything in him stills.
“Fuck.”
It’s quiet, but it hits all the same.
Perlah straightens. “Duke?”
You and Perlah both lean in, reading over his hand, eyes scanning the report—the numbers, the findings, and the implications. Your stomach drops.
“Are you gonna tell him?” you ask, softer now.
Robby shakes his head once, already pulling back. “I want to talk to a surgeon first.”
He slips his reading glasses off, tucking them into his scrub pocket like he can’t stand having them on for this.
“Uh—Dr. Robby,” Whitaker steps in, slightly nervous. “I have an update on the patient.”
“Now is not a great time,” Robby says, sharper than before.
Whitaker hesitates.
Before he can respond—
“Dr. Robby—”
Emma steps back into the ED, a little breathless, bag still on her shoulder.
Perlah looks up, surprised. “Oh—I thought you were going home.”
“Uh, I was,” Emma says, still catching her breath. “Dr. Ogilvie is just sitting out in the ambulance bay… covered in blood.”
Whitaker frowns. “Sorry—what… what’s he doing out there?”
Emma shakes her head slightly. “Kind of… staring off into space. I tried to talk to him, but it was like he couldn’t hear me.”
Robby’s focus snaps back into place instantly, “Ducky—can you stat page Cardiothoracic?”
You nod, already moving toward the phone.
“I’ll go check on Ogilvie,” Whitaker says, turning.
Robby nods once. “Please.”
Whitaker is already gone, pushing through the ambulance bay doors.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Monitors hum steadily. Orlando lies motionless beneath the web of lines and tubing—intubated, sedated, his chest rising in controlled, mechanical rhythm. The ventilator hisses softly, in and out, in and out.
You stand at the supply tray, hands busy—flushing a line, organizing syringes, checking labels twice even though you already know they’re right. It gives your hands something to do. Keeps you anchored.
Noelle steps in.
Javadi trails beside her, guiding Mrs. Diaz closer to the bedside.
Noelle is holding another fucking iPad.
“Due to his injury,” Noelle begins, voice smooth, clinical, “things have changed.”
The words land wrong immediately.
Shen slides the door open from Trauma Two, stepping halfway in. “I was looking for Dr. Abbot—”
He stops, and the tension in the room is immediate. Visible. Thick enough to feel. Samira stands rigid near the foot of the bed. Mrs. Diaz is clutching the edge of the stretcher like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
Ellis, stethoscope pressed to Orlando’s chest, doesn’t look up. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
Shen nods quickly. “Excuse me.”
And just as quickly, he’s gone again.
Noelle doesn’t pause, “So now, with a long-term disability, things may be easier.”
Mrs. Diaz’s head snaps up.
“‘Easier’?” she echoes, voice tight, eyes already glassy with tears—and something sharper beneath it.
Your jaw tightens; you don’t even try to hide it this time. Because what the hell is she doing?
Ellis catches your expression out of the corner of her eye—gives you a look. Subtle. Careful.
You press your nails into your palm instead.
Noelle continues, unfazed. “His condition will qualify him for Medicare and Medicaid. So moving forward, costs should be covered, including home health care.”
Mrs. Diaz swallows hard. “Okay.”
The word doesn’t mean okay.
You step in, unable to stop yourself. “Perhaps this isn’t the best time—”
“I just wanted to reassure you about future costs,” Noelle cuts in.
And then she’s already turning, already leaving.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Noelle steps back into Central as if nothing happened, like she didn’t just drop that into a room that was barely holding together.
She walks straight up to Robby, placing the iPad back on a rack.
“Robby.” Her voice shifts—softer, almost warm.
Robby turns, pulling off his reading glasses and slipping them into his pocket. “Noelle.”
“You’re still here.”
He leans back against the counter, bracing his hands behind him. “It’s not the best day to try to get out on time.”
You step out from Trauma One through the side door. You don’t mean to stop, but you do. Out of sight enough not to interrupt, close enough to hear everything.
“Noelle hums softly. “Mm. So I guess this is it for a while.”
Robby tilts his head slightly. “Unless you want to come with me.”
“No,” she says lightly, almost amused. “But thank you—even if it isn’t a legitimate offer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, please.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite soften it. “I know well enough not to get in between a man and his… vision quest.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “‘Vision quest.’”
“That is my nice way of putting it.”
“I probably don’t want to hear your not-so-nice way of putting it.”
“No, probably not.” A beat. Then, softer—just enough to matter as she steps forward. “I hope this isn’t about you running away from me. I’m a big girl. You can tell me to get lost.”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, right,” she says. “The old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?”
Robby meets her gaze. “In this case… it’s actually true.”
And then—She steps closer, and hugs him. A full-body hug, right there in the middle of Central. Like it’s easy.
You don’t realize you’ve moved until you’ve already taken a step back. Just one small step. Like your body’s trying to create distance before your mind can catch up. Because it shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t— but it does. You don’t stop loving someone just because they don’t love you back. The realization sits heavy in your chest.
“Excuse me.”
Jack’s voice cuts through. He moves deliberately—passing behind them, just close enough to force space between the moment.
His shoulder brushes past Robby. And the look he gives him—Sharp. Unimpressed. Heavy with something unsaid.
“I’ll see you next week?” Noelle says, pulling back.
“It’s a three-month sabbatical,” Robby replies.
She smiles anyway. “Like I said—I’ll see you next week.”
And then she’s gone.
Jack lifts an eyebrow, glancing back, quirking his lips to the side.
Robby flips him off without missing a beat.
It’s nearly normal. But Robby doesn’t see you, standing off to the side. Still, quiet and trying to steady something that doesn’t want to settle. Because it hurts—to be something. And somehow, worse to feel like nothing at all.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
The noise comes back first. Voices. Monitors. Footsteps. The scrape of chairs and the constant shuffle of paper now that everything’s back online. It’s close enough to drown out the ache sitting heavy in your chest.
You blink, force your focus back into place—back into the room, the board, the work—and then Jack is there. He falls into step beside you like he’s always been there, quiet, steady, matching your pace without asking.
“I’m fine,” you say.
Too fast. Too automatic.
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replies.
You rub at your temples, the headache pressing in behind your eyes. Of course he didn’t. He never has to. You’ve gotten good at this, at loving in silence.
In the space between conversations. In the way your eyes find him without meaning to. In the way you wait—without asking for anything, without expecting anything—because wanting more would mean risking everything you already have.
You told yourself it was enough, that being near him was enough. That understanding him—even when it hurt you—was enough. But somewhere along the way, you forgot something simple.
Love isn’t just something you feel. It’s something that’s chosen. And you know that you’ve been the only one doing the choosing.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jack asks, softer now.
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
It’s not dismissive. Just… tired. You glance away, watching the movement of the department instead of him.
“If it’s meant to work out,” you say after a moment, quieter, “then it will.”
The words don’t sound convincing. Not even to you.
Jack frowns slightly, like he wants to argue, like he should argue—
But you don’t give him the chance. You step away. Just… choosing movement over standing still. Because standing still means feeling it too clearly, and you don’t have the energy for that right now.
You drift toward the edge of Central and spot it.
The dummy, still sitting in a wheelchair like it belongs there, dressed up in leftover Fourth of July decorations—tinsel wrapped loosely around its neck, a small American flag tucked awkwardly into its hand.
You huff out a quiet breath.
Despite everything—
It’s stupid, it’s ridiculous. And it pulls something small and fragile out of you. You walk over, adjusting the tinsel absentmindedly, then stick the little flag into its mouth like a cigarette. There, better.
Behind you—
“Oh!”
“Oh, God—”
Whitaker and Nazely collide lightly in the middle of the floor.
“No, I’m—I’m—” Whitaker stumbles over his words.
“Sorry,” Nazely says quickly.
“I’m good. I’m good. I’m good.”
Nazely gestures awkwardly behind her. “There’s a dummy in a wheelchair.”
Whitaker barely glances. “Uh, yeah. He moves around.”
Nazely just nods and walks off.
Whitaker makes his way over to the makeshift scanning station near Central 8, taking in the setup.
“I see I’ve been replaced.”
Mel swivels in her chair. “Oh—did I take your spot?”
“Not really, no.”
“Are you sure?”
Whitaker nods.
Santos doesn’t even look up. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I found Ogilvie.”
“And?”
“He’s going home.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, I got nothing but time.”
Whitaker shakes his head. “I need to respect his privacy.”
Santos smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Her eyes flick to you then.
She pauses.
Really looks.
“The fuck did Robby do?” Trinity Santos asks, blunt as ever.
You shrug.
Flat.
Like it doesn’t matter.
Like it doesn’t touch you.
“You good?” she presses.
You shrug again—then tilt your head slightly. “Are you good?”
She huffs. Shrugs right back.
Fair.
Mel scoots her chair over toward the shredder.
“Beep. Beep, beep,” she mimics as she feeds the papers in.
“Sorry,” Whitaker mutters automatically.
The shredder sputters—
Then stops.
Mel blinks. “Um… the shredder jammed.”
“Yeah, uh—try putting it in reverse,” Whitaker suggests.
She does.
Nothing.
“Perfect,” Santos mutters.
Whitaker gestures. “Just give it a little love tap.”
Mel taps it gently.
Nothing.
“Kick it.”
Mel lifts her foot—
And kicks it.
Hard.
“Jesus Christ,” Whitaker blurts, startled.
Santos bursts out laughing first—sharp, sudden.
Mel follows, then Whitaker too, despite himself. And you stand there, watching them.
Listening, while letting the sound of it wash over you. It doesn’t fix anything. Doesn’t undo the ache still sitting in your chest. But for a moment… it softens the edges, just enough to keep going.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Nazely steps up to the counter, spotting Dana, a small, hopeful smile on her face, “Guess Mr. Digby got a room upstairs.”
Dana snorts, already pushing off the counter. “I’ll take care of it.”
Off to the side, Robby stands with Barrett at a workstation, both of them focused on the monitor. The glow of the scan reflects faintly in their faces.
“Scout film showed obvious pathology,” Robby says, voice clipped, controlled. “So we ordered the CT angiogram.”
“He needs to be admitted and evaluated as an inpatient.”
“Nothing ever gets done over a holiday weekend,” Barrett replies evenly. “He can take it easy at home.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “He’s a ticking time bomb.”
“He’s probably been that way for years,” Barrett counters. “We can get him in early next week, get the testing done. If all goes well, he’s on the OR schedule in a week.”
“And if it ruptures before then?”
Barrett doesn’t flinch. “Call 911.”
A second passes.
“Sorry, Robby. Best we can do. Text me his number—I’ll have my office coordinate.”
Barrett walks off while Robby doesn’t. For a second, he just stands there. Then, he grabs his black thermos, and slams it down hard against the counter.
“Fuck!”
The sound cracks through the room, sharp and loud.
You flinch hard, a small yelp slipping out before you can stop it—your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
Dana’s head snaps up immediately.
“Hey!” she barks, already moving. “Take a walk. Come on!”
Robby doesn’t argue, doesn’t look at anyone. He just turns and walks, fast. Dana follows a second later, expression tight, clearly not letting this go.
You duck your head slightly, heat creeping up your neck—embarrassed at your reaction, at being seen—but your eyes still track him as he disappears down the hall. Worried, always worried.
A bell dings lightly at the counter.
Crus.
“Two for discharge,” he says, setting down clipboards.
Perlah looks up. “Yeah, please don’t ring the bell. The computers are back up and running.”
“Not for these two,” Crus replies. “They don’t have electronic health records yet.”
Perlah flips through the charts, frowning. “Wait—hold up. This kid had a wrist X-ray ordered. Ugh, it never happened. And water-skiing lady’s still waiting on a knee series.”
“I canceled the X-rays,” Crus says casually. “Diagnosed them both with ultrasound.”
Samira spins around in her chair. “Really?”
“Yeah. Kid had a simple buckle fracture—distal radius. Velcro splint. And Mrs. Stegman—small medial meniscus tear. Knee immobilizer, crutches, follow-up with ortho.”
Perlah exhales. “Could’ve used you on day shift today.”
“They don’t teach us a lot of musculoskeletal ultrasound,” Samira admits.
“I know,” Crus says. “That’s why I did electives at Harvard and Highland.”
Samira studies him. “Are you applying for an ultrasound fellowship here?”
“I am. But it’s competitive.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Kinda a long shot,” he shrugs. “Only have one publication—case series on diagnosing shoulder dislocations with ultrasound.” He nods toward her. “If you want to learn some MSK, you can tag along. I’ve got three more to scan.”
Samira hesitates, something flickers across her face—uncertainty, doubt, the pressure of the day pressing in.
“Maybe some other time,” she says quietly.
“Cool.”
She turns back to the desk, and feeds a stack of papers into the shredder.
“Hey—don’t jam the shredder,” Monica calls. “What is that, two charts?”
Samira doesn’t look up. “No. It’s my ultrasound fellowship application.”
Whitaker steps in beside her. “Hey—uh, sorry about your patient.”
“Yeah,” Samira says. “Orlando’s in pretty bad shape.”
Whitaker shakes his head. “No—I mean the triple-A guy. The one you worked with Ogilvie.” A beat. “He didn’t make it through surgery.”
Samira stills.
“I tried to talk to Robby about it,” Whitaker adds, quieter now. “But I think he’s busy.”
A pause.
Then—
“Excuse me.”
She’s already standing, already walking away.
“—Oh, shit,” Whitaker mutters under his breath.
The tumult of the department continues, unchanged and unforgiving. And everything that just happened gets folded into it like it always does.
FAMILY ROOM HALLWAY — NIGHT
The hallway is dimmer than Central. The lights flicker overhead, casting that tired, uneven glow over everything. The hum of the ED bleeds in from down the hall—muted, distant, like it belongs to another world for a moment.
Robby stands off to the side, hands dragging through his hair, then down the back of his neck. Over and over. Like he’s trying to physically pull himself together and failing.
Dana stands in front of him.
“You think I’m on edge?” she says. “First, you’re shaming Samira, then McKay—”
Robby presses his fingers to his temple, rubbing hard. “They both needed to be called out for unacceptable behavior.”
“Yeah? Yeah, well, you do that in private,” Dana snaps. “Same place you share your thoughts about a patient’s possible suicide.” She gestures sharply. “And slamming stuff? Please. Sign out all the shit that’s bugging you and get out of here.”
You’re halfway down the hall, on your way to the bathroom. You weren’t supposed to hear this. But you do… and you stop. Your body stills before your brain catches up.
Robby’s back is to you, he doesn’t know you’re there. Time stretches in that strange, suspended way hospitals have—seconds dragging longer than they should under flickering light.
“I can’t,” Robby says.
Dana doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, you can. When either of my kids was acting like this, I gave them a time-out in their room.”
Robby lets out a short breath, licking his lower lip, anxiety written all over him. His hands come up, palms out. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—you’re not my mother.”
“Yeah?” Dana fires back. “Well, too bad. You need one.”
Robby shakes his head. “No. I had one. She left.” A beat. His voice drops. “I don’t need another one.”
The sentences linger there, unguarded.
“What I need,” he continues, voice tightening again, “is someone who can actually run this place while I’m gone.”
“Nobody knows,” he says. “Who needs to know? Who gives a fuck?”
“I think you need a break.”
“That’s what the sabbatical is for.”
“Then start it now,” Dana pushes. “Walk away.”
“I have too much to do.”
“Let someone else talk to Duke.”
Robby shakes his head. “No. That needs to come from me.”
“Why?”
His face tightens, something deeper breaking through. “Because I owe him that. It needs to come from a friend—not a stranger—otherwise he’s gonna bail and drop dead while I’m gone.”
Dana exhales slowly. “Okay. Wrap that up—and then leave.”
But Robby’s already spiraling past that.
“It’s not just Duke,” he says. “I’m not sure Al-Hashimi is fit to run this place.”
Dana’s brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure that out. Did you know she wants two attendings on at all times?”
“No.”
“Is that something she worked out with Gloria?”
“I don’t know.”
His voice sharpens. “Why did Perlah bring up Mount Sinai and New York-Presbyterian with Ducky?”
Your stomach drops. Even from where you stand—you feel it.
“That’s something you gotta talk to her about,” Dana says.
But Robby’s not done.
“I don’t know if Langdon’s gonna relapse. I don’t know if Whitaker’s gonna be able to handle my stuff. I don’t know if Javadi’s gonna give up on what she’s good at.” His voice falters—just slightly. “I don’t know if Ducky is hiding something from me… again. Or if Samira’s gonna flame out because of some bullshit with her mother.”
Each name lands heavier than the last. Yours—Heavier than all of them.
Dana watches him carefully now, “Is there anything else?”
Robby lets out a breath.
“Yeah. You.” His gaze flicks to her. “I don’t know about you running around with a full syringe of Versed in your pocket.” A beat. “I’m worried about the people that I care about.”
Dana’s voice softens. “We’ll all manage until you come back. We always do.”
Robby’s eyes flicker.
“Yeah?” he says quietly.
“What if I don’t come back?”
The question doesn’t land like a question. It lands like something already halfway decided. Something inside the space… gives. The hum of the hospital doesn’t stop—but it pulls back, like it’s been pushed a few steps farther away.
All that’s left is him and those words.
Robby doesn’t look at Dana after he says it. Doesn’t wait for her to answer, because maybe there isn’t one. Or maybe he already knows it won’t be enough.
He turns, not rushed or angry. Just… done. And he walks, down the hallway. Past the turn. Out of sight, and away from the conversation. Away from everything that might have held him in place a second longer.
He never sees you. Never knows you’re there.
You don’t move.
You can’t.
Your body feels rooted to the spot, like if you shift even an inch, something inside you will crack wide open and spill out where everyone can see it.
Your throat tightens, raw in a way that has nothing to do with what happened earlier.
Because this—this is different.
This isn’t fear. It’s something that doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in your chest and makes itself at home. There is a specific kind of helplessness to loving someone you cannot reach. Not because they’re far away or because they don’t care. But because whatever they’re fighting—is something you were never invited into. Something you cannot fix, cannot soften, and cannot carry for them, no matter how badly you want to.
You think of him, the way he keeps moving. The way he won’t stop. The way he keeps choosing everything else over himself, over rest, over peace.
The way he said what if I don’t come back like it wasn’t hypothetical. Like it was already sitting somewhere real.
Waiting… you swallow. It doesn’t help.
Your eyes burn, vision blurring just enough that the hallway wavers. You blink hard, but it’s too late. Tears slip anyway.
Dana hasn’t moved either. She’s still standing where he left her, shoulders squared like she’s holding herself together by force alone. Then, slowly, she turns, and sees you.
There’s no surprise in her expression. No question. Only recognition. Because she knows. Not the details, but the feeling. The pain of caring about someone who is slipping just out of reach—and refusing to be caught.
Her eyes are rimmed red.
Yours already are, and for a second—you just look at each other. Two people standing in the same soundless aftermath. Carrying the same kind of helplessness in different ways. Neither of you speaks.
Because what would you even say?
That he’s not okay?
You both know that.
That he needs help?
He won’t take it.
That you’re scared?
Of course you are.
The hardest thing isn’t that he’s hurting.
It’s that you can see it, clear as anything—and you’re not sure you can do to stop it. No right words or right moment. No version of you that could reach him if he’s already decided to keep going without looking back.
You press your lips together, trying to steady your breathing, but it trembles anyway.
Because loving someone doesn’t mean you get to save them, and sometimes—It doesn’t even mean they’ll stay.
Dana exhales, slow and shaky, like she’s trying to push something down before it shows.
You wipe quickly at your cheek, more instinct than intention.
The hallway remains the same, there’s always people moving somewhere beyond this moment. However, something has changed—quietly and permanently. But standing there is all you can do, and feel it.
End Notes:
I just… I say I love you to my friend all the time… but they aren’t Jack Abbot, so… :P
I want Robby and Jack badlyyyyyy. God, I’ve seen what you’ve done for others.
Also, lol, I do get jumpscared a lot by loud noises. One time, my friend snuck up behind me and then scared me, and I let out a loud yelp in Disneyland, and the cast members were so concerned T^T
So Robby absolutely slamming that poor thermos on the desk would have caused me to flinch, jump and yelp in surprise.
Damn, Ep 14 had me crying too.
But LMAAOOOO Jack “you need to shut your fucking mouth” Abbot has me DROOLING AND WAGGING MY TAIL AJKLFHSDJKGHAJK (if you know me irl you dont pls–)
Chapter Thirty-One: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Fireworks, Shouting,
Word Count: 14.3k
A/N: Did I lowkey wait for Noah Kahan to drop the album? Yes. Also, did my University take away a lot of my writing time? Also, yes. Welcome to the last episode of Season 2 of the Pitt!!
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/abstractedrobby. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Staying Still by Noah Kahan, Strangers by Ethel Cain, Thousand by Rosie Carney, Lisa Hannigan, Fine Line by Harry Styles, and Free Now by Gracie Abrams
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9:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Robby stands beside Al-Hashimi, one hand braced on the counter of the workstation on wheels as he leans in slightly, reading through her chart.
There’s something different in his posture here—less sharp than earlier, but not softer either. Concern buried under function.
“Baran… is this you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Al-Hashimi doesn’t look away.
“It began after a bad case of viral meningitis when I was five,” she says evenly. “They tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.” A small pause. “No one’s ever noticed before. They just think I’m thoughtful.”
Robby exhales quietly through his nose, processing. “Are you driving?”
“I couldn’t,” she answers. “Not until I had laser ablation to my left temporal lobe twelve years ago.” Her voice stays clinical and practiced. “Between that and the Keppra, I’ve been seizure-free. Neurology cleared me. Driving, practicing—everything.”
He nods once, eyes scanning the screen again. “How long between the seizure you had today and the last one?”
“It’s been well over a year.” She hesitates slightly. “But I had two today.” Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before she steadies it again.
“I don’t know why. It could be sleep deprivation. Stress from the new job.” A breath. “I haven’t had to deal with Peds cases since Afghanistan.”
Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He knows what that means.
“What are your options now?” he asks.
Al-Hashimi shifts her weight, folding her arms loosely. “Up my Keppra,” she says. “Or try one of the newer anti-seizure medications.”
“And if that doesn’t work…” She swallows. “Temporal lobectomy. Which could impair my speech. Or a neuromodulation device. It can sense and stop the seizures almost immediately.”
Robby nods slowly, “You need to disclose this.” There’s no accusation in it, only fact and responsibility.
“I know,” she replies. “I have a plan.”
The door cracks open behind them.
“Hey, Robby.” Olive steps in, slightly out of breath from moving too fast through the department. “Ducky and Dana are looking for you. They’re in Peds.”
Robby straightens slightly at the mention of you, already shifting gears again. “Yeah. Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Al-Hashimi gives a small nod, already stepping back. “Sounds like you’re needed in Peds,” she says. “And I have patients to see.”
There are no lingering or extra words. She exits through the opposite door, disappearing back into the rhythm of the department.
For a second, Robby stands there alone. Between rooms, between responsibilities. Between everything he just heard— and everything still waiting for him.
Another voice cuts in before he can follow the thought any further. “Robby—” Vivi pokes her head through the doorway, urgency already in her tone. “Pregnant woman with severe headache on her way in by ambulance.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Find Abbot or one of the night shift residents.”
By the time he turns back, Al-Hashimi is already gone. The conversation unfinished. Filed away, another thing added to the list of things he’s carrying, whether he wants to or not. He rubs a hand over his face, then he moves out of Central 8. Toward Peds… toward you.
PEDES — NIGHT
Pediatrics feels like a different world, quieter, and softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.
The lights are still luminous—but warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.
Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.
You’re standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.
Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. “Cutest patient we’ve had all day.”
You don’t notice him at first, but he notices you. There’s something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. It’s not polished or composed. Your hair’s coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tired—really tired—but still soft in a way that feels… lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. It isn’t logical or something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.
A future that doesn’t look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything that’s breaking. A life where your hands still move like that—gentle, certain—but not because something’s wrong. Because something’s yours.
It’s gone as quickly as it comes.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.
You glance up, but Dana answers first. “Oh—false alarm,” she says, waving a hand lightly. “We thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.”
She huffs a laugh. “You know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.”
Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t look at me.” Then, more seriously, he asks, “Hey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?”
Dana’s expression shifts immediately, “Why?”
“Uh,” Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesn’t want to explain, “because I think she’s tired.” A small shrug. “And I don’t want her to make any mistakes.”
Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. “Oh, great advice,” she mutters. “Maybe you should take it.”
You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure she’s settled before stepping back.
“Yeah,” Robby says, already moving again. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”
Dana snorts. “Grab some for me while you’re out there.”
He doesn’t miss a second. “Your lungs wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Screw you!”
Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, “In front of the baby? Nice.”
Dana scoffs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns and leaves. Back toward Central— into everything.
You watch him go before deciding. “I’ll go try and check in with him,” you say, quieter now. “He also looks tired.”
Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, “Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it.”
You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, “Shut up.” But you’re already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means he’s pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.
You stop when you realize what’s happening, and immediately snort. Because—oh no. Not this.
Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jack—of course, Jack—taking it as if you had handed him doctrine.
At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And then—somewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.
Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, “We are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”
In unison, “We are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”
Jack grins. “That is right. And tonight…” He gestures around the ED. “They are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.”
“Hooah!”
The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.
Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.
Abbot winces. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I—I was thinking,” Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. “Doubt PTX.”
Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, “You’re supposed to be leaving.”
Robby doesn’t turn, “I am.”
Jack folds his arms. “You know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.” Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, “Everyone’s gonna be fine without me. And it’s hardly a spirit quest.”
Jack follows. “Whatever it is, you’ve given people the impression you might not be coming back.”
Dana appears beside you, silent. You don’t have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.
Robby says, too casually— “Well… who knows what the future has in store for any of us?”
Jack exhales sharply, “Yeah, saying shit like that isn’t helping.” His voice lowers. “People are worried about you.”
Sophie appears from South. “Dr. Abbot? The patient in South 21—Digby—he’s missing again.”
Jack barely looks over, “Sounds like a day shift problem.”
Robby deadpans, “Not if he was handed off already.” And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.
You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.
You follow, again.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
You stay near the doors, hidden enough not to be obvious. Close enough to hear while Duke is by the motorcycle. “Best I can do under the circumstances.”
Robby shakes Duke’s hand, “Thank you.” Then quieter, “Hey. Don’t leave before I get back, yeah?”
Duke smirks, “Hell, I feel like I live here now.” He passes you on the way in, sees you, but says nothing. Instead, he gives you the faintest knowing smile. As if he knows exactly why you’re lurking here, and protects it.
Jack nods toward the bike, “Your friend fixing it?”
“Ambulance clipped it while it was parked here today.”
Jack stares. “Jesus Christ. That’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”
Robby’s face pinches. Then Jack shifts, more serious. “Here’s the thing.” He steps closer. “When people worry about you…” His voice softens. “…it makes me think I should be worried about you. And I don’t like worrying about things.”
Robby scoffs, “Ooh. Now you’re a shrink?”
Jack doesn’t bite, “No. I’m trying to be your friend.” A pause. “You got— you got Dana convinced that you're gonna hurt yourself.”
His eyes sharpen. “And Ducky—” he glances toward the doors, unknowingly near where you stand— “—thinks you’re withdrawing. Shutting everybody out.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Dana’s got her own issues. So does Ducky.”
Jack lifts a brow, “That sounds like projection.”
And there it is, the spark. Robby turns, voice rising. “Are you seriously trying to have this fucking conversation with me right now, man?” He gestures at him. “I’m not the one who spends his free time getting shot at.”
Then, mockingly— “Hooah.”
Jack actually looks offended, which would be funny if it weren’t so bad.
Before either can escalate, ambulance doors open. “Hey, Dr. Robby!” Medic Nguyen is already unloading. “This is Judith Lastrade—thirty-six weeks pregnant. Two days of headache, now ten out of ten with blurred vision. BP one seventy-four over one twenty, pulse ninety-two. No relief with fentanyl.”
Jack steps in first, and the conversation with Robby is put on pause. “Judith, I’m Dr. Abbot. Any weakness in your arms or legs?”
Robby’s fingers press over her ankle, checking for edema. “Pitting edema with severe preeclampsia.” He looks up sharply. “Where are you doing prenatal care?”
The woman grimaces, “Nowhere.” A breath. “It’s a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
Jack and Robby exchange a look, a whole conversation in one glance.
Oh no.
You choose that exact moment to step through the doors— making a show of only just arriving. “Oh—what’ve we got?” As if you weren’t just listening to them tear at each other outside.
As if your heart isn’t still pounding, like you didn’t hear every word. You grab the gurney rail to help steer her inside, moving with them.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Trauma One is bright in that punishing way trauma bays always are—too white, too loud, too awake. The room hums with layered urgency: monitors chirping, paper ripping from packaging, the hiss of oxygen, shoes squeaking over tile.
You’re helping position Judith when Mateo throws you a look over the monitor. A long one. The kind coworkers give when they know you’re pushing too hard. “You sure you wanna get in on this?” he asks. “You’re going on hour fifteen.”
There’s concern buried under the teasing, and you shrug like it’s nothing. “Bridget texted me. She’ll be here soon.” You secure the belts over Judith’s abdomen, hands steady. “I’ll help with this and then go home.”
You adjust the transducers and glance at the tracing, “CTG is on.”
Judith turns her head weakly toward you. “CTG?”
At the foot of the bed, Robby and Jack look toward the monitor. Robby answers automatically, “Cardiotocography.” His hand gestures toward the machine. “Measures the baby’s heart rate and checks for contractions.”
Jack glances at the screen, “Fetal heart rate 128.” He looks toward Nazely. “Normal range?”
Nazely answers immediately, “110 to 160.”
Judith’s eyes dart, “So the baby’s okay?”
Crus, stethoscope still hanging around his neck, checks her as he answers, “Right now, yes.” He nods toward the tracing. “One twenty-eight is reassuring.”
Mateo calls out from the pump. “BP one seventy over one nineteen. Six grams magnesium running in.” Magnesium sulfate dripping to prevent eclamptic seizures, heavy medicine for a heavy diagnosis.
Out of the corner of your eye, Robby is staring through the glass doors. Not looking through them, past them, gone somewhere for a second. Spacing out. Again.
It catches in your chest. But then— Jack’s voice pulls him back. “Your next move, Crus?”
“Twenty of labetalol,” Crus says. “IV push over two minutes.”
Judith looks panicked now. “What’s happening?” Nazely steps closer. “You have a condition called preeclampsia.”
Judith blinks rapidly. “And how did it happen?”
Robby rubs a hand down his face before answering. He looks tired enough to disappear. “Uh…” A breath. “Nobody really knows, actually.” He gestures gently. “It affects about ten percent of pregnancies. High blood pressure. Headaches. Protein in the urine. Swollen ankles.”
Judith looks stricken. “Okay, well… it’s a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care.”
Robby’s head tilts, something almost incredulous. “Then why are you here?”
Her lip trembles, and then she starts crying, clearly scared, “I just need to get rid of this headache.”
Robby and Jack exchange a look, one of those silent attending conversations.
You take this.
I know.
Jack steps in, gentler. “Well… if we don’t lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium…” He chooses his words carefully. “There can be problems.”
Judith whispers, “Like what?”
Crus doesn’t sugarcoat, “Seizures, bleeding, even death.” He glances at her belly. “For you and the baby.”
Her face crumples, “Oh my God.”
The door swings open, and Dana is there, “Robby—your VIP’s ready to go.”
Robby nods, “Ok, I'll be right there.” Dana nods and walks off. He then looks to Jack. “You good?”
Jack nods, “Yeah, I’m good.” A crooked grin. “I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won’t.” He shrugs. “Maybe one eye.” He clicks his tongue and winks at you. You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it.
Then Jack turns. “Hey—” To say something else to Robby. Maybe something important or not. But Robby’s already gone, out the door as if he couldn’t stand still another second.
And you, for one impossible second, find yourself staring at the door Robby just disappeared through. With a feeling you can’t quite name, only recognize.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re adjusting Judith’s tubing, checking the IV line hasn’t infiltrated, smoothing slack from the blood pressure cuff tubing where it catches beneath the rail, when Nazely leans in toward the stretcher. “How’s the headache?”
Judith’s face is pinched tight with pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Still a ten.” Crus looks up from the medication tray. “More fentanyl?”
Jack is near the glass doors, though he’s only half paying attention to the question. The other half of him is scanning, watching. Looking through the doors. Looking for Robby. Making sure he didn’t just disappear into the night, again.
“Yep,” Jack says absently.
Crus nods, “BP’s good. Another fifty.” He pushes medication with practiced calm. Judith winces, breathes, doesn’t relax.
“Hey, Abbot.”
Jack turns, and Sam Garvin enters the Trauma room in pink OB scrubs, already gloved up. “Attending and resident are stuck in the OR.”
Jack gives a crooked grin. “Oh, you’re the next best thing.” Sam arches a brow. “Better, some would say.”
Jack hums. “Mm.” There’s affection in it, familiarity, hospital shorthand for trust. She steps to the bedside. “What do you got?”
Nazely answers quickly. “This is Judith. G1, P0. No prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension.”
Judith barely nods, and Crus reaches for the ultrasound probe. “Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.”
She immediately panics, “No, no, no.” Judith recoils. “Ultrasound can harm the baby.”
Jack answers before anyone else can. “Not true.” Crus, already uncapping gel, “Not doing the ultrasound could end up harming you and the baby.” Judith’s breath catches. Then, smaller, “Okay. Just do it as fast as you can.”
Cold gel, probe to the abdomen, and the monitor blooms gray static into anatomy. Crus concentrates.
Sam watches the image. “Why no prenatal care, Judith?”
Judith looks almost defensive through the fear.“I wanted a free birth.” She says it like a creed. “No doctors. No hospital. No medicine.”
Jack lifts a brow. “You have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No. I don’t need one.” She says it almost stubbornly. “Women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
Jack’s mouth tilts, dry as ever. “Yeah. With an infant mortality rate of thirty percent for most of those thousands of years.”
The monitor blooms gray static into anatomy, while Crus concentrates. “Femur length seven centimeters.”
Sam watches the image. “Thirty-seven weeks.” She glances at Jack. “They’ll probably induce.”
Judith bolts upright as much as the bed allows. “What?” Her fear sharpens. “No. No, no, no, no.” Head shaking. “Absolutely not.”
Jack steps closer, at eye level now. “At thirty-seven weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.” His voice lowers. “We need to get you upstairs so OB can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
Judith looks horrified. “No. No, no.” Her hands clutch the sheet. “Mm-mm.”
Jack looks at you with a brief questioning glance. Like maybe you’ll have the answer no one else has found. His lips quirk to one side the way they do when he’s thinking three things at once.
Something in your chest stumbles, because your mind is suddenly nowhere in Trauma One. It is somewhere older, hotter, and smaller. A maternity ward years ago. Fan blades are turning slowly overhead. Late summer heat clinging to skin. Women laboring behind curtains. The smell of antiseptic, milk, and sweat. A mother screaming. A newborn is crying. Your mother’s hand around yours. Or maybe a memory you’ve spent years trying not to touch.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re at Judith’s side, cuff still cycling on her arm, watching numbers pulse on the monitor. “BP’s 164 over 114.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Another forty of labetalol.” And Crus is already moving. “Mag bolus is in. Now infusing two grams an hour.”
Nazely stands at the workstation on wheels, scrolling through newly posted labs as they populate. “Labs are coming back. Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFTs are sky high.”
Jack looks over, and there’s instant recognition. “HELLP syndrome.”
Crus, half for Judith, half for Nazely, he explains,“Hemolysis. Elevated Liver enzymes. Low Platelets.”
Sam is already on the phone with OB. “They’re cleaning a room. We can bring her up in ten minutes.”
Jack leans toward Judith, “How you doing, Judith?”
Her pupils seem unfocused. Her breathing wrong, as she tries. “I—I—”
Nazely sees it first, “Oh—she’s seizing.” Judith’s body arches, a violent tonic rigidity. Her arm jerks against the rail, jaw clenches, and monitor alarms erupt. The fetal tracing slips.
“Shit.” Jack moves instantly. “Ten of IV diazepam. Have another ten ready.”
You’re already protecting Judith’s head with folded blankets, turning her slightly to keep her airway clear, instinct and training moving before thought.
Sam stares at the tracing, “With all the movement, we can’t get a fetal heartbeat.”
Crus reaches for oxygen. “Putting on fifteen liters by mask.”
The nonrebreather goes on, Judith is cyanotic around the lips for a breath too long. Crus glances up. “Should we intubate?”
Jack shakes his head, “Hold intubation. Let’s try to break this. We don’t want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to.” His mind is moving three steps ahead, he points. “Crus, CTG isn’t reading. Check with ultrasound.”
“On it.”
Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Nazely—what’s the diagnosis?” He’s still teaching even now.
Nazely swallows, “With the seizure… Now it’s eclampsia.”
Jack gives one hard nod.
Crus studies the ultrasound, “Fetal heart rate about ninety.” Sam’s face drops at that, “Way too low.” Another layer of emergency.
Mateo checks pulse ox, “Mom’s sats are going down.”
The monitor confirms it, and Crus looks up again, urgent now. “Time to tube her?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, “Set up for it—but wait.”
He’s still trying to buy her one more chance, “One more ten of diazepam. Push four grams of Keppra.”
Judith’s breathing is becoming shallow beneath the nonrebreather, her chest fighting for air in uneven pulls while the seizure leaves aftershocks through her body.
You glance up at the monitor, and her numbers are dropping. Your stomach drops with them. “Pulse ox is eighty-eight.”
Your words cut through the room, and Crus looks up immediately. “Dr. Abbot? Intubate?”
Jack has both hands braced on his hips, thinking in that fast, layered way he does, processing ten variables at once. Then he’s reached a decision, he reaches for the gloves off the wall dispenser. “Let’s do it.”
He turns to Nazely, “Nazely—what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?”
She answers quickly, nerves showing, “Etomidate and roc.”
Jack gives the smallest tilt of his head. “Mm. Not quite.” He reaches for the airway tray. “One-twenty of propofol. Sixty of succinylcholine.”
He looks toward Crus, “Why is that?”
Crus doesn’t miss it, “Propofol for the anti-seizure effect. Sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.”
Jack agrees. “Exactly.”
Nazely absorbs every word, filing it away. You can almost see the learning happening in real time.
Jack moves beside you, close enough his shoulder brushes yours as he adjusts gloves. Your syringe is ready, hands steady, even if your pulse isn’t. You announce, “Pushing the propofol.”
White medication disappears into the IV line. Judith softens, her resistance melting under sedation.
Sam is already repositioning, “Once she’s flat for intubation, we need to displace the uterus left.”
Jack gestures to Nazely, “That’s you.” He motions with both arms. “Big hug. Both arms.”
Nazely steps in awkwardly but willing, wrapping both forearms around Judith’s gravid abdomen and shifting the uterus off midline.
Jack nods. “Get the baby off the vena cava.”
Mateo glances at the meds, “Sux is on board.” Seconds now, everyone is waiting, and watching as paralysis sets in.
Nazely, still thinking aloud, “But after she’s paralyzed, the seizing stops… right?”
Jack is checking laryngoscope light, “It might look like that.” He looks at her. “But an ongoing seizure will still fry the brain. We monitor with EEG.”
Nazely blinks, “Is there time for that?” Jack’s mouth pulls to one side. “Wait and see.”
Judith’s jerking slows and eventually stops. Jack watches her closely and says, “Paralytics kicked in.”
Crus steps in, “Let’s go.”
The team rolls her flat, bed lowered, and her head positioned, with he airway open. Jack is at the bedside now, every inch attending. He looks at Crus. “Intubate, then EEG to see if her brain is still seizing.” Then his voice lowers. “I need first-pass success.”
Crus replies aptly, “You and me both.”
The tube is secured, and breath sounds are confirmed. Crus moves back to the ultrasound, probe gliding over Judith’s chest while Jack, at the head of the bed, is carefully placing EEG leads along her scalp with deliberate fingers, smoothing adhesive against sweat-damp skin. Even in urgency, his hands are precise, gentle, and almost reverent.
Crus studies the screen. “Good lung sliding bilaterally.”
Sam is still on fetal monitoring, eyes locked to the tracing, “Fetal heart rate borderline at ninety-eight.”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “Roll her to the left again. That can help.”
Mateo’s already at the rail. “One, two, three.” On his count, you move with the team, shoulder to hip, helping roll Judith into left uterine displacement again, easing pressure off the vena cava.
Jack adjusts the EEG leads one last time. “Okay.” A glance to the monitor. “All set here.”
Mateo checks the hookup. “EEG monitor’s good to go.”
Nazely stares at the setup, wide-eyed. “That was fast.”
Jack doesn’t answer; he’s already reading, already worried. Then the small EEG monitor changes. Red screen and white text. Like a warning flare. Crus sees it first, and his face drops. “Still seizing while paralyzed. It’s nonconvulsive status.”
The trauma doors push open. Shen and Ellis. Both already gloving as they walk in. No questions about whether they’re needed.
Shen comes straight in. “What’s she had so far?”
Jack rattles it off from memory. “Thirty of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol.”
Ellis exhales. “Damn.” She looks at him. “What’s your next step?”
Jack turns. “Any ideas? Hmm? Nazely?” He looks at Nazely, and she swallows. “Dilantin? Valproate?”
Jack tilts his head. “Mm.” Not dismissive, but thinking. “Infusion’s too long. So is onset of action. Push one hundred of ketamine. That’s had results with refractory status.”
Crus adds, still watching labs.“She also has HELLP syndrome—hemoglobin only seven, platelets down to thirty.”
Shen already pivoting. “Two units whole blood?”
Jack doesn’t falter, “O-neg is going up on the rapid infuser as we speak.” You hear blood tubing being primed behind you. Pressure bags, fluids.
Ellis is by the workstation on wheels, “Uh, put the AP pads on, just in case.”
Jack nods. “And ten of Decadron IV push.” His eyes never leave Judith. “For the inflammatory storm.”
You push the steroid. Flush. Line patent. The vent breathes for Judith in measured mechanical sighs.
Sam suddenly leans over the tracing. “Fetal heart rate up to one-oh-four.”
A pause as everyone looks over, Jack too. He hums, thinking while Sam is cautiously hopeful, “Little better.”
Shen mutters, “Yeah. She should be upstairs with OB.”
Jack finally looks at him. Steel in his face. “She will be.” A beat. “After we break this seizure.”
The EEG continues its angry red chatter. No break or slowing. Only seizure. Crus stares at the tracing, jaw tight. “There’s been no improvement. Still seizing on the EEG. Neurology has been called.”
Ellis hangs up the phone, almost on top of the words, urgency carrying her in. “OB says send her up. They have an OR ready.”
Jack exhales hard, chest lifting with a frustrated huff, “About time.” But the moment the words leave him, Robby walks into Trauma One, and the room shifts again.
He looks wrecked, drawn pale under the light, scrub top damp at the collar, exhaustion carved into the planes of his face. However, the moment he sees Judith, the bed, and the monitors, his eyes sharpen.
Sam’s voice cuts through. “Baby’s been bradying down a bit more.”
Robby takes in the room in one sweep, “This one looks like it took a turn for the worse.”
Jack doesn’t look away from the monitors. “Eclampsia. Refractory seizures. HELLP syndrome with anemia and thrombocytopenia.”
Shen mutters darkly, “About as bad as it gets.” And then—an alarm screams. Sam’s head snaps up. “V-fib.”
Jack’s voice cracks through it, “Chest compressions, Nazely. Charge to two hundred.” Nazely launches into compressions, and the bed shakes. Robby’s already moving, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call NICU. Start a timer.” Commands flying like sparks.
Mateo at the defib. “Charged. Clear.”
Shock, and Judith’s body jolts. Shen says, “Continue compressions. We’ll check rhythm in a minute.”
Jack is already reaching for sterile gowns. “Gown up.” Then he turns to his best friend, “Robby, it’s you and me.”
Robby nods once, exhaustion and duty welded together. You step behind him, helping him into the sterile gown, tying strings with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Another nurse masks Jack.
The room now split into two resuscitations waiting to happen.
Mother.
Baby.
Both slipping.
Ellis turns to Nazely, who is still doing compressions. “What’s the four-minute rule?”
Nazely, breathless—“Uh… not sure.”
Crus answers over the chaos. “Pregnant patient with a viable fetus—four minutes after maternal arrest to save the baby.”
Jack corrects gently but firmly, “And the mom. We don’t call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It’s a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
Nazely, horrified, “But she doesn’t want medical intervention—”
Robby cuts in. “That doesn’t matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” He looks to the monitor. “Charge to two hundred.”
“One more rhythm check and then Abbot and I are gonna cut.” He pounds once on the glass, signaling McKay from outside.
Come now.
Now.
“Ellis, you and Crus stay on mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. Ok, hold compressions.”
Crus checks. And she’s still V-fib. Mateo announces, “Clear.” Shock.
Ellis scans Judith and sighs, “No change. Resume compressions. Amp of epi.”
Robby takes a breath, then looks at Jack. “Okay, showtime.” And somehow gallows humor barely still survives here.
You secure Robby’s mask from behind. Another nurse does Jack’s.
Jack’s voice low, urgent. “We need to get this baby out right now.”
Nazely rotates off compressions, Mateo takes over when Ellis tells her, “Take a break.”
Robby holds out his hand. “Ten blade.” You place it in his palm, metal to glove. The room goes silent in that strange way chaos does when everyone is hyper-focused.
And as he cuts—he teaches. “First incision from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis…” Steel through skin. “…through skin to linea alba.”
There’s blood, hands, and retractors. And Crus by the infuser. “Units three and four running.”
Robby deeper now, “Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus.”
McKay rushes in. “Where do you need me?” Shen replies, “You’re with the baby. Nazely bags. You’re on suction. Stand by for intubation.”
Sam begins, “Bladder retractors.”
Sophie communicates to Shen and McKay, “Neonatal monitor and pulse ox ready.”
Jack leans in, “Ellis, gentle traction.” Small vertical uterine incision. “Okay, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby.
Ellis hums once in acknowledgment, already understanding, already moving with them, every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the field in front of her.
Jack looks to Robby.
“Got it?”
Robby doesn’t look up.
“Yep. I got it.”
“Okay.”
His gloved hands are steady despite everything.
“Using scissors to extend superiorly.”
Metal slides.
Tissue parts.
Blood glistens under the trauma lights.
Jack leans in, voice calm in the storm.
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.”
Ellis adjusts, and the cavity opens. She glances down, comments, “Amniotic fluid looks good.”
Robby shifts, “Give me some fundal pressure.” Pressure from above, hands working in concert. Then Ellis says it, “Breech position.”
A heartbeat passes. Tiny and endless, then Robby’s voice changes. Softens in spite of himself. “Baby’s out.” Something catches in it, so slight you almost miss it. “It’s a girl.”
And suddenly there she is— wet, blue, small beyond belief, new life slick in blood and amniotic fluid in Robby’s hands. Fragile as a held breath.
Jack works fast, “Milking the cord.”
Sam—“Clamping.”
Jack nods, “Cutting.” And then Robby is turning, already handing her off. “Okay, blue and flaccid. Coming to you, Shen.” A quick glance. “You ready?”
And then—“Yeah. You got her.”
At the warmer, Shen receives the baby. “I got it, yep.” His voice gentles, but becomes clinical again. “Poor tone. No movement.”
McKay steps closer, “Keep the blow-by closer.” Warm oxygen near the tiny face while Nazely whispers what everyone sees. “She’s really blue.”
McKay doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Some blue is normal. But not this much.” Nazely’s fear slips out, “Do we need to intubate?”
Shen shakes his head. “Not yet. They usually pink up with stimulation and blow-by.”
At Judith’s bedside—Robby keeps moving, no room to stop. “Okay, removing the placenta.”
Jack’s hand sweeps. “Sweeping to the left, trying to get it in one piece.”
Sam lifts it, and studies it, nods, confirming, “Looks intact.”
You nod. “It does.”
Robby, breath tight—“Yeah.”
Sam murmurs, “Nicely done.”
As if anyone can hear praise right now. Crus adds, “Ten IV Pitocin to contract the uterus.” Ellis already massaging the fundus. “And lots of massage.” Trying to stop hemorrhage and trying to hold on for dear life.
At the warmer, Sophie calls out, “Heart rate seventy-six.” Shen moves, “Less than a hundred means we bag.”
“Suction first.”
McKay, “Okay.”
Back at the bed, Robby doesn’t even turn. “Hey Jord, charge to two hundred. Stand by for next rhythm check.” Defib charging, blood infusing, and compressions relentless. Everything at once.
McKay, breathless, says, “She grimaced.” Her voice lifts. “Good sign.” While Shen starts ventilation. “Bagging.”
Sophie communicates to the other doctors, “Pulse ox forty-five.” Nazely nearly chokes. “I’ve never seen it that low.”
Shen doesn’t panic. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m more worried about the heart rate. McKay, get ready with an IO in case we need epi.”
“Okay.”
Crus remarks, “Rhythm check.”
“Hold compressions.”
Hands lift, and all eyes to the monitor. Robby stares, “Still V-fib.” Jaw tight. “Okay. Shock it.”
Jack asserts procedure, “Clear.” The shock lands. “Resume compressions.” Bodies return to motion, violence in service of life. Robby calls over his shoulder, “Shen, how’s she doing over there?” And Shen answers, “Heart rate’s up to one-oh-four.”
McKay starts the one-minute APGAR. “Uh, at one minute, she's zero for color, two for heart rate, one for reflex, tone, breathing.” She looks up. “APGAR of five.”
Jack doesn’t waver, still working on the mom. “Five out of ten. Not great.”
Sophie reads off the device, “Pulse ox fifty-eight.”
Nazely asks, “Intubation?” But Shen shakes his head. “Uh, not yet. O-two sat in the sixties is normal at one minute.” McKay watches the monitor, “Her heart rate and pulse ox are trending higher.”
And Shen—God bless him—actually smiles. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing. A little tincture of time.”
Back on Judith—Robby commands, “Hold compressions.” Everything pauses again. Ellis peers at the monitor, “Looks like sinus.”
You check the neck, your fingers press. Search and find nothing. Your voice falls. “Can’t feel a carotid.”
Jack shakes his head, “No.”
Crus reads what everyone fears. “Heart’s barely pumping. It’s PEA.”
Jack gives directions, “Back on compressions.” And the room, which had almost dared hope, feels their heart sink. Like a floor giving way. Crus already escalating, “Two more units. She needs red cells and platelets.”
Robby looks down at the blood flooding the field. “Ongoing blood loss from uterus.” Then to you— “Give me all the lap pads we’ve got.”
You hand over two thick batches. And watch—almost disbelieving—as Jack and Robby begin packing her open abdomen with soaked pads, hands disappearing into blood, trying to hold a woman together by force of will.
Trying—again—to keep death from taking what it came for.
Minutes stretch strangely in resuscitation. Too fast and unbearably slow, measured in compressions. In blood units and alarms. Whether a waveform rises or disappears. The monitors keep singing their anxious electronic chorus while sweat runs beneath gowns and everyone keeps moving because stopping is not an option.
Crus glances at the rapid infuser. “Units five and six are in.” Blood warming through the line. Red cells chasing life back into a body trying to leave.
Ellis has both hands still working at Judith’s abdomen, pressure steady. “Down to a slow ooze here.”
Jack watches the monitor. “Hold compressions.”
Everything stills, and hands lift. The room seems to stop breathing with them. You lean over Judith, fingers at her neck, searching. Then you feel it, thin and thready. But there, your breath catches.
“Looks like sinus…” You press harder. “And I got a weak carotid.”
Robby turns so fast it’s almost a snap. “Okay.” His voice rough, “Cycle the BP.” Crus watches the echo. “Better filling. Better squeeze.”
Ellis checks the EEG; her face changes. “No seizure activity.”
Robby nods, as if he’s afraid to trust it, “That’s progress.” A breath, then again, softer. “That’s progress.” As if saying it twice might make it true.
At the warmer, a whole second miracle is trying to happen. Shen checks the clock, “We’re at five minutes.”
McKay reading monitors. “Heart rate one-thirty-two. Pulse ox seventy-nine.” She glances at Nazely. “The APGAR?”
Nazely, breathless and trying to think, “One off for color… One off for tone… One off respiration with hypoxia…” She looks up. “Total of seven.”
McKay corrects automatically. “Respiration score is for observed breathing, not pulse ox.” Shen nods, “Sat of eighty is normal at five minutes. With no crying…” He glances at the baby. “She still gets one off.”
Nazely, absorbing it, “Yeah.”
And then—it happens, small at first, almost uncertain. A ragged little sound. Then—a cry, thin, sharp, and very much alive. It cuts through the room like light through a cracked door, and every head turns. The baby cries again, louder, indignant, beautiful, and something in your chest breaks wide open. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until it came out shaking.
Because of all the sounds this hospital makes—alarms, compressions, people dying, this might be the first one tonight that sounds like hope.
McKay laughs, actually laughs. “Ah!” She grins. “She just scored the winning point. APGAR of eight is pretty normal.”
Even Jack smiles, and you see Robby across the room smile too. Small and disbelieving. His eyes rimmed red, almost wet. The look of someone who wasn’t sure the universe had one more mercy left in it, and was wrong.
Then the door opens, Pettyfer strides in, takes in the scene, the blood, the open abdomen, and the newborn crying. The whole war zone, he just blurts— “Holy shit. What did I miss?”
Jack, deadpan even now, “Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.”
Pettyfer blinks. “I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section. Got your text twelve minutes ago.”
Jack shrugs, “Shit happens fast down here.” Crus, almost proud despite himself, “Resuscitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds.” Pettyfer stares. “Impressive.”
Understatement of the century.
You check the pressure, “BP one-oh-two over sixty-four.” A pause. “Hemoglobin up to nine.”
Numbers becoming human again. Robby moves to the side, starts peeling off gown and gloves. As if the adrenaline is finally leaking out of him.
He steps aside and removes his mask. Looks suddenly older and spent as he moves toward the glass doors. And with that gravel voice of his, “That’ll do.”
He’s a man pretending this didn’t just cost him something. You and Jack both watch him. Because you both hear what sits under the words. Relief and exhaustion.
“NICU’s sending a team down,” Mateo says.
Pettyfer nods. “We can take Mom.”
Then, looking around the room—blood-splattered, overworked, miraculous, “You guys are rock stars.”
Jack seamlessly, dry as ever. “We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night.”
A few exhausted laughs. Even in catastrophe, there’s room for stupid jokes. Maybe that’s survival, too. Then, for one suspended impossible moment, everyone in the room realizes they may have just pulled two people back from death. Together. With their hands, stubbornness, fear, and skill. With love, maybe, though no one in medicine ever calls it that. And standing there, watching Robby at the glass doors, his shoulders finally sagging.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Life in motion as if a woman hadn’t nearly died twenty feet away. As if a baby hadn’t been cut into the world by emergency. The ordinary always returning too quickly. Robby pauses at the sanitizer dispenser mounted by the wall.
Rubs the alcohol over blood-marked hands that have already been scrubbed, gloved, and scrubbed again. A habit now, or maybe something else. Trying to wash off what the last twenty minutes cost. He exhales long, almost shaky. But enough for you to notice, watching from the trauma doorway as you finish stripping off gloves.
He walks toward Dana with the dazed, post-adrenaline looseness of someone whose body hasn’t realized the crisis is over.
“If you’re not careful,” he says, voice roughened from shouting over alarms, “you’re gonna get stuck here all night.”
Dana is sorting forms, “Nah. Henny said she’d be here in thirty minutes.” Then she glances at him, softens as she leans on the desk, “How’s Mom and baby?”
For the first time all shift, Robby smiles. Worn and disbelieving. Almost boyish. “Whew.” A breath of relief dressed up as a word. “They’re both gonna go upstairs.”
Dana’s shoulders drop, some knot in her unties. “Good.” And quieter—genuine. She studies him a second. Maybe noticing how pale he looks, how spent. “You leaving now?”
Robby leans one hip against the counter but doesn’t really rest. Still vibrating with unfinished things. “Yeah. Pretty soon.” The list starts, “I gotta find Whitaker. I gotta find Al-Hashimi.” He glances toward Trauma One. A flicker of something softer. “I gotta talk to Ducky after she finishes in there… And I gotta find Langdon before I leave.”
All these threads, still trying to tie them. Even now, after nearly cutting a baby out of a dying woman.
Dana watches him like she already knows where this is going. That he’ll keep finding reasons not to walk out. “You missed Langdon. He just checked out.”
Robby freezes, the smile gone, as if someone pulled current from the room. “Shit.”
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
The ambulance bay hums with its own kind of insomnia. Diesel lingering in the damp summer air. Sirens somewhere far enough away not to matter yet. The concrete still holds heat from the day, breathing it back up in waves.
Robby steps out beside Whitaker, the sliding doors hissing shut behind them. He presses a small yellow note into Whitaker’s hand. “My cell phone,” he says, tapping the paper. “And the building manager’s. He can help if there’s any emergencies.”
Whitaker unfolds it like it might be something fragile. “Yeah…” he says, squinting. “What kind of emergencies?”
Robby gives that tired shrug of his, the one that means everything and nothing. “Whatever.” Then, almost as an afterthought— “And follow up with Duke in a couple days, yeah?”
Whitaker nods quickly. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment. Then more carefully—“You, um…” He hesitates. “You sure about this?”
Robby looks at him, past the nervousness and the awkwardness. At the man, he’s spent time teaching, and something paternal flickers there. “I trust you, Whitaker.”
Whitaker seems almost startled by it. As if praise lands harder than criticism ever did. “Great,” he says too fast. Trying not to look moved.
Robby half-smiles. “Any questions?”
Whitaker shifts his backpack higher, “Uh… when are you back, exactly?”
Robby looks out toward the dark road beyond the bay. The open country is already living somewhere in his head. “You know… I’ll text you. I’m trying to keep my dates kind of fluid.”
Headlights cut into the bay, a truck pulling up. Robby nods toward it. “I think this is your ride.”
Whitaker turns. “Yeah—uh, yes.” Then, earnestly all over again, “I promise I’ll check in on your house tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
A pause. Whitaker lingers, because he doesn’t quite know how to say goodbye. Then—“Hey.” The driver’s door opens, Amy steps out, and rounds the truck.
“Hey.” Whitaker opens the passenger side and leans in. A baby boy in a car seat blinks up at him. His whole face changes. Softens. “Okay…” He sets down his backpack. “Hey, Theo. You’re up late, huh? What you got there?”
Amy buckles in. “He’s been fussy all day. I think he’s got another tooth coming in.”
Whitaker lights up, “Aww.” He straps himself in, leans toward the baby. “Right on, big guy. Ready to get funky?” He makes a ridiculous face. Theo blinks, unimpressed, but Whitaker grins anyway. Before the truck pulls out, he gives Robby a little salute.
Robby returns a nod and watches them disappear into the night with music spilling faintly from the truck speakers. For a second, something wistful crosses his face. Domesticity glimpsed through someone else’s windshield, then it’s gone.
Another set of doors opens, and Samira steps out. Phone in hand, lifting it for signal. Searching for a bar or something else.
Robby glances over. “Hey.”
She looks up. “Hey.”
He nods toward the phone. “Any luck picking an elective?”
She exhales, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into geriatrics.”
He gives a small approving hum, “It’s a smart choice.” Subsequently quieter, almost unexpectedly personal, he begins, “I know life can be challenging. Especially when it doesn’t work out the way you expected.”
Samira looks at him now, listening. He stares out toward the lot and says it almost like he hasn’t said it aloud before. “I thought I’d be married by now. Two kids in college. Maybe some property. A pond.” A ghost of a smile. “We’d play hockey on it in the winter.”
He laughs once through his nose. “And yet…” He gestures to himself. “Look at me. No wife. No kids. No pond.”
Samira says softly—“It’s never too late.” And though she says it to him, something in her expression flickers with another thought. Of you, and all the ways everyone can see what neither of you will name.
Robby looks at her. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yeah.” She means it. He studies her. Then—“Only for me… or for you too?”
Samira huffs a little, caught. “Okay.” A tiny smile. “I see what you did there. Was that true… Or something you just said to make a point?”
Robby only shrugs, which is answer enough. An ambulance backs in. Movement surges again. Shen passes them with purpose, already helping the EMTs.
The night swallowing softness whole, but Robby speaks again before it can. “Have you worked things out with your mom?”
Samira’s face closes some. “We’re not talking.” Silence, before she steps closer. As if choosing honesty, too. “I am sorry… that I let it distract me. She was treating me like a child. And I was letting her.” She swallows, and then, with more feeling, “Have a good trip. Please be safe. We need you here.”
A tiny beat, before she adds, “Even if you can be a dick sometimes.” It startles a small laugh out of him.
“Good luck.”
Robby nods, something almost grateful in it, “You too.”
He starts toward the sliding doors, into noise and the place he keeps trying to leave, and Samira watches him go with the look people get when they’re watching someone they care about walk too close to an edge, and hoping somehow he turns back.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Under the fluorescent buzz, you sit beside Jack at a workstation in a squeaky swivel chair, elbows tucked close, eyes shut for only a moment. Not sleeping, only resting them. Trying to ease the burn behind them, not to feel how fifteen hours sit in your bones.
Jack is charting beside you, one forearm braced on the desk, typing with maddening focus. You can hear the soft clack of keys. The occasional muttered, “Come on,” when the system lags.
There’s something oddly soothing about it.
You let your head tip back for one second longer, then hear Robby. “Hey, I didn’t think you were still here.” Your eyes open halfway. Across Central, he’s stopped beside Al-Hashimi. She looks tired— more than tired. Frayed. “I was just talking to the neurologist on call.”
Robby studies her, “And?”
“We had a nice chat,” she says. “She agrees I can work with double coverage.” Something in Robby’s face changes, hardens. You know that look, and Jack notices too. His typing stops while Robby’s voice lowers, too controlled. “That’s not her call to make. You can’t do anything critical where a five-second lapse in consciousness could potentially kill a patient.”
Al-Hashimi’s jaw sets. “I agree.” But already they’re moving, walking toward Central 6, privacy. Which in an ED never means privacy, only quieter conflict.
“But ninety percent of our patients don’t require critical procedures,” Al-Hashimi argues. Robby fires back instantly. “And the ones that do?”
She folds her arms, “They’ll be handled by whoever’s working with me.”
“Unless they’re tied up with a critical patient.” He steps closer, “What if it's a double or triple trauma?”
“Robby,” she says through her teeth, “I can handle it.”
“No.” Sharp, and immediate. “You can’t. And I can’t let you.”
Her voice rises. “I am fully capable of handling—”
“No, you are not fully capable, and you know it.”
Al-Hashimi decides to shut the glass door.
While your body reacts before your mind does, your heart kicks, breath shortening. That old reflex, raised voices. Jack notices instantly, his hand lands warm and firm on your shoulder. “You’re okay.”
You blink hard, then swallow. “What’s going on?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Who’s shouting?”
Jack glances past his monitor. “Robby and Al are going at it in Central Six.” You both look. Through the glass—they are inches from a screaming match.
“What do you want from me?” Al-Hashimi demands.
Robby doesn’t soften. “I want what's best for this department-- patients and staff. Best-case scenario, you get a handle on this, you're seizure-free for six months, you get your driver's license back, you are cleared to work.”
Her anger flashes, “I am cleared for my driver’s license.”
“You shouldn’t be driving at all like this. If you were a patient, we’d have to report you.”
She explodes, “I am not your fucking patient.”
The air goes taut, and Robby fires back louder. “No—but I cannot let you work in my emergency department until you’re fully capable.”
“That is not your fucking call!”
Then he shouts—voice echoing off glass—“You’re fucking-A right it’s my call!” Robby points toward the floor. “I'm trying to protect you and my patients, and you know I'm right about this.”
Al-Hashimi’s face scrunches up in anger. “Oh, ‘my department,’ ‘my patients.’” A bitter laugh. “All you fucking think about is yourself. You didn’t rat out Langdon for stealing fucking drugs.”
Robby doesn’t flinch, but something wounded crosses his face. “No. But I kicked him out of this department until he got the help he needed.” His voice is sure now. “And the same goes for you.”
He points toward her, “You’ve got until Monday to tell administration. Or I will.”
The door rips open, and Robby storms out. Past the workstation. Not seeing you. Too angry to see anything. Jack pushes back from his chair, rising instinctively, tracking him with his eyes.
Dana appears at your shoulder as if she materialized out of the lights themselves. Taps your arm. “Ready to watch the fireworks?”
The word feels surreal after that. Fireworks. As if this whole shift hasn’t already been an explosion. You nod faintly, then look at Jack. “Can you make sure Robby…” You don’t finish, because don’t have to.
Jack understands, always does, and he nods once. “I got him.” Then softer— “You go enjoy the fireworks, okay?” He tilts his head toward you. “And let me know if you get…”
He trails off. But you know what he means, the crowds, noise, the triggers. The Fourth of July has a memory all its own.
You nod, “I will.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze; it’s warm. Then, because he cannot help himself, “Try to have at least one wholesome patriotic moment tonight.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Impossible.”
A ghost of a grin, then Dana loops an arm through yours. Pulling you toward the elevator doors, up to the roof, toward fireworks and a little borrowed light.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Robby steps back into Central looking like a man held together by momentum alone. His eyes sweep the station. “Where’s Dana?” A pause. “And Ducky?”
Vivi looks up from a chart she’s flagging. “Not sure. A bunch of day shift just headed to the roof to watch the fireworks.” She tips her head. “You want me to call her?”
Robby hesitates; there’s a flicker there. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.” He starts walking. Jack sees it and falls into step beside him without invitation.
Of course he does. They move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, past supply carts and linen bins, under lights too bright for the hour.
Jack breaks the silence first. “Yo.”
Robby glances over.
“Thanks for your help in there.” A moment passes. “Almost out?”
“Yep,” Robby says, and without looking at him, “Is this where you try to talk me out of going?”
Jack scoffs. “Me?” He shakes his head. “No, not a chance. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”
Robby pretends not to falter, “Nope.”
Jack lifts a brow, “No?”
“Nope.”
Jack hums. “Don’t have to convince me.” But then, deadpan, he adds, “I mean… it is a little strange the only place you’ve talked about going is somewhere they used to drive buffalo off a cliff to die.”
Robby exhales through his nose, “Here it comes.”
Jack looks at him pointedly, “I looked it up. As far as summer vacations go? It is not exactly a holiday hotspot.” He gestures. “What’s in the fucking gift shop, man?”
That gets the ghost of a smile, “It’s just one place I’m going.”
Jack shrugs, “As long as it’s not the last. Don’t be pulling a Thelma and Louise out there.”
Robby shakes his head, “I am minutes from taking a three-month vacation.” He glances over. “When’s the last time you took any time off, Jack?”
Jack huffs. “Yeah, but I’ve dealt with my demons.” A pause ensued. “It’s a process.”
They reach Trauma One, and Robby pushes through. Jack follows, but something changes. The joking thins and drops.
Jack stops in the middle of the bay. Then says, almost too casually, “You want to know why I never killed myself?” That stops Robby cold, he turns and faces him. Silence. Even the room seems to hold still.
Jack looks away first, then back, and for once, there is no deflection in him. No wisecrack. Only truth. “After what I saw…” He swallows. “What I lived through…” His thumb catches his wedding band, fidgeting with it unconsciously. “Losing my leg.” His voice nearly falters. “Losing my wife.”
He clears his throat, starts again. “Because it comes for all of us, man.” His eyes lock onto Robby’s. “You and I know it more than most. We see it every shift. But we can’t let ourselves succumb to it.” His voice roughens. “Yes, life can suck. It can be unbearable and brutal and ugly and heartbreaking.” Softer, he adds, “But it’s also beautiful. And hilarious.”
A breath. “That woman today? Her baby? They’d both be in the morgue if you hadn’t been here.” He points between them. “That’s us. That’s you and me. That’s what we’re here for.”
Robby nods once, but he’s already breaking. His throat works before words come. “The most important things I’ve ever done in my life…” He struggles. “…have been in this hospital.”
His voice cracks. “Nothing will ever matter more.” A long breath. “But it is killing me.”
Jack says nothing, lets him say it, allows him to confess it. Because that’s what this is, a confession. Robby’s eyes shine. “You know how they say a part of you dies when you lose someone you love?” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not convinced a part of you doesn’t die every time you watch another human being pass.”
His face pinches. “And I’ve seen so many people die…” He shakes his head. “…I feel like it’s leaching something out of my soul.”
His words hang there, terrible, holy, all while Jack lets them. Then he takes a step forward, “Go on a cruise, man.” The impact of his words hit him so absurdly that Robby almost chokes, but Jack presses on. “Knock off this helmetless motorcycle shit. People talk. That’s death-wish behavior.”
And then Robby, finally comes apart, tears, open, and helpless. “I’m tired.” He wipes at his face and it does nothing. “I’m tired of being a role model. I’m tired of feeling like you can’t get ahead. I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.” His voice breaks entirely. “I’m tired of all of it.”
Jack steps closer, not as colleague. But as a Friend. A Brother. “You need to get away for a while, and you need to get some help. You need this place as much as it needs you.” He points to the floor.
Robby’s tears don’t stop. He asks it so quietly it almost disappears, “Am I fucked up?”
Jack nods once, immediately. “Hundred percent.” And then gentler, “But nobody works here as long as you and me and doesn’t get screwed up.” The moment stretched. “You gotta find somebody to help you dance through the darkness.”
Robby blinks, then actually laughs. Wet and stunned. “Did you just make that up?”
Jack squints, “Maybe it’s a song lyric …Maybe my therapist said it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then he truly studies him. “And…” He tips his head. “You already have the partner to dance you through the darkness.”
Robby knows immediately who he means.
You.
His eyes lowered, a tiny broken smile.
Jack snorts. “Or as she would say it— Waddle through the darkness.” That almost gets a real laugh.
Suddenly, Nazely sticks her head in. “Some dude just pulled up. Looks like he blew half his face off.” And she’s gone.
Jack spreads his arms. “How can you not love this place?”
Even crying, Robby shakes his head, unbelieving. Then, Jack steps forward. Grabs him, pulls him into a hug. Hard. Real. The kind men like them almost never give each other. And into Robby’s shoulder— “Don’t make me look stupid.” A squeeze. “You come back to us in one piece.”
He pulls back, points. “I’m still your emergency contact. And I do not want to be contacted.”
Robby laughs through tears.
Jack backs toward the door. “All right, night crawlers,” he calls as he exits into the noise— “What the hell’s going on out here?” Voices answer, and Medics shout report. “Twenty-five-year-old male—no meds, no allergies—”
Robby stands alone in Trauma One for a second longer, breathing, trying. Then takes a deep breath. Wipes his face and walks out. Past the workstation where his black thermos waits. Picks it up. And heads toward the staff room— looking, for the first time all night, like maybe he intends to come back.
PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT
The roof is more crowded than it has any right to be.
Half of day shift has drifted up here in clumps—nurses still in wrinkled scrubs, residents carrying paper cups of stale coffee, somebody passing around vending machine chips like it’s a holiday feast. People lean against railings, perch on utility boxes, stand shoulder to shoulder under the warm July night.
For the first time all day, no alarms, no pages, and no overhead trauma calls. Only breathing. Only sky. Then, the first firework goes up. A sharp whistle, a pause, and it blooms.
Gold breaking open over the city. Someone cheers, and someone else whistles. And suddenly the darkness is full of color. Red. Silver. Blue. Light spilling over faces you know by heart.
The skyline flickers, and glass buildings catch the reflections. For a moment, Pittsburgh looks almost enchanted. There’s music drifting from somewhere below—faint and warped by distance, some patriotic brass band or maybe somebody’s rooftop radio. It reaches you in pieces. And the fireworks keep coming, snap, crack, pop. As if the sky is splitting open over and over.
You try to stay in the moment, you do. But sound has memory and memory has teeth. A particularly loud burst detonates overhead— and your shoulders jump. Before you can stop them, another whistle screams upward, another boom. And your pulse stumbles.
Because suddenly it is not tonight, it is another Fourth of July. Bodies pressing too close. Shouting. The terror of movement with nowhere to go. The crowd surge. Panic thick as smoke. The old instinct returns before reason can catch up.
Your breath turns shallow; you hate that it does. You hate that even beauty can still sound like danger. You stare up anyway, because the sky keeps opening. And something about it hurts. The way beautiful things can.
Your eyes begin to flutter shut between bursts. The fireworks hiss and crack against the dark. Sharp enough to make you flinch now and then. Soft enough, somehow, to make you ache. Because exhaustion has made everything thin-skinned. Because grief has been sitting in your chest all day, with nowhere to go.
Because Robby said what if I don’t come back. Because Jack held you while you cried. Because Jesse is gone. Because Emma was nearly strangled. Because a baby was abandoned in a hospital bathroom.
Because fifteen hours of emergency medicine leaves people a little broken and a little holy. And because— God. You don’t know when you started crying. But you are. Quietly. Tears slipping before you even realize they’re there. The kind that comes from being too tired to keep the walls up.
You close your eyes, only for a second, and through your lids the fireworks flash red-orange gold. Like blood behind sunlight. For one strange moment, it feels almost sacred. As if this were your last night with these people—this impossible, messy, beautiful crew—this would be how you’d remember them. Not bloodstained and exhausted. But here, painted in fireworks. Laughing and alive. Your life has felt, for so long, entirely devoid of fireworks, and here they are. Exploding over you anyway.
Then, warmth, arms around you from one side. You startle, and turn. Perlah. She’s tucked herself against you without asking, chin nearly on your shoulder. No words. Just there, holding. And before you can even react, Dana hooks onto your other side.
Suddenly, you are trapped in a lopsided three-person hug. The next firework erupts huge overhead—white sparks raining down. Everyone on the roof gasps, and you feel Dana press her temple briefly to yours. Perlah’s hand rubs your arm, an absent comforting motion. Almost mothering. And for a moment, the loneliness lifts.
You stand there held between two women who have seen you survive this day. Seen you bleeding and you're afraid. They’ve seen you keep going anyway. And they hold you through the fireworks. As if that is the most natural thing in the world.
And here—for this impossible little pause—you are suspended between grief and celebration. Fear and light. Loss and people who stay. Fireworks reflecting in wet eyes, arms linked, and the sky burning above you.
HALLWAY — NIGHT
Bright lights pool pale over the linoleum, making everything feel a little too exposed. Robby rounds the corner carrying his black thermos, still raw around the eyes though he’s tried to wash it off. He slows when he sees Langdon pass by, bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand.
For a second, neither says anything, so much history packed into a silence. Then Robby said, “Hey.”
Langdon lifts his chin. “Hey.”
Robby then stops, “I thought you’d left already.”
“On my way out.” His voice carries that old carefulness now, the one sobriety has put into him, always watching for land mines.
Robby shifts his weight. “Hey…” He exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t find the time today to have that conversation.”
Langdon gives a humorless half-smile. “Yeah. That’s all right.” Seems like you didn’t really want to.”
Langdon looks almost surprised by the question and then answers plainly. “Uh… yeah.” He steps closer, not confrontational. Intent. “Look, I’m doing the work.” His voice roughens with the effort of making himself understood. “I’ve been sober a hundred eighty-six days. I’m going to meetings. I’m taking the drug tests.”
Robby nods once, “That’s good.”
“And you’re still riding me.” There’s hurt in it now, old hurt. “What would have happened if I’d paralyzed that guy?”
Robby’s jaw works; he doesn’t dodge. “I don’t know. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here today?” He presses on. “You’d still be questioning yourself. Now you know you can do it.” Dry as acid, he tacks on, “You’re welcome.”
Langdon stares at him. “Oh. So that’s how you teach now?”
Robby shrugs. “Sometimes.” There it is, that brittle edge. The one everyone’s been feeling all day. Langdon sees it, and he steps closer again, lower voice now. “You know who I saw in rehab?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
“A bunch of guys just like you. The only difference… They’ve accepted they need help.”
Robby’s expression tightens, but Langdon doesn’t stop. “I think you’re afraid to admit the mighty Dr. Robby isn’t perfect.”
Robby almost scoffs. “Oh, I never claimed to be perfect.”
“No,” Langdon says. “But you expect it of yourself. It’s not realistic, man. How can any of us live up to your standards… if you can’t even do it?” Then, softer—almost pleading, “You need help, Robby. You need help.”
And somehow that sounds more intimate than accusation. Because it is. Concern always sounds dangerous when you’re exhausted enough.
From Pedes, a baby starts crying. Thin and insistent. Baby Jane Doe. The sound threads through the hallway. Both men hear it. Robby lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug, armor back on. “Finished?”
Langdon lets out a breath through his nose, almost sad. “You don’t gotta be honest with me, man.” A pause. “At least be honest with yourself.”
Langdon turns, starts walking, and he doesn’t look back. His footsteps fade down the hall. Leaving Robby alone under hospital lights, still and holding too much.
For a second, he doesn’t move, his face does something unreadable. Something cracked. Then he lets out a breath he may have been holding for years. And somewhere beneath all his sharp edges—hurt. Because some truths only sting when they’re true.
The baby cries again, louder now, needful, and alive. Robby looks toward Pedes. Toward the sound, something helpless needing tending. And of course— that’s what pulls him. Always. He starts walking toward the crying, and there’s something almost unbearably tender in it— that even after everything, after confessions and fractures and death wishes whispered into trauma bays—he still goes when someone cries.
As if some part of him cannot help answering suffering, cannot help being who he is. He disappears into Pedes, and the hallway empties, leaving only the hum of lights. The fading echo of Langdon’s words. The feeling that something important just passed between them, too painful to call forgiveness, too honest to be anything less.
PEDES — NIGHT
Robby steps in still carrying the ache of the conversation with Langdon like something tender under the ribs, but when Tim looks up from the warmer, he smiles anyway.
And Tim smiles back.
“She’s due for a new bottle,” Tim says quietly, glancing down at Baby Jane Doe. “I was hoping to get her some formula before I clock out.”
Robby nods. “I’ll stay with her.”
Tim looks relieved. “Thanks.” He moves for the door. Robby adds, almost absentmindedly, “Why are you—” then corrects himself. “Will you hit those lights on your way out?”
“Yep.” Tim slips out, and the door shuts, lights dim further, and the room falls into hush.
The baby fusses, a little wounded cry, small, outraged sounds. Robby moves closer, “Why are you crying?” His voice softens into something almost unfamiliar. “Why are you crying, little one?”
He sanitizes his hands and removes his stethoscope from around his neck and lets it hang by the warmer. Then pulls out his phone, and a song starts low through the speaker. Fragile notes, almost a lullaby.
He leans in. “You’re okay.” A hand under her tiny shoulder blades. “You’re safe.” He gathers the blanket. “Yeah… You’re not alone.” His fingers move with surprising care as he refolds the swaddle. “Do you need to be swaddled again? Is that it?”
A crooked little smile, “I can do that.” He tucks one corner. Then another. Looks almost proud. “Aww.” He exhales softly. “I wish somebody would swaddle me.”
A broken joke, half true. “Yes, I do.” He lifts her and then settles her against his chest. And something in him goes unbearably gentle. “You got off to kind of a rough start, didn’t you, little one?”
You pass Pedes on your way down the hall, and you meant to keep walking. But through the glass, you see him. Head bowed over the baby. The song drifts, and you stop.
Because his shoulders are shaking, you hear him through the door. Voice cracking. “Yeah, you did.” A breath catches. “Well… That makes two of us.”
Your hand rises to your mouth. Because you have never heard him sound like this. A man saying something too heavy to survive alone. “I got abandoned too.” His eyes close. “When I was eight. But I got through all that.” A tear slips down his face. “And so will you.”
His thumb strokes the baby’s back. “I got a good feeling… you’re gonna be just fine.” His voice trembles. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. You got so many wonderful things to see. So many people to love ahead of you.”
He repeats it like he’s trying to convince himself too. “So many wonderful things to see, people to love ahead of you. Shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
And then he cries harder. Still rocking her and soothing her. As if even heartbroken, he can only comfort, and you recognize the song. The one you sent him months ago.
When you told him music had carried you through grief when nothing else could, and he remembered. Of course, he remembered. Something inside you caves as you decide to push the door open quietly.
He stiffens when your arms slide around him from behind. Only for a second. Then knows, it’s you. And melts. Actually melts. Lets himself lean back into your hold. You tuck your face between his shoulder blades.
Breathing him in. Salt, soap, and hospital. And softly—almost without thinking—you sing with the song. Barely louder than breath, your voice shaking, along with his, too.
You both sway, just a little. Side to side, as if grief has made its own rhythm. He holds the baby in one arm. Reaches his free hand back for yours. Finds it and clings. And you think—this might be the saddest, most beautiful thing you have ever known.
After a while, he guides you toward the little chair and makes you sit. Places Baby Jane Doe into your arms. Shows you the swaddle again, like he needs an excuse to keep his hands near yours.
The baby settles against your chest. Tiny, warm, and trusting. Robby kneels slightly beside you and looks at you in awe. Hair has fallen loose. Tired eyes. Bruises are still yellowing on your throat. A baby in your arms, and something almost dangerous passes through him. A thought so soft it terrifies him.
Home.
He sees it and hates how much he wants it. A life with you, one he thinks he does not deserve. Not yet. Maybe never. But he sees it and can’t unsee it. He clears his throat, “So…”
You look at him.
“You want to have that talk?”
You whisper. “In front of the baby?”
His mouth lifts. “Well…” He nods toward her sleeping. “She seems pretty content.” Then lightly—“You could foster her for a bit. Take her home.”
You smile sadly.
“I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom yet.” A pause. Then truer—“Maybe one day… If I were lucky. If life was kind. With the right partner…” Your thumb strokes the baby’s hand. “I’d want that. But I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”
Something catches in his face. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Me too.”
There’s a full silence. Then, you ask, “Still going on that road trip?” He exhales. “Not sure.” A little shrug. “Might take Abbot’s advice. Go on a cruise instead.”
“That sounds nice,” you say. “I’ve always loved the ocean.”
He looks at you, a little too long. Suddenly, he asks, “Wanna come with me?” It hits so unexpectedly, you laugh, softly, and almost teary. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
You shake your head, “I don’t get paid as much as you, Michael. Or have three months of leave.”
He smiles, but neither of you misses what sat under the joke. Then it deepens, the inevitability. You look at him at the fatigue he wears like skin, and you begin, carefully. “I heard what you told Duke.” His face stills, but you go on anyway. Because loving someone sometimes means stepping into the wound. “Everyone reaches that place at least once. The place where it feels like the whole world turned its back.”
You swallow. “Sometimes people say they don’t want to be here anymore…when what they really mean is… I don’t know how to stop hurting like this.”
His eyes gloss, and yours do too.
You lean closer. “Depression…” You search. “…it’s weather. Some days it storms so hard you think sunlight was invented for other people. Some days it clears. But storms pass.” A brief pause ensued before you continued, “I don’t want to be someone asking you to stand under my umbrella while I stay dry.”
You shake your head. “I want to stand in the rain with you. If it pours… Then we get drenched together.”
His breath catches while you touch his face. “There are times you need somebody else’s help. That isn’t failure. That’s being alive. And time…” You smile sadly. “Time matters. But how you use it matters more.” He looks wrecked now, beautifully wrecked. As if someone finally seen.
“I’m far from healing,” he admits, almost ashamed. “I know.” You answer immediately. “And I’m not asking you to be finished. Just… come back.”
His eyes shut, as if those words hurt. Because they heal and they ask him to live. And maybe no one has asked plainly enough. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers to you, “I’m scared.”
It is the most honest thing he has ever given you. You cry at that, because untouchable men do not say they are scared. Broken ones do, the real ones do.
You kiss his temple, “I know. I’m scared too.” A beat. “But isn’t that the point? It means you’re alive.”
The baby sighs in her sleep as the song ends. Neither of you moves. Outside, fireworks bloom somewhere over the city. Silent from here. And in that soft glow, holding a child neither of you can keep, talking a man you love gently back toward life—you realize sometimes love is not confession. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in the dark until they decide not to leave it alone.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
Somewhere beyond the hospital, fireworks still crackle in the distance—faint now, ghostly. The city sounds far away, as if only leaving you and him.
Robby walks beside you through the sliding doors, helmet tucked under one arm, black thermos looped through two fingers, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks lighter somehow, and unbearably breakable.
You stop him before he gets to the bike, as your fingers fumble in your bag. He watches, curious. “What’re you doing?” he asks.
You pull out a box wrapped simply, no ribbon, just brown paper and tape, small enough to fit in his hands. You hold it out to him. “I know you didn’t want a cake, or a party, or whatever…” You give a little shrug, trying for casual and failing. “So I got you this instead.”
He blinks, actually surprised. “For me?”
You nod.
His mouth twitches as he asks, “Can I?”
A soft laugh escapes you, “Yeah. Open it.”
He sets the helmet on the bike seat and carefully lifts the lid. Inside is a blank, dark, worn brown leather journal. Soft at the edges, it’s the kind made to be carried. Used and lived in. He runs a thumb over the cover, says nothing for a second, and somehow that silence feels louder than words.
“It helps,” you say quietly. “With… everything.” You look away for a second. Because saying more might undo you. “I don’t care what you use it for. Thoughts. Maps. Postcards. Pictures. Things you don’t know how to say.”
His eyes lift to yours, something in them shifts.
You swallow and add, softer, “If you finish all the pages… There’s something for you at the end, in the back sleeve.”
He studies you, “At the end?”
You nod, “One last page.”
A secret or confession, a thing too frightening to give him now. You hold up your pinky. Childish but earnest. “Promise me you won’t read it until you fill the whole thing.”
His expression almost breaks, as he hooks his pinky with yours immediately. No teasing or hesitation. “Okay. I promise.” His hand lingers, warm. Then you tighten your hold on his finger.
“One more thing.”
He tilts his head as you nod toward the box, saying, “Keep it with you.”
He looks confused, “The box?”
“The journal. All of it. Don’t leave it behind.”
His brow furrows; there’s concern there now. “Why?”
You shake your head. “I can’t explain right now. Just promise.”
He looks at you like he wants to press, but something in your face stops him. So, he nods. “I promise.” He adds, gentler, “Not gonna tell me?”
You almost smile, “Gotta write in that thing to find out.”
That gets a breath of laughter from him. Low and a little disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
Silence folds around you again, and then he reaches for his helmet. Pulls it on, fastens the strap. The motion feels unbearable, as if watching departure become real. He swings a leg over the bike, the engine hasn’t even started yet and already your chest aches.
“I’ll call,” he says.
You are trying so hard not to cry, “Okay.”
His gloved hands rest on the handlebars. He looks at you as if trying to memorize. “I’ll see you soon, Ducky.”
Your throat tightens. “Okay.” You nod once. Then— “Michael, I—”
He pauses, helmet visor still up. “Yeah?”
And God, his eyes. Under the bay lights, they look almost blue with grief.
You almost tell him about New York, the offers. That you could be leaving too. That you may be gone when he comes back, and you are terrified if you tell him now, he’ll leave, carrying one more reason not to return. But fear wins, cowardice dressed as mercy, and you lie.
The lie tastes metallic, almost like blood. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Something flickers in him, relief, or trust. Maybe both, he nods. As if taking that with him and believing you, and it nearly kills you. He lowers the visor and starts the bike. The engine growls alive, deep-throated. Duke had been right.
You step back, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebar in a small salute. Then he rides. Out of the bay and into the night. Taillight shrinking. Smaller, and then… eventually, gone.
You stay there long after the red taillight disappears. Long after the sound of the motorcycle has been swallowed whole by the city. As if, if you wait enough seconds, enough breaths, the dark might give him back. But it doesn’t, there’s only a humid night. Only the distant crack of fireworks fading over rooftops. Only the ache between your ribs he leaves behind.
A smile trembles onto your mouth anyway, small, broken at the edges. Hopeful in spite of itself. Ruined, too. “Goodbye, Michael Robinavitch.”
The words drift out and dissolve into exhaust and warm July air, too soft for anyone but the night to hear. And standing there in the aftermath of him, you understand something that hurts. Sometimes loving someone is not holding on tighter. Love is loosening your grip before you drag each other under. It is making peace with becoming a place someone survived. A harbor they passed through. A light left on in a window they may never return to.
Some people are not ours to keep, only ours to witness. To carry for a while. And then with shaking hands—to let go. Because love that is only longing will turn into mourning if you feed it forever. And you are so tired of starving on almost.
You love him. God, you love him. In the quiet, terrible ways. In the ways that asked nothing. But somewhere inside all that grief is a gentler truth rising: you are ready to be loved in return.
Not waited for, or a maybe. Not someday. Loved, chosen, and held without hesitation. And because of that—you have to let him go. Not because he means less, because you finally know you mean something too.
Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, and the screen blurs. You wipe your face with the heel of your palm before hitting call. It rings once. Twice. Then the call connects.
“Hi?” Your sister, and something in you, nearly folds.
Your voice breaks and steadies all at once. “Hi, Ate.” A breath. Then the words leave before you can stop them. “I’ll be there in November.”
Silence. A stunned little silence. Then she says, “Really?” Her voice cracks around the word. As if she doesn’t quite believe you.
You look at the empty road where he vanished, at the stretch of black asphalt still holding the shape of goodbye.
And answer almost to yourself, softly. “Yeah.” A pause. Then with a sad little smile no one sees— “See you soon.”
Your sister says something through a laugh that sounds almost like crying. But you barely hear it. Because something inside you, something clenched for years, has loosened. As if maybe leaving can be its own form of mercy, or maybe departure is not always abandonment.
Sometimes it is a jumping-off point to get to somewhere else. And under a sky still smoking with spent fireworks, with your heart split open and strangely lighter, you turn toward the streetlights—toward one ending, toward another beginning, and walk.
End Notes:
ALEXA play Free Now by Gracie Abrams!!! ON BLAST.
This ain’t the end of these two just yet… we have a couple more chapters of pain, and then it’s all good vibes from here.
“Wait, he doesn’t know about New York? D:”
Yes, he doesn’t… yet :P HEHEHEH
Now… DID SOMEONE ORDER A LOT OF GROVELING??? TEHE
And how do we feel about him chasing after you? ;)
Chapter Thirty-Two: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising
Word Count: 12.7k
A/N: Lots of italics in this one… uhhhh and uhhhh a lot of implied love here, but they don’t actually say those three words… yet.
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/Pinterest. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Pahina by Cup of Joe, How You Get The Girl by Taylor Swift, and I Love You, I’m Sorry by Gracie Abrams
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4 MONTHS LATER…
CRUISE SHIP — DAY
The sea does something strange to grief. It doesn’t erase it or cure it. But it loosens its grip enough for a man to hear himself think again. And for the first time in years, Michael Robinavitch lets silence exist without trying to outrun it.
He takes Jack’s advice, actually takes it. Not the spirit quest or the endless highway.
A cruise. A ridiculous, almost embarrassing cruise Jack had half-joked about in Trauma One. He can still hear Jack Abbot saying it—Go on a cruise, man.
Somehow—he did. The first week, he hates it, all the floating buffets and retirees line dancing at sunset, the aggressively cheerful steel drum music. He feels like a man haunting a vacation brochure.
But then, eventually, something changes. Maybe it was the salt air or the mornings he drinks coffee on the deck before dawn, wrapped in a windbreaker, watching the horizon bleed pink. The long, anonymous miles of ocean where nobody needs anything from him.
No trauma calls or overhead pages. No alarms and no dying. Only water, the sky, and breathing.
He starts sleeping, albeit at first in pieces. Then in real hours. He starts meeting with a therapist over Zoom from the ship’s wifi, awkwardly balanced in a tiny cabin while the ocean rolls outside the porthole.
At first, he treats it like a consult, detached and clinical. Then one day, he says too much, and doesn’t die from saying it. So he keeps talking about his mother, the abandonment, the dead, the guilt that clings to survival.
About how being needed became indistinguishable from being alive. Eventually, as time goes, he begins to talk about you. He doesn’t say your name at first. Then he does, and once he starts—he can’t seem to stop.
He writes in the journal every day because he promised you. At first, it was only scraps. Room numbers. Coordinates. Bad drawings of ports. Finally, it all bleeds out, his thoughts, and confessions. Things he never says aloud. He tapes postcards inside, and buys you souvenirs at every stop.
So far, he has a pile of trinkets accumulated for you. A pressed flower bookmark in Lisbon. Sea glass earrings from Santorini. A tiny painted saint medal in Naples—ridiculous fridge magnets. A fountain pen in Marseille because you once complained hospital pens were instruments of torture.
He buys things with your laugh in mind, with your hands in mind, and with imagined futures in mind; he still does not trust himself to name. And when he finishes the last page—truly finishes—months later in a small cabin while rain needles the window—he remembers.
Your voice.
If you finish all the pages, there’s something for you at the end.
His pulse stutters. At the back sleeve—taped carefully—there’s a letter. His fingers begin to shake as he unfolds it, and your handwriting, immediate as touch.
He reads:
If you’re reading this, you kept your promise. Now keep one more.
Check the false bottom of the box.
He freezes.
The box, the one you made him swear to keep. The one still tucked in his bag this whole time. Because he kept his word, and you made him do so. He pulls it out, turns it over. Studies it, and there—almost invisible—a seam. A hidden panel. His breath catches as he pries it loose, and beneath it is another journal.
Yours, more worn and lived in. It’s recent, and incredibly personal. For a long moment, he only stares in such a way that touching it may alter reality. He opens it, and everything changes.
He reads one page, then another, and then all of them. Through the night, until dawn. He reads about stairwells and panic attacks. About wanting him and pretending not to. Watching him unravel and loving him anyway. His laugh and his hands. His damage and his cruelty to himself, and his goodness.
There are pages where he is barely discussed and pages where he is the whole subject. Entire entries written after shifts he barely remembers—and you remembered all of it. He finds lines underlined so hard they nearly tore paper.
I am more afraid of losing him for the rest of my life than losing his affection.
It may seem desperate and pathetic, but this is love, too.
Another, in your writing, “He keeps trying to save everyone but himself.”
He stops reading, stands up, and walks to the cabin sink to stare at himself. He laughs once in disbelief, before he cries, truly cries. Because—holy shit.
He was on every page, as he had been living inside your heart and never really knew. All those glances and almosts. Moments he thought he imagined are real. He goes back and reads every word… twice.
At some point, whispers to the empty cabin, “Jesus Christ, Ducky.” As it were, hymns or grief or wonder. Like regret arrived all at once, and when he reached the pages about the last few weeks of June, early July, and New York. About the thoughts of leaving and the offers you’ve received… and his stomach drops.
No. No no. He grabs his phone. Calls immediately, and it went straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again.
The number you have dialed is not in service…
He hangs up. Redials, again, and again, then every day after that. Ports. Airports. Hotel rooms. Layovers. Morning. Night. Always, voicemail, or disconnected silence.
He leaves messages anyway. At first, it’s awkward. “Hey… it’s me.” Then, desperate and raw. “Please, pick up. I read it.” His voice shaking, “I should’ve known.”
Then the one he says with tears on a hotel balcony in Barcelona: “I love you.”
Words he has never said to you, not once. Spoken to a machine, and still no answer.
He starts carrying both journals together. Yours and his, bound by a rubber band. Presumably, if it were something sacred, and entirely unfinished. For the first time in years, Robby doesn’t want to run. He wants one thing… one person. To get back and find you. Ask around where you are, if you’ve left. To tell you, he read every word. Admit it to you, he has been in love with you, too—terribly. For longer than he understood.
Somewhere over open water, holding your journal against his chest, he realizes with a kind of awe that terrifies him—the trip did not save him.
You did, and now you are gone.
DANA’S HOUSE — DAY
November comes to Pittsburgh in shades of smoke and rust. The trees have changed color, leaves skitter across sidewalks in little dry spirals, gathering in gutters and along curb lines. Tiny ghosts appear in between words when people talk outside.
After four months away—after sea salt, foreign ports, therapy sessions whispered over unstable Wi-Fi, after sleepless nights rereading your journals until the spine softened from use—Robby comes home.
He comes back firmer, a little darker from the sun, and less haunted in some places. The tan does something unfair to him, makes him look healthier than he feels. But the exhaustion sits too deep in his face to hide.
The first thing he does—before going home and unpacking. Before even stepping foot in the hospital, is for him to drive to Dana’s. Because if anyone knows where you are, it’s her.
Inside, a kettle whistles, and a sitcom plays low in another room. The house smells faintly of coffee and toast with cinnamon. Domestic and warm. The sort of warmth Robby has spent years orbiting but never quite entering.
Dana is in the kitchen when the knock comes, and Benji looks up from the paper. “I’ll get it,” she says. Wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes. She opens the door—and just stares.
Because there he is, on her porch. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer, bearded, still graying. Windblown, and eyes hollowed out with something close to panic. And before she can even smile, he says, “Where’d she transfer to?”
Zero preamble, just straight to the point.
Dana blinks, then folds her arms. “Well, good morning to you, too, Robinavitch.” A beat passed before she added, “Welcome back. How was your sabbatical?”
His jaw works, impatience barely leashed. “Wonderful.” He thrusts a paper bag at her. “Here. Souvenirs. For your family.”
She takes it, peeks in, and there are little trinkets and magnets. A toy for Benji’s niece. Very him, somehow, and very not him, too.
And before she can thank him—
“Where’s Ducky?”
The words come out rough, as though he’s been holding them through the whole drive. Dana stares at him, sees too much at once, the desperation, the sleeplessness. The man who has clearly come straight here because he couldn’t bear one more minute not knowing.
Because she’s Dana, tenderness usually arrives in sarcasm first—she steps aside and says, “Come in before the neighbors call the cops.”
He obeys automatically, as if being ordered into an exam room. Inside, he hovers in the entryway instead of sitting. Still wearing his jacket, ready to leave whenever.
Dana shuts the door and turns, studies him, “You check her apartment?”
He laughs once, humorless. “Locked. No answer, and her mailbox stuffed.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I called every day.” His voice cracks around every.
Dana’s expression shifts and softens despite herself while Benji pokes his head in from the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He grins. “The ER cowboy returns.”
Robby barely manages a nod, distracted, his eyes already back on Dana. “Dana.” That tone. Please. She hears it and feels it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the leather journal. It’s yours. Then, he sets it on the hall table like evidence. “I found this.”
Dana looks at it, then at him. Oh. Oh. Now she understands. “You read it.”
His laugh this time is broken. “I read all of it.” A pause, quieter, “She wrote about me on every damn page.”
Dana exhales through her nose, almost smiles. “Well. About time you caught up.” He ignores that, or can’t process it, while his voice drops, raw. “Did she transfer?”
Dana leans against the wall and lets him squirm for a second. Maybe because he deserves it, and because she’s enjoying this slightly, she needs to see how much this matters.
He steps closer. “Dana.” For once, not attending to charge nurse. Not friend to friend. Simply, a man begging. “Where is she?”
The room goes still, and even Benji quietly retreats, sensing this is sacred territory. Dana looks at him for a long time. At the journals he has now tucked under his arm and at the panic in his face. At the love, he somehow managed to miss until it nearly left him.
She says carefully, “What exactly are you planning to do when you find her?”
Robby stares, as if the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know. I just…” He stops, and swallows, then starts over. “I need to see her.”
Dana catches it, and she raises a brow. “Why?” And this—this is the test. He could joke, deflect, or run. Well, the old Robby would. Instead, he looks wrecked enough to confess, because he is.
“Because I think I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
Silence. Then—so quietly it nearly disappears, “I think I’m in love with her.”
Dana’s mouth opens, then shuts. Because after years of wanting to shake both of you, there it is.
Fuckin’ finally.
She mutters toward the ceiling, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Then points a finger at him. “You listen to me… You do not get to show up after a sabbatical tan and emotional breakthrough just to screw this up.”
He almost looks offended. “I’m trying not to.”
She squints, and then, finally, mercifully smiles. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Starts dialing, and Robby frowns, confused. “Who are you—”
Without looking up, “Shut up, Robinavitch.” And somehow he does, which makes Dana snort. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Then—pickup.
Dana lifts it to her ear, “Hey.” A second ticked by, then, casually, like she isn’t detonating his entire nervous system, “Robby’s here at my place.” His head snaps toward her. “What—”
She lifts a finger at him. After a moment, there’s a burst of voice from the other end, too fast to catch, and Dana’s grin widens, then she taps the speaker, and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the kitchen: your sister, your terrifying older sister.
“Spit it out, Robinavitch.”
Robby freezes. “Oh shit.”
Dana folds her arms, far too pleased. Benji peeks from the kitchen, sensing blood in the water. Robby straightens unconsciously, like he’s been called into an attending review. Because your sister has always somehow had that effect. The woman once threatened to break his fingers when you pulled three doubles in a row, and he forgot to make sure you ate.
He clears his throat. “Hi.” Dead silence… before your sister exclaims, “That’s what you got?”
Dana nearly chokes laughing while Robby rubs his face. “I’m trying to find her.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
He shoots Dana a look begging for backup. She gives him none; it’s sink or swim. Your sister keeps going. “You disappear for four months, come back looking like some emotionally improved pirate, and now suddenly you’re here asking about my sister?”
Robby blinks. “…That sounds worse when you say it.”
“It is worse.”
Even Benji laughs; there is no surviving this. Then, he just says it, because apparently, there’s no dignity left to preserve. “I love her.”
Everything stills, and Dana goes silent, even your sister, because he decides to say it plainly. After a long beat, “…You better.” Then she pivots. “She’s at my apartment in Murray Hill, Manhattan.”
His whole body stills. “She is?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” She continues. “My boyfriend and I are in Vermont for a wedding. She’s dog sitting.”
You were dog sitting… didn’t transfer or leave. Relief hits him so hard he has to brace a hand on the wall as your sister keeps talking. “I’ll text you the address.” Then her voice drops. “And Robby?”
He goes still. “Yes?”
“If you fly your ass to New York and hurt her again…” Dana mouths oh boy. “—I will literally find a way to murder you and get away with it.”
Silence. He answers, dead serious, “That’s… fair.”
Dana barks out a laugh, and Benji has to look away, but your sister isn’t finished. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“She cries over you, I bury you.”
He nods before realizing she can’t see. “Understood.”
“And don’t make me regret giving you my sister.”
His voice roughens. “I won’t.” A pause. Then unexpectedly, she adds, “She loves you, you know.” His eyes close, and hearing it hurts. Like he has wanted and feared those words in equal measure. “I know.”
Maybe he didn’t, not fully. Not until missing you hollowed him out. But now—he knows. His phone buzzes. The address, and he stares at it as if it might vanish. Dana leans in. “Well?”
He’s already moving, but Dana catches his sleeve before he bolts. He turns, and she fixes his collar like he’s sixteen, or heading into battle. “Don’t say anything stupid.”
He looks wounded, “That narrows my options considerably.” She smacks his arm. Then softer, “Go get my girl.”
A part of him in his expression breaks. He feels open, young, terrified, and… in love. He turns for the door… but stops, looks back at Dana. “Thank you.”
She waves it off before she gets emotional. “Go.”
Cold November air rushes in when he opens the door, sharp and alive. He steps onto the porch. Heart pounding like a trauma alarm. Already halfway to LaGuardia in his mind. Behind him, through the speaker, your sister calls out one last time. “Robinavitch?”
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“If you make me come home early to kill you—”
He laughs, pure actual laughter. “I won’t.”
He runs down the steps. Into the cold, toward you, who’s in Manhattan, somewhere above the city lights, probably walking a spoiled dog, completely unaware the man you love is coming.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — NIGHT
It had been one of those strange New York nights where the weather seemed to lose its mind. One minute, the city had been holding itself together in damp November cold—taxi lights smeared gold against wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic drifting up through Murray Hill.
Next, it rains biblically hard. Rattling against the tall windows of your sister’s apartment in sheets. The kind of rain that made the city feel submerged.
Inside, soft music played from your phone on the counter, it’s low and aching and warm. The apartment lamps were dimmed. The dog—Bowie, spoiled rotten and aware of it—was sprawled across your feet while you folded laundry in sleep shorts and an old, oversized shirt. Devoted and quiet, the sort of peace you only ever borrowed.
Then—a knock. You freeze. At this hour? Another knock, then Bowie lifts his head and barks. “What the hell?”
You shuffle to the door in your house slippers, confusion knitting your brow, one hand still absentmindedly rubbing sleep from your eyes as Bowie trails after you, toenails clicking over hardwood. You unlatch the door and pull it open, and the breath leaves you.
Robby stands in the hallway, soaked to the skin, rainwater running from his hair in slow rivulets down his temples, dripping off his jaw, his jacket and backpack blackened and heavy with storm. His chest rises too fast, too hard, as if he ran all the way through Manhattan just to get here before he lost his nerve.
For a second, you only stare because your mind cannot make sense of him standing on the other side of your sister’s door like something pulled from longing. As if misery hallucinated a man.
His eyes move over you just as stunned, and stop. Not at your face first, but your arms. The half-healed scabs near your wrist, and the angry little crescents where nails had broken skin, faded silver scars older than tonight. Evidence of all the anxious picking and scratching you never managed to hide from him, though you always tried.
Something fractures in his demeanor as it changes shape.
It’s not pity, but recognition. He sees every quiet war you fought while he was gone, and he hates that he wasn’t here for any of it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the marks before lifting back to your face, and there is something almost devastated in his eyes.
That undoes you more than if he’d touched you. Your heart knows him before your thoughts can catch up, and then it comes out of you in a breathless rush, “Are you insane?”
It comes out half laugh, half gasp.
He looks wrecked, beautifully wrecked. Water pooling at his boots and somehow—hopeful. “How did you even get in here? There’s a doorman.”
His mouth twitches. “Your sister called ahead.”
Of course she did. Traitor.
His voice goes rough. “Please come back.”
The words hit you square in the ribs. Too raw, and because crying at the door feels risky, you grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Can you get inside first, Jesus fucking Christ.”
The door shuts behind him, the storm mutes, only rain on glass now, and both of you breathing. Bowie circles him immediately, tail wagging hard enough to take out furniture.
Robby crouches automatically, wet and smiling for the first time. “Well, hello.”
The dog all but climbs into his lap, and you cross your arms. “Unbelievable.” Robby glances up. “What?”
“Even the dog likes you.”
He rises slowly. And for one suspended moment—you’re just looking at each other. Months of distance in one silence, and then practicality saves you. “You’re freezing.”
You move first, pull towels from a closet, and push one into his hands. “Take a warm shower.”
You disappear toward the guest room, rummage through drawers, and return with sweatpants and a cotton shirt. Holding them out, you clear your throat. “My sister’s boyfriend is… a bit shorter than you.” Your eyes do an up and down. “A lot shorter.”
His smile deepens. “I’ll make it work.”
You gesture toward the bathroom. “There are toiletries in there. Toothbrush under the sink.” You add, softer, “Ignore the mess in the room. I’ve been sleeping in there.”
You turn before he can answer. Because being looked at by him right now makes you feel vulnerable. The dog follows you back into the kitchen.
Robby lingers a second.
Watching.
You're wearing slippers over hardwood, and talking to Bowie under your breath. Living in a space that somehow already feels like you. Warm, cluttered, and tender.
He steps into the guest room and sees your half-unpacked suitcase. A pile of sweaters. Books are stacked on the floor. Your new journal on the nightstand. A cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of you everywhere, and something in him wrinkles. Because even your mess looks gentle, as if being let into a life.
He showers, the steam, and silence calm his racing thoughts. Trying to slow a heart that has not been steady since he left Pittsburgh.
When he emerges clean, hair damp, borrowed shirt a little too small—you nearly short-circuit. He looks… dangerously domestic. Seemingly belonging here, which feels somehow more intimate than seeing him half-undressed ever could.
You busy your hands at the stove, heating leftovers, and Bowie sits begging shamelessly. You tear off a little piece of beef and feed him. “Your mom is going to murder me if you gain any more weight, buddy.”
Robby watches you with something almost helpless in his expression. Yeah. That makes sense.
You glance up and try not to stare. Obviously, you fail. “I bet you’re hungry.” You nod toward the food. “They’re leftovers but they’re good.” A pause. “Do you eat rice?”
He almost laughs, “I’ll eat whatever you’ll give me. Your cooking’s the best.” You shrug, trying to hide how much that warms your heart. “Eh. It’s okay.”
He eats, like actually eats, as if he hasn’t in days, all while you sit opposite him at the table. Rain against the windows and the music low with the dog asleep at your feet. It all feels so heartbreakingly ordinary.
Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you ask, “How did you find me?”
He wipes his mouth. “I went to Dana’s.” A beat. “She called your sister.”
You shut your eyes. Of course.
“That bitch.” There’s no venom in the way you said it, only affection. He smiles into it as he finishes eating.
You reach for his plate, but he catches your wrist lightly, declares, “No, I’ll wash.” But you shake your head, replying, “Not a chance.”
“I’ll wash, you dry?”
You arch a brow. “Are you even in a position to negotiate?” He looks up at you—those impossible brown eyes gone soft. “Please.”
And damn him, you melt.
“Okay.”
So you stand side by side at the sink as he washes and you dry. Passing plates back and forth. Shoulders brushing. Tiny accidental touches that are electric every time. Neither of you speaking.
Because the silence is saying too much already. Water runs, and rain falls. The dog snores. And in the small domestic hush—with dish soap on his hands and your fingers warm around a towel—it feels almost impossible that two people who nearly lost each other can stand here now arguing quietly over plates like this was always where they were meant to end up.
Robby breaks the silence first, barely above a whisper. “I read the letter… and your journal.”
Your hands stop, and the plate in your grip goes still, damp dish towel forgotten between your fingers.
The room somehow grows quieter than silence. Outside, thunder rolls over Manhattan, low and distant. Inside, your heart does the same. A storm answering a storm.
You don’t turn around right away. Because you knew this moment would come the second you hid that false bottom in the box. Still, knowing doesn’t make being seen any less terrifying.
“I know,” you say after a beat, too casually. A small shrug. “Well… I figured.”
His breath catches like he wants to say ten things at once. “I—”
You cut him off too quickly. Coward, or self-preservation. Maybe both. “How do you feel about hot chocolate?”
It startles him enough that he blinks. As if you’ve changed the subject so violently he can’t find the road back. “…I’d like that.”
You nod once, grateful for something ordinary and something safe. “Go wait for me in the living room.” You force a small smile. “I’ll make us some.”
He obeys. Because of course he does. And maybe because he senses you’re buying time. Maybe because he needs it too.
Eventually, you’re both sunk into opposite ends of the couch, mugs warming your hands. Rain threads down the windows, the dog sleeps with his chin on your foot and the apartment hums softly around you.
It feels almost too intimate.
Steam curls from your cocoa, and you stare into it as if answers might rise there. You clear your throat as you say, “I didn’t transfer.”
The words sit between you, while Robby goes still. “What?” He turns fully toward you. “But I thought—”
“No.” You shake your head. “I got offers… and I came close… really close.” Your thumb traces the ceramic rim. “Especially after the Fourth of July shift. I thought maybe leaving would fix something.”
You give a crooked little laugh. “Go to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Start over.” Then softer, “But I couldn’t.”
He watches you like moving would break the moment.
“I liked the Pitt too much.” A sad smile. “As fucked up as that is.”
You huff out, “There is definitely something wrong with me.”
That finally pulls a smile from him.
You continue. “I like the people there.” A beat. “I…” Your throat tightens. “I liked having somewhere I belonged.” His expression changes at that, into something wounded. Because he knows exactly what you mean.
You take another sip. “I just took leave. Needed it anyway.” You look toward the rain-smeared windows. “It’s nice coming back here. During November, the Fall… Y’know, with everything changing. It’s nice.”
Robby opens his mouth. “I just thought I—”
You shake your head gently. Don’t let him say whatever apology he’s building. Not tonight. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now.”
He looks almost startled.
You stand, mug in hand. “You’re exhausted. Probably crashing from enough adrenaline to kill a horse.” A small attempt at humor.
You fail to hide concern. “We can talk about the letter. And the journal. And… everything else. Tomorrow.” Your words feels kind, merciful.
He studies you, as if trying to decide whether you’re sparing him—or yourself. You clear your throat. “I can change the sheets in the guest room.”
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, because he’s very sure. What he doesn’t say is that those sheets smell like you. Laundry soap, skin, everything that makes you home. You don’t know that, or maybe some part of you does. “Okay…”
You glance around, “I need to find another pillow for you. One sec.” And you disappear down the hall, leaving him alone in the living room.
He looks around at the life around him, and all the places you exist. Little trinkets on shelves, ceramic birds, books with your dog-eared tabs, and a candle burned halfway down.
Somehow—even in your sister’s apartment—he can tell where your hands have been. You are all over this place. There’s a framed photo of you and your sister at a beach. Younger, with wind-tangled hair and salt-happy. Laughing so hard the camera caught you mid-collapse.
He stares too long, and there’s another—you grinning beside an alpaca at some animal sanctuary, with your arms wrapped around its neck. Ridiculous joy.
He laughs softly under his breath. Of course. There are photos of you with dogs. One kissing your cheek and one asleep in your lap.
He feels something ache open in him. Then, paintings on the walls. He knows your signature, recognizes the small mark in the corner. Your hand in every brushstroke. And scattered among them are photos of your sister in foreign cities.
There are award ceremonies, mountain ranges, conference stages. A whole life. Big, brilliant, and threaded through all of it—you.
Loved and included, completely held.
He sees it instantly, that your sister loves you fiercely, as fiercely as you love her. And for some reason that undoes him. Because he had spent so long imagining you alone. Waiting. And instead he sees something far more precarious. A life full enough without him; a life he may have to ask permission to enter, and he wants to.
God.
He wants to.
You come back carrying a pillow and catch him staring at the beach photo. “That was Cape May.”
He looks up, saying, “You look happy.”
You pause, then smile, “I was.”
The words come soft, almost shy, and linger in the room longer than they should. Robby keeps looking at you. Not at the photograph anymore, but at you. As if he’s trying to memorize the version of you standing here now against lamplight and rain.
You hand him the pillow, and your fingers brush his. A small thing, but not small at all.
You clear your throat, suddenly awkward in a way you haven’t been around him in years. “Um…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “I’m gonna sleep in my sister’s room, so—”
You mean to say goodnight, you really do mean to keep this simple. But his voice stops you. It’s tentative, almost boyish, and fragile in a way you’ve never heard from him.
“Can I…” He swallows, and looks almost embarrassed asking. “Can we… hug?”
The question lands so gently it nearly breaks you. Not may I hold you. Not even I need you. But… Can we.
As if it belongs to both of you and he’s asking permission to need comfort.
Your throat tightens, and you nod before you can trust words. Then manage, barely above a whisper, “I’d like that.”
For a second neither of you moves. Then he does, slowly. As if approaching something sacred, and then his arms are around you, and yours are around him.
Full body, no polite half-embrace or brief goodbye squeeze. A real one. The kind people fall into when they’ve been starving. His chest against yours and your cheek at his shoulder.
His arms wrapping so fully around you it feels less like being held and more like being gathered up and kept. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, and the other at your waist, secure, and protective. As if he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even slightly you’ll disappear again.
You feel his breath leave him against your hair, shaky, relief hurts. And God—he smells like soap and rain and borrowed cotton. You clutch the back of his shirt, and fist the fabric, without meaning to or pretending anymore.
Neither of you lets go as seconds stretch, then keep stretching. Until time feels embarrassed to intrude. And somewhere in it—you realize neither of you is comforting the other. It’s that you’re both being saved a little.
His chin brushes your temple, you feel it when he exhales. Feel his body soften into yours. As if this simple human closeness has taken some unbearable weight off his spine.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither, and the hug just slowly becomes less desperate. Less clinging, though not by much.
When you finally pull apart, it feels wrong. Like surfacing too soon. Your hands linger at his arms, while his stay at your waist a second longer than they should. Eyes meeting, with too much in them and a lot unsaid.
You manage a smile, small and tender, as you say, “Goodnight, Robby.”
His answer comes roughened, he knows sleep won’t touch him for hours. “Goodnight, Ducky.”
You turn before staying becomes all too much. You walk down the hall, and don’t look back. Because if you do, you might crawl into bed beside him and never recover.
The bedroom door closes softly behind you, and he stands there alone in the living room for a long moment. Touching the place on his chest where you had been. As if checking it happened.
Then he moves to the guest room, well your room, tonight.
He shuts the door, dim lamp, and rain still tapping glass. He sits on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion crashes over him all at once, but he doesn’t lie down immediately. Instead looks at the traces of you everywhere, it feels impossibly intimate, as if being let into worship.
He finally lies back. And the pillow—fuck. The pillow smells like you, not perfume exactly. Something softer, skin, laundry soap, your shampoo, warmth, it’s all… you.
It undoes him, actually undoes him. He turns into it before he can stop himself. Presses his face into the pillow like a man half feral with relief. A little pathetic. He’d be embarrassed if anyone saw.
Instead he rubs his cheek there, eyes shut, breathing you in as though scent could anchor him. As if he were some lovesick dog, and maybe he almost laughs at himself. But then his chest tightens, because for the first time in months, even maybe years—he doesn’t feel like running.
Tomorrow exists, and that tomorrow has your face in it. Your voice. Coffee maybe along with hard conversations. Possible forgiveness, and maybe even something more sincere.
Hope.
He lies there in your scent and lets that thought settle over him, not as fantasy, but as possibility.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — DAY
Morning arrives quietly, not with alarms or trauma pagers or overhead codes. But with light. Thin gold November light spilling through linen curtains, the kind that makes dust look holy.
You wake slowly, tangled in blankets, confused for one suspended second by the unfamiliar softness of the bed—then remember.
Robby.
Your chest gives a startled little thud, memory returns in fragments. His rain soaked jacket, his face in the doorway, and the hug.
The way he asked Can we hug? like asking for mercy.
You stare at the ceiling a moment, almost afraid last night was grief dreaming. Then you smell coffee, and something buttery.
Your brows knit.
What—
You drag yourself up, hair a mess, sleep shirt wrinkled, shuffling half-awake down the hall with the peculiar little waddle of someone not yet fully vertical. Mentally you’re already cataloguing the morning.
Feed Bowie, then take Bowie out and figure out breakfast later.
Pretend not to be catastrophically aware there is a man you love sleeping under your sister’s roof. You round the kitchen corner—and stop.
Robby is already up, at the stove in a gray borrowed shirt with sleeves pushed up. Making breakfast, actually making breakfast. Eggs, toast, and there’s coffee poured. Your coffee, with exactly the amount of cream you take.
How—
He glances over his shoulder, and smiles softly, “Morning.” You blink at him, because your brain needs evidence. “…You can cook?”
He gives you a look, deadpan. “I live alone.” A short pause. “Of course I can cook.”
You stare harder, skeptical and a little suspicious. Almost offended by how domestic he looks. Who is this man and what has he done with Robby?
“You’re messing with me.”
He snorts. “Nope.”
There is something so unfamiliar about this version of him—gentle. Rested, almost playful—that it leaves you slightly disoriented. Similar to handling a creature you thought was wild only to find it purrs.
You move to the pantry in a daze, scoop kibble for Bowie, and the dog circles your legs, ecstatic.
While you’re pouring food, you ask a little too casually, “Do you have a flight back or…”
Robby flips something in the pan. “It’s next week.” You pause and turn. “What? You just got back. How’d you get time off so soon?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious, “Chief emergency physician attending perks.” Then, with a crooked smile, “Besides, Jack said he’d cover for a little bit.”
You stare, “He knows you’re here?”
Robby grins. “Yep.” A beat. “Pretty sure everyone in the ED knows by now.”
You close your eyes, “Jesus.”
Of course they fucking do.
You move instinctively toward the stove, “I can help—” He points with the spatula. “Go sit.”
You laugh. “Are you sure?”
“I can—”
He cuts you off. “Go sit there…” His eyes flick over you. A dangerous little pause. “…and look pretty.”
Your whole face goes violently hot at that as you just stand there. Broken, because what the hell is that.
He smirks, knows exactly what he did. And you—who have stared down crashing patients and violent psych holds—cannot survive one flirtation over scrambled eggs.
So yes, you obey.
Mostly because your knees forgot how to work.
You sit at the table and watch him, which somehow feels even more intimate. His shoulders move as he cooks, the ease in his body. The ordinary miracle of a man you almost lost making you breakfast barefoot in a Manhattan kitchen.
You could cry over it, but instead, Robby plates everything and says, quieter, “I have a question.”
You look up. “Mm?”
He hesitates before asking, “Why weren’t you answering your phone?” A pause. “I tried calling but…”
Your stomach drops. “Oh.” And you look down, embarrassed. “My phone got stolen a few weeks ago.”
His face changes, almost offended on your behalf. “What?”
You nod. “Yeah. All my stuff wasn’t backed up.” You grimace before your voice softens. “And I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
That last part hangs there because it reveals too much. That you knew he’d worry and maybe some part of you hoped he would. He says nothing for a moment, only looks at you, and he quietly adds, “I did.”
Two small words, but they’re huge. You look away first, because your heart cannot be trusted.
You eat, and the food is actually good, annoyingly, and you point with your fork. “This is suspiciously decent.”
He looks offended. “Suspiciously?”
“Very.”
He laughs, and the sound settles into the kitchen like sunlight.
Bowie barks, demanding his walk, and you glance down. “Well.” You stand and you clip the leash, and look up at Robby, trying to sound casual but failing. “Wanna go for a walk with me?”
He doesn’t even pretend to consider. “Yes.”
You smile before you can stop it, and he catches it. You reach for your coat, but he reaches for yours first and holds it open for you.
You freeze, again. Fuck, this man is a serious risk.
You slip into it mutely, and he helps adjust the collar, his knuckles brushing your neck. A tiny touch with catastrophic consequences. You lend Robby a coat, and he laces up his shoes while Bowie whines impatiently.
Eventually, Robby hands you the leash, “You ready?”
You look at him, morning light in his hair and Coffee still warm on the table. Your whole life somehow suddenly feels… movable, and you answer softly, “Yeah.”
For the walk… and for him. Maybe for something else too. Outside, New York hums awake, and for the first time in a long time—neither of you is running.
PETER DETMOLD PARK — MORNING
The East River glints silver beyond the railing, restless and bright under weak November sun. Wet paths shine beneath your sneakers. Leaves skitter over the promenade in little bursts whenever the wind rushes through. Somewhere, a ferry horn moans low over the water.
Bowie pulls ahead on the leash like his life depends on reaching every smell before another dog can.
You and Robby walk side by side through the quiet of the morning, not speaking much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. The kind of silence that breathes.
Your shoulders brush now and then, while his hand swings close enough that once, his knuckles graze yours. An accidental touch, too brief and electric. He pulls his hand back almost immediately. As if he touched something sacred he hadn’t earned.
You notice, and you notice too, the way, a few minutes later, his hand drifts close again before he deliberately hooks his thumb into his coat pocket instead. Restraining himself, because he’s trying to do this right, and that softens something in you.
At one point, Bowie attempts to drag you toward a man eating a bagel. “Absolutely not,” you scold.
Robby laughs. “He has criminal impulses.”
“He gets that from me.”
He looks at you sideways, “That worries me.” You smile before you can stop yourself, and walking beside him begins to feel terrifyingly natural. Maybe you’d once imagined this and forgot.
Then the dog run appears, chain-link fencing. It’s complete chaos, along with happy barking and tennis balls flying. The familiar corner of Peter Detmold Park Dog Run buzzing with neighborhood regulars.
You unclasp Bowie’s leash, and he launches into the pack like a torpedo. Immediately making reckless social choices.
You and Robby move off to the side by the fence, watching. His shoulder almost touching yours. Then, you hear your real name get called. You turn and Mia waves with Evie beside her, both with their dogs.
You brighten, and pull them into quick hugs. Dog chatter along with morning gossip. Evie’s eyes flick immediately to Robby, then to you and then back. A knowing smile.
“Well,” she says. “This is interesting.”
You mutter, “Don’t start.”
Too late.
Connor arrives with Paris, a giant golden retriever who crashes into Bowie like a linebacker, and then Alex enters in with Fern.
Alex with his rolled sleeves and easy smile and vaguely insufferable handsome-neighbor energy. He spots you and lights up. “There she is.”
Robby goes quiet beside you, very quiet as Alex strolls over, ablivious. “Thought you abandoned us.”
You laugh. “Temporary exile.”
He leans casually near you. “So… you owe me coffee for disappearing.”
Mia nearly bites through her lip, and Connor looks ready to explode but Alex keeps going. “I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab some this week.”
And Robby—who has clearly reached some invisible threshold—thinks: absolutely the fuck not.
One smooth motion, his arm comes around your waist. It’s every bit warm and certain. Not tentative or friendly. Possessive enough to announce itself, as his hand settles at your side as though it belongs there. As though it has always belonged there.
You forget how breathing works and Alex finally notices. “Oh.”
Robby nods politely, “We’re catching up.”
We.
Your stomach flips, but Alex recovers admirably. “Well. Good for you.” Then to you, with a small smile, “Coffee offer stands.”
Before you can answer, Robby says mildly, “She’s pretty booked.”
Connor chokes laughing, while Evie literally turns away, and Mia looks heavenward.
Alex grins, message received. “Got it.” He backs off with Fern trotting behind him. The second he’s gone, you hiss, “What was that?”
Robby blinks. “What?”
“You just claimed me like a Victorian duke.”
He looks almost offended. “He was flirting.”
“Yes.” A second ticked by. “And?”
He looks down at you, very serious. “I didn’t care for it.”
God help you—you laugh, can’t help it. And because you lean into him laughing—his arm tightens. Just slightly, as if it were instinct.
Connor calls across the run, “Doc got jealous!”
Robby without missing a beat replies with a flat, “Yep.”
Everyone erupts, even you. When the teasing fades, the dogs resume their chase. The river moves beyond the fence, and the world narrows strangely. Just the two of you. His hand still warm through your coat.
You murmur, almost teasing, “You jealous?” He leans close, mouth near your ear and voice low enough only you hear. “Yes.”
You turn your head, meet his eyes. Brown gone almost gold in winter sun. Too open and soft. And for one suspended second—everything pauses.
Then Bowie slams muddy paws into both of you, breaking it… well, sort of. And Robby laughs. Real laughter, his head tipped back. And you think—you could get addicted to making him sound like that.
Beside the East River, dogs barking, cold wind cutting through the morning—his arm still around your waist—it feels absurdly, terrifyingly like the beginning of something.
EAST RIVER ESPLANADE — DAY
Eventually, the dog run empties around you. Mia and Evie head off. Connor leaves with Paris, dragging him like a hostage. Even Alex disappears with Fern, though not before giving Robby a long, amused look that makes you want to evaporate.
Bowie, gloriously mud-streaked and smug, is leashed again, and somehow the morning keeps unfolding. As if neither of you wants to be the first to say it should end.
So you walk down toward the river. Past iron railings and benches slick from last night’s rain. The East River churns beside you in gray-blue ribbons, sunlight breaking over the water in shards. Across it, Queens hums, behind you, Manhattan clatters on, indifferent.
Ahead—a bench. Half in the sun. Half in shade. You sit with Robby beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Bowie settles at your feet, apparently committed to people-watching as a spiritual practice.
For a while—nothing. Only gulls, wind, and a cyclist passing, along with the city breathing. You look out at the skyline. Glass towers rising, steam drifting from rooftops. November light is soft over everything.
Robby is looking at you. Not the skyline. You. You feel it before you turn, and when you do, he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
It isn’t rushed or defensive. Not one of those apologies meant to end discomfort. A real one. Heavy and earned. You hold his gaze and somehow smile. “I know.”
His mouth twitches, as if he expected punishment, but you decide to give him mercy instead. After a beat, you ask, “How was your sabbatical?”
He leans back, looks out at the water. “Good.” A breath. “Saw a lot of places. Took a cruise.”
You grin, “As Jack suggested.”
He huffs as he clarifies your statement, “As Jack aggressively insisted.” You look him over, the sun-browned skin, the softer edges in his face, the rest in him. “Good. I’m glad.” And you add quietly, “Nice tan, by the way.”
That gets a laugh.
“You seem like you got some rest.”
He studies you. Maybe hearing more in that than you meant. Then you ask, a bit too casually, “Did you meet anyone special while you were off sailing the world?”
A jealous question wearing a joke’s coat, and he hears it exactly as intended. His mouth softens, and he shakes his head. “No.”
Instead, unexpectedly, he shares, “I met a couple of Filipino families.”
You blink. “What?”
He smiles, “On the ship. One big extended family. Loud and really friendly.”
You laugh, “Oh no.” He nods solemnly. “They basically told me to get my head out of my ass. In a very loving way.”
You laugh harder, “Sounds right.”
“They fed me, scolded me, and then one Lola threatened to haunt me if I let you go.”
Your hand flies to your mouth. “No.”
“Yes.” He looks down, almost embarrassed. “I kept talking to strangers about you.” The wind seems to pause, as he says, “And then I read your letter.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”
“And then I read the journal.”
His voice roughens. You glance from the corner of your eye—and realize he has fully turned toward you. Body and soul, facing you. And before you can think, his hand lifts. Touches your face, cups your cheek, warm palm, rough thumb, gentle enough to ruin you.
You lean into it before pride can intervene. Instinct that something in you has waited years. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his voice lowers. “I was too afraid to tell you what I wanted.” He swallows, as he admits, “Because you deserve so much better than me.”
You shake your head already, but he keeps going. “Someone without all this fucking baggage. Someone younger and less broken.” His mouth twists. “You deserve more than some worn-out old man.”
Suddenly, your eyes burn because he believes this, still, even now. Then his voice breaks. Because some part of you has been braced for years against never hearing those words, and now they’re here.
Your mouth parts before you know what you mean to say. “I…” Your voice shakes, then you laugh once, helplessly, through tears. “I kept telling myself maybe I deserved someone else.”
A pause. “But…” You look at him fully then, no hiding and no more cowardice. “I always wanted you.”
You watch it happen as his whole face changes. He looks almost shocked. Breathless. As if he has spent so long preparing for rejection he has no idea what to do with being chosen.
A small, aching smile trembles at his mouth. It's lovely enough to cause pain and sad enough to destroy you. And then—God—his eyes fill. He laughs once under his breath like he can’t believe what he just heard. “You…” He shakes his head. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You’re trembling, and he is too. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that your breaths keep tangling.
“There’s… something I need to show you.” His hand slips from your cheek but lingers at your jaw, unwilling to leave. He looks suddenly nervous. “In the apartment. I brought something for you.” A crooked little smile, self-conscious. “Before you decide I’m too old and damaged and emotionally catastrophic to keep around.”
You let out a wet laugh, and he almost smiles wider. Then, quieter, he adds, “Before you decide what to do with me…” His voice nearly breaks there. “…I want you to read what I wrote.”
He looks down for a second, then back up. “I need you to know who I became when I was away from you.”
His thumb brushes once under your eye, catching a tear. And in a whisper that sounds almost ashamed to want this much, “I came all this way to ask if there’s still a place for me with you.” Your chest throbs so hard, you can barely speak. And all you manage is, “Show me.”
And the way he looks at you then, like a condemned man offered pardon, makes your knees weak.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
The apartment is quiet when you come back. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood in long gold bands, warming the rugs, catching on dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, the muffled pulse of Manhattan carries on—horns far below, a siren in the distance, somebody laughing on the sidewalk.
Inside, it feels suspended. Bowie is asleep in a patch of sun, twitching through some dream, and Robby stands near the dining table with that look he gets when he is about to do something emotionally reckless and medically unadvised.
He disappears briefly into the guest room, and when he returns, he is carrying the journal you gave him before he left. Only now it hardly looks like a journal anymore. It looks lived in.
Its leather cover is softened and worn, swollen with tucked papers, postcards, folded notes, and photographs jutting from the edges. The spine bows from overuse. It looks like something carried close to the body.
But that isn’t all.
In his other hand is a small wooden chest—weathered, carved, no bigger than a shoebox. Something old-fashioned and improbable, like it belongs in an attic or a ship’s cabin.
He sets that down first, almost shy. “I, uh… this too.”
You look at him, confused, and lift the lid. Inside, you find a life gathered in fragments. A pressed flower bookmark from Lisbon, still holding the faint ghost of summer. Sea glass earrings from Santorini, pale blue and green, catching the light. A tiny hand-painted saint medal from Naples. Ridiculous fridge magnets—a goat from Crete, a crooked lighthouse, and one that simply says Wish You Were Here.
A fountain pen from Marseille, heavy in the hand, because once during a night shift, you’d cursed hospital pens as instigators of pain, and he remembered.
A little tin of tea. Foreign coins. Shells. A folded map with certain ports circled. Polaroids banded together with twine, and tucked at the bottom, a few postcards unsent.
All of it collected for you. Not random souvenirs, but offerings. Proof he had been thinking of you in every strange corner of the world.
Your chest tightens so suddenly it hurts. “Oh my God,” you whisper. His mouth twitches. “I might have overdid it.”
You laugh through the twinge rising in your throat. “You think?”
But then he lifts the journal, and that changes the air. He holds it almost reverently, as if it’s something alive and afraid to hand over. “I… wrote in it.” His voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper.
He offers it to you. “You don’t have to read it now.” A beat. “Or at all, really.” His eyes drop. After everything I did. After what I put you through. He doesn’t say it outright, but it lingers there.
He forces himself through it anyway. “I just…” An exhale. “I hope you do.”
You take it with your hands that are shaking, and then you sit. Open the first page, and the breath leaves your body. Because there—written across the top—is your name. Not Ducky or a shorthand of some nickname to soften the feeling.
Your real name, written slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. And beneath it are polaroids, a sunrise at sea. A crooked Lisbon street drenched in gold. A ferry ticket pressed flat. Foreign stamps. Postcards. Receipts. Small scraps of living.
And every page—you. Mentions of you. Thoughts of you. Things he wished he could text. Observations, memories… and confessions.
There are entries from good days to bad days. Days he almost turned around and came home early. Pages where the handwriting goes jagged with grief. Pressed too hard into paper, ink blotting where he must have stopped.
Other pages lighter… looser and healing. And through all of it—you. Intertwined through everything.
You, a compass point. His north star.
Your vision blurs, and tears spill before you can stop them.
One page reads:
“Today I heard a woman laugh in Naples and thought of the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.”
Another:
“Bought a postcard she would’ve liked. Kept it because I didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to give it to her.”
Another:
I am beginning to suspect loving her has been the healthiest instinct I have.
Your mouth trembles, and you crumble. Silently crying over pages and over ink. The unbearable intimacy of being loved in handwriting, of being studied this closely. Remembered this faithfully.
Robby does not interrupt or explain. He leans against the kitchen counter across the room, arms folded loosely, watching. Waiting. Because he understands this moment belongs to you now. To both of you.
There is something almost unbearably vulnerable in how he stands there letting himself be read. As if he has taken his ribcage apart and handed it over. This is bigger than apology, and larger than romance.
This is witness, repair, and devotion in paper form.
You turn another page.
One entry is after therapy. “Today I admitted I love her.”
Your breath catches, you go completely still. Another page writes, “I thought distance might make me less ruined for her. Instead it taught me every beautiful thing I see turns into wanting to show her.”
Another says, “Bought sea glass earrings because she would call them mermaid trash and then wear them anyway.”
A wet laugh escapes you. Then, on another page, tucked there is a tiny pressed bougainvillea bloom. Below it says, “There are women I have admired. Women I have wanted. There has only ever been one I have wanted to come home to.”
You cover your mouth, sobbing now, and yet you still keep reading. Because now you can’t stop. Pages on therapy. On grief. On the things he has never told anyone. His mother leaving. His shame, fear, and loneliness.
Then it’s you again… everywhere.
“She makes bright hospital lighting look merciful.”
“She scratches at her arm when anxious and I keep wanting to catch her hand.”
“I think she sees every broken thing in me and stays anyway.”
Your tears fall onto the paper, and you don’t wipe them. Let them stain the ink, and somewhere across the room, his voice comes quietly, almost afraid.
“I thought if I wrote it down…” He stops, swallows. “…I might finally deserve to say it out loud.”
In every page that fate has ever penned, it's you—it's always you again. The chapter he keeps returning to, on and on.
You lift your eyes to him, through tears, and he looks almost undone by being seen. Suddenly, you understand—he didn’t bring you back a travel journal. He brought you the record of becoming a man brave enough to return to you.
How do you sit still after that? How do you keep reading when the person who wrote every trembling word is standing only feet away, breathing like he’s waiting to be sentenced?
You can’t.
Your hands close the journal gently as you set it down. And before you can think better of it—you’re moving. Crossing the room, as if you two were magnets.
Robby barely has time to straighten before you are in front of him, and then your arms are around him. A full-body collision of longing.
You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a sound that almost isn’t a sound at all—something punched out of him. His arms come around you hard, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his hold, you’ll disappear again.
And then he actually folds into you. His face presses into your shoulder, your cheek against his neck. His hands spread over your back, trembling.
You can feel the shake in him, the breath hitching. The way he’s trying and failing not to cry. And then you realize—you are both crying. The kind of crying that comes from surviving too much, and that wrings a person out.
His chest heaves against yours, and warm tears slip into the collar of your shirt. You feel them, and somehow that undoes you more.
Because this man—this stubborn, impossible, guarded man—is letting himself break in your arms. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt, holding on. As though you are trying to keep every fractured piece of him together with your hands.
His voice comes rough against your shoulder. “I thought I lost you.” The words are so small. Nothing like the man who runs trauma rooms.
You pull back just enough to look at him; his face is wet, eyes red, nonetheless beautiful and wrecked.
You cup his face with both hands, your thumbs catching tears. “You found me.”
That almost makes him cry harder. He gives this breathless, disbelieving laugh through tears. His forehead drops against yours. And for a while—that’s all there is.
Foreheads touching, shared breath along with the city humming beyond the windows. The dog lifting his head from the rug and settling again. The soft clink of a radiator. And two people who have wanted this for too long finally no longer pretending otherwise.
His hands slide up your back, gentler now, one settling at the nape of your neck. Seemingly, he still needs proof you’re real.
He whispers, voice cracking, “I wrote all that because I didn’t know how else to tell you.”
You shake your head, crying again. “You told me.”
A pause. Then, so honest it hurts, “I felt every page.”
His mouth trembles, and he presses his face briefly into your hair. Breathes you in, similar to relief or prayer.
This is not one of those dramatic reunions that people write about, you know, now. This is more subdued, even more destructive. Because it feels like coming home after assuming home was gone. He holds you as though grief itself might steal you if he lets go. And you let him.
You see, true love might occasionally look just like this. Standing barefoot on wooden floors, two weary individuals sobbed in each other's arms because one of them had returned.
Once it is spoken—or maybe not even spoken so much as finally allowed—everything changes with a softness neither of you had expected. The aftermath is the strange, almost miraculous easing of something that had been tight for too long. It’s two people setting down heavy things at the same time.
After years of orbiting each other in careful ellipses—glances held too long, feelings swallowed at the nurses’ station, almosts stacked atop almosts—there is suddenly no need for tiptoeing.
No more pretending not to reach or disguising tenderness as banter. No more acting like longing is a private wound. It is out in the open now, and because of that, bravery starts looking ordinary. The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes the little things feel enormous.
YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY
By the second morning, the apartment has taken on that lazy, lived-in softness that only comes when people have stopped performing around each other. Coffee gone half-cold on the counter, a dish towel over your shoulder, and Bowie asleep in a stripe of sunlight.
Robby is standing in your sister’s kitchen in an old, faded T-shirt that fits him just a little too snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up, looking absurdly serious over a cutting board.
A trauma attending preparing for an onion-related catastrophe. You hand him garlic cloves and point the wooden spoon at him. “Okay. Rule number one.” He glances up. “There are rules?”
“There are many rules.”
He braces himself.
You narrow your eyes.
“Don’t disrespect the garlic.”
He stares.
Then deadpan—
“I didn’t know garlic had civil rights.”
You choke out a laugh. “It does in Filipino households.”
“Noted.”
“It can tell when you’re lazy.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It absolutely isn’t.” You bump his hip as you move past him for soy sauce. “We excommunicate people over bad adobo.” He lifts a brow. “That feels extreme.”
“That’s because you’re white.”
That gets an honest laugh out of him—warm, startled, unguarded enough that it makes something in your chest loosen. God. You love that sound. It’s not the dry, tired huff he gives coworkers over bad jokes in the ED or the sharp, amused exhale he gives when Jack says something ridiculous. A real laugh, full-bodied and alive. It makes the whole kitchen feel brighter.
You’re making chicken adobo because the day before he had looked genuinely scandalized—personally offended, even—when he realized he had known you this long and never learned how to make a single Filipino dish.
As if this were some ethical failure on his part.
“I can’t believe,” he had said, hand to chest in mock injury, “I’ve gone this many years without adobo.”
Now he is here, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be sous-chef while mostly getting in your way. The chicken simmers low. Soy, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves deepening into something dark and glossy. Steam curls up into the warm kitchen air as the scent wraps around both of you.
It’s savory, sharp, and every bit comforting like a memory. As if somebody’s grandmother should be here… and maybe that’s what moves you a little. How food can cross oceans, or care can take shape in different forms.
You may not always come from the same language. But warmth—sweetness—the instinct to feed someone you love—that has always been universal.
You scoop a little sauce over a piece of chicken, blow on it once, then turn toward him. “Taste.”
He leans obediently toward the spoon, then pauses, raises an eyebrow. “You feeding me?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m definitely making it weird.”
“Robby.”
But he opens his mouth anyway. Takes the bite and freezes, while his whole face changes. Brows lifting, eyes widening, as he chews slowly. Like processing revelation. Then a gasp, “Oh.”
You blink. “What?”
He points at the pot. “That.” A brief pause. “That is outrageous.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s adobo.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head like you’re underselling a miracle. “That is a religious experience.”
You laugh. “There he goes.” He reaches for another bite before you can pull the spoon away. You smack his wrist lightly, chastising, “Patience.”
He looks wounded. “I’m in love.”
“With the food.” You say, but he looks at you, very deliberately. “Didn’t specify.”
Your face heats instantly, and you busy yourself stirring. But too late, he saw. You hand him another taste just to survive the moment. He takes it and closes his eyes. “Oh, I’m ruined.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“This is what people write poetry over.”
You snort at that, and he opens his eyes, and there is that look again. That soft wrecked one. You try to roll your eyes and fail.
And before you can turn back to the stove, he steps in, very gently, and touches your wrist, waits, as if asking. Then leans down and kisses the tip of your nose. Barely there, light as breath.
A stupidly tender little kiss.
You freeze entirely, brain gone. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the smile he gets—God. You melt so fast it should be medically concerning.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Because nothing useful comes out. He looks entirely too pleased. “What was that for?”
He shrugs. “Chef’s kiss.”
You cover your face. “Oh, my fucking God.”
He laughs.
You’re completely doomed. And later, while you plate adobo over garlic rice and eat with your knees bumping under the table, you realize something almost frightening in its sweetness—this is how people fall in love in kitchens. In spoonfuls held to lips, teasing, feeding each other, and maybe a nose kiss that nearly stops your heart.
BATHROOM — NIGHT
By evening, Bowie needs a bath. Or rather—you decide Bowie needs a bath.
Bowie, however, clearly believes this is a state-sponsored betrayal. The moment you so much as turn on the tub, he knows. His ears flatten, and he backs away. Suspicious, offended, and a little traumatized.
Robby folds his arms and watches this mutiny unfold. “I just want the record to show,” he says gravely, “I opposed this operation from the start.”
You point at him. “You literally offered to help.”
“I was misled.”
“You volunteered.”
“I was coerced.”
Bowie makes a break for it, and Robby barely intercepts him. Holding a forty-pound wriggling dog like unstable trauma equipment. “Oh my God,” he grunts. “Why is he so strong?”
“Because he senses fear.”
“I sense fear.”
You are laughing before this has even begun, and somehow that only gets worse. Because once Bowie is in the tub, everything devolves immediately.
There’s soap everywhere, water on the floor, and your shirt sleeves were drenched. Robby is on his knees beside the tub, trying to rinse shampoo while Bowie acts as though he’s being waterboarded.
“This was your idea,” Robby mutters.
“It was our idea.”
“No.” He points. “This was all on you.”
You snort, and he looks at Bowie. “I trusted you.”
Bowie shakes violently, and it’s a tidal wave that both of you take full force. Robby gets blasted in the face. His hair drenched and shirt soaked through. You laugh so hard you have to grab the tub, as he wipes water from his eyes. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a car wash.”
He narrows his eyes. “This is how you treat a man trying to win you back?”
“Oh, you have so much more groveling to do.”
He looks at you, actually considers it. Then, dead serious, “Okay.”
And before you can process that, he leans down and starts kissing an apology into Bowie’s wet forehead. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”
You wheeze laughing. “They?”
He nods solemnly. “You’re management.”
Then Bowie escapes, a wet missile, launching out of the tub, and bolting down the hall.
“No no no—”
“Oh my God, grab him!”
Bare feet slap hardwood as you and Robby chase a flying, dripping dog through the apartment, laughing so hard neither of you can breathe.
Robby almost eats shit turning the corner while you’re bent double. Bowie circles the coffee table. Slides and you lunge, only to miss. At one point, Robby catches Bowie, loses Bowie, and mutters, “I’ve had easier trauma codes.”
Then Bowie darts between your legs, and you stumble backward, straight into Robby. His arms catch you, hard and instant, with your back against his chest, with his hands at your waist.
Water dripping, both of you breathless and panting. Laughing, fading into something else. Everything slows with his mouth near your ear, warm, close enough to ruin you. “You okay?”
Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves immediately, and then, very quietly, Robby says, “I’m really sorry.”
It takes a second to realize he doesn’t mean the dog.
You turn slightly. “What?”
His arms don’t leave your waist. “For hurting you.”
The room goes still, even wet dog chaos recedes.
“I know I’m joking around and trying to be charming and—” He exhales. “But I am sorry. Every hour.”
Your chest tightens, but before you can answer—Bowie barks, loud and indignant. Spell broken, and you both dissolve into helpless laughter again.
Later, Robby insists on blow-drying Bowie, horribly. Like a man operating unfamiliar machinery. “You’re fluffing him wrong.”
“There’s a wrong way to fluff a dog?”
“There absolutely is.”
“You are ruthless.”
“You’re welcome.”
And he just looks at you, so openly adoring—you have to turn away. Because otherwise you might kiss him.
LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
Eventually, Bowie is dry, overfed with apology treats, and asleep like a prince between you on the couch.
A movie plays that neither of you is watching. You’ve curled against Robby almost without noticing, with his arm around you as naturally as breathing. His thumb traces absent little patterns over your shoulder repeatedly. Enough to make your eyelids heavy, your body soft, sleepy, and safe. He notices before you do, how your head keeps tipping and your blinks grow slow.
He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV quietly. Darkness settles except for the city light through the curtains.
Bowie hops down to his bed, circles twice, and drops.
Robby doesn’t move or want to disturb you. Because you look so peaceful, and he isn’t used to seeing you at peace. His eyes drift to your forearm, where faint old scars and fresh healing scabs mark where you’ve scratched yourself raw. His fingers hover, then very carefully trace near one faded line. It’s not intrusive, but almost reverent, a question he doesn’t yet ask.
Something in him stings because he can’t stand imagining you hurting where he wasn’t there. His mouth brushes your temple, as a thought, barely spoken, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”
You murmur something half asleep, and nestle closer, and his heart nearly gives out. He pulls the throw blanket over both of you and tucks it around your legs, letting you fold into him. Eventually sleep takes him too, curled around you on the couch.
You wake tangled together, morning light gold across the room, with your cheek against his chest. His arm heavy over your waist, and one of your legs thrown over his.
For one blissful second, you don’t move, because neither does he. “I’m awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile against his shirt. “So am I.”
“I’m sorry.”
You lift your head, snorting, “Jesus.” He looks sheepish. “What?”
“You apologize in your sleep, too?”
He laughs, but is serious again, “I mean it.” His hand moves to your hair as he says. “I’m gonna spend a long time making up for what I did.”
You squint. “That a threat?”
“Promise.” He kisses your forehead. You realize that he is groveling, in the way grown men do. Consistency, tenderness, and showing up for someone.
So, when he disappears later and returns from the corner bodega carrying coffee and flowers, you nearly choke. There he is with a messy bouquet, it has peonies and whatever else the guy sold him. Held awkwardly in one hand, as if he’s sixteen. “These are for you.”
You stare. “You bought me flowers?”
He clears his throat, nervous. “Yeah.” Then, almost formal, “Would you let me take you on a date?”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish's. He rushes out, “A real date, dinner. Where I wear a clean shirt.”
You are smiling so hard it hurts. He looks terrified. “Ducky…” He steps closer, with flowers between you. “Let me do this right.”
Somehow, that wrecks you more than every confession. Because this brilliant broken man is asking, not assuming. You take the flowers and smell them before looking up, “Yes.”
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for months, and grins devastatingly, “Tomorrow?”
You tuck your face into the flowers, trying not to melt, agreeing. “Tomorrow.”
End Notes:
Why did it take Robby finishing the journal for all of this to happen? Why didn't Ducky just tell him that she loves him at the end of S2?
Because as much as love can be used as a tool to help someone, it can also be weaponized. She didn't want him to get better just for her. She wanted him for himself; to want to get better. Put in the work without her. To figure himself out. Literally want to live and to love. Want to be open to new experiences. Good and bad. (And that's still in progress every day.)
Because Robby finished the journal, it means he did it for himself. You help nudged him in that direction, but he wrote in that thing, not really knowing what your letter would be.
We cannot fix him. God knows we tried. Love cannot save you, but it will hold on and cling for dear life as you save yourself.
Lelele, why so slow burn? Cause mental illness does that to ppl… well for me personally anyways. I genuinely felt insane at one point in my life and felt so unlovable. It took me 6 years to finally feel okay and not hate myself. :D So four months is like spare change lol
We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think.
Robby has given his life to try to save people when no one was able to save him. :,)
Lowkey… this chapter was horrifying to publish. I didn’t want it to seem like Ducky forgave him right away, but I also wanted to show that you are capable of compassion and understanding. That you are willing to see the work Robby has done and will continue to do.
But for those who want more groveling etc… don’t worry, we still have HR to deal with lol
Dr. Micheal ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x fem nurse reader
Part forty seven (but can be read as a standalone)
Synopsis: Reader finds out that Robby is actively suicidal, and has lied to her about their trip.
Warnings: MDNI, suicidal tendencies, depression, angst with comfort, massive panic attack, arguing, selfish reader, selfish robby, soft dom robby, alcohol consumption, pre-established relationship, nurse reader, reader is described to be shorter than robby.
Masterlist
a/n: I was gonna do a full season two thing and post all the chapters but I decided that its not necessary at this point. But this is a huge huge thing for reader and robby, so enjoy and thank you for sticking with me!
By hour six, the entire place moved differently. Conversations were shorter, footsteps slower, and everyone seemed to operate on muscle memory more than actual thought. She stood at the workstation finishing a quick note on a paper chart, her handwriting tighter than usual from fatigue. She capped the pen and slid the chart into the stack beside her just as Whitaker approached the counter. He slowed as he got close, leaning one forearm against the edge like he had intended to walk past but had changed his mind at the last second.
She glanced up at him.
"Hey," she said. "Did Robby ask you about watching our place?"
Dennis nodded immediately. "Yup. I got you guys."
"Perfect." She let out a small breath, relieved. "Just stick to the guest room and the guest bathroom. They're fully stocked. Towels, shampoo, all that stuff is already in there."
"Easy."
"And I have a Chewy box coming for Fish every two weeks," she continued, already mentally checking through the list she had clearly rehearsed. "Food, litter, treats. It'll just show up at the door."
Dennis gave a small nod.
"She has an automatic feeder, so you'll just have to refill it when it runs out. It's pretty obvious when it's empty. And make sure the water fountain is going. She refuses to drink from a normal bowl now."
"Fancy."
"She's dramatic," she said simply. "And the fountain will start making this awful grinding sound if it gets low."
Dennis chuckled quietly. "Got it. Maintain the luxury lifestyle."
She slid another chart into the rack and turned slightly toward him again.
"Oh, and I know Robby said you can't have anyone over," she added, her tone practical rather than strict. "But I trust you. If you want to have a date over or something, that's fine."
Dennis blinked at her, a little surprised.
"Just don't bring any children into the house," she added quickly. "And don't take anyone into our room, okay. Stick to the guest room."
He nodded. "Deal."
She studied him for a second then tilted her head slightly. "You look like you have something to say."
Dennis shifted his weight a little. "It was probably nothing."
"It's bothering you," she said immediately. "What's up?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to say it at all. The conversation he had earlier with Robby had left a small knot sitting in his stomach that had refused to go away for the rest of the shift.
"Well," he said slowly, "Robby was like..." He paused, searching for the exact way to repeat it. "He said, 'Hey, if I don't come back, then you and Sunshine can split a sick bachelor pad.'"
For a second she didn't move. Then the change was immediate. Her expression dropped just slightly, the casual ease disappearing from her face as the words settled in. The lightness she had a moment earlier was gone. Her shoulders stiffened a fraction, and something behind her eyes went very still.
"What?" she said.
The word was quiet but sharp with disbelief. Dennis lifted both hands slightly. "Hey, I'm sure he was kidding."
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the counter in front of her, fingers resting flat against the cool surface. For a moment she just stared there, processing. When she looked back up, her face had smoothed into something controlled and professional again, but the warmth from earlier had not returned. The air around her felt different now. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, in the careful stillness of her posture.
"I'm sure he was joking," Dennis added quickly, internally panicking. "You know him. Dark humor."
She nodded once. A small, deliberate motion. "Thank you for telling me," she said.
Her voice was steady, but her entire vibe had shifted. The easy, casual energy from a few minutes ago had been replaced with something quieter and heavier, like a thought had taken root that she was not ready to say out loud. Dennis studied her for a moment, unsure if he had just made things worse.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Of course."
Across the department someone called her name. She turned toward the sound immediately, already stepping away from the counter, sliding right back into motion.
-
An hour later she spotted him near the far end of the nurses' station, leaning over a chart and speaking to Javadi. He looked exactly like everyone else did nine hours into a shift that refused to slow down. Hair a little disheveled, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, jaw tight with focus. She walked straight up to him.
"Hey," she said.
He glanced up. "Hey."
Her voice stayed even, but there was something about the way she was standing that made him stop what he was doing. "I need to talk to you."
He wiped his hands on the side of his pants automatically. "Okay. What's up?"
Then he saw her face properly. The tension there made his brow crease immediately.
"What's going on?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
"Work," he said, "or personal?"
"Personal."
"Baby I love you but we don't have time for personal right now." He says softly.
"I need to talk to you outside. Now."
The tone made him pause. He looked up fully this time, scanning her face. Something in her expression made his brows pull together.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. "Okay. Okay."
He shoved the chart back towards Javadi who looked angry. "Hold that thought," he said, already stepping away.
She didn't wait. She was already walking toward the ambulance bay doors, and he followed a few steps behind her. The doors slid open and the hot air hit them both at once, cooler and quieter than the chaos inside. The ambulance bay lights cast harsh white circles across the concrete, and somewhere down the lot an engine idled with a low rumble. She stopped near the edge of the bay and turned to face him. Robby slowed a few feet away.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Her arms folded across her chest, not defensive so much as trying to hold herself steady. "Whitaker talked to me."
"Okay."
"He said you told him that if you didn't come back, he and I could split a bachelor pad."
There was a short beat of silence. Then Robby exhaled and dragged a hand down his face. "Oh my god," he said.
She watched him carefully.
"Sweetheart," he said, already shaking his head, "I really do not have time for this conversation right now."
"Me neither." Her voice cut through the air sharper than he expected. "I surly don't have a spare second to talk about this. But I can't stop thinking about it."
He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a small, frustrated laugh. "It was a joke."
"Its not funny."
He looked at her like she had just said something ridiculous. "Everyone here make jokes like that constantly."
"That's not the same thing."
"It literally is the same thing."
She didn't move. Robby shifted his weight, trying to brush it off.
"Come on," he said. "You know how this job is. Dark humor, coping, all that."
"No."
He frowned. "No?"
"No," she said again. "You don't get to do that."
He let out a disbelieving breath. "Do what?"
"Brush it off like that."
He stared at her for a moment, irritation starting to creep into his expression.
"Hey," he said, lowering his voice slightly, "We don't have fucking time for this."
"Fuck no we don't," she shot back immediately.
The words echoed a little in the open bay.
"But I can't focus until we talk about it," she continued, voice tightening. "So here we are."
Robby paced two steps away, then back again, hands settling on his hips. "What can I say to make you believe it was a joke?" he asked.
"With your past," she said slowly, "you don't get to say things like that."
The words hit harder than anything she'd said so far. Robby's jaw tightened. "You're reading way too much into it."
"I'm not."
"Yes you are."
"No," she said again, voice shaking slightly now despite how steady she was trying to keep it. "I'm not."
He exhaled sharply. "It was a stupid joke," he said.
"That's the problem."
"Jesus."
"With your past," she repeated quietly, "you don't get to say things like that like they're nothing, most people can say those things and nobody is concerned, but you have struggled! This trip is for your mental health!"
He looked away toward the dark lot beyond the bay, clearly frustrated. "You're acting like I was serious."
"I know you were joking."
"Then what's the issue?"
Her voice cracked slightly when she answered. "The issue is that I feel fucking sick thinking about it, because you're gonna be alone for six weeks and that scares the shit out of me already and now hearing you making sick jokes about not coming home-"
Robby looked back at her immediately. Her eyes were glossy now, the kind of watery shine that meant she was fighting hard to keep it together. For a second he didn't know what to say.
"Hey," he said softer, stepping closer. "I'm not planning on dying,"
"That's not what it sounded like."
He reached out instinctively and rested his hand on her shoulder. She didn't pull away, but she didn't lean into it either. Her gaze had dropped somewhere toward the concrete between them.
"I just needed you to understand why that's not funny to me, I'm scared Robby." she said.
Robby opened his mouth to respond. Inside the department, someone suddenly shouted.
"TRAUMA INBOUND!"
Another voice followed immediately after.
"Two minutes!"
Both of them turned automatically toward the doors. Robby's hand dropped from her shoulder as the familiar pull of the job snapped into place.
"Fuck," he muttered.
The doors slid open and the noise from inside poured back into the bay. She wiped quickly under her eye with the back of her hand, already forcing herself back into motion. Robby stepped beside her as they headed toward the entrance.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Can we talk about this later?"
She didn't look at him but offered a small nod. And when they pushed through the doors and disappeared back into the chaos of the department.
-
The ED had somehow grown louder in the last half hour, the kind of noise that didn't come from any single thing but from everything happening at once. She had just finished helping move a patient off a stretcher when she stepped back toward the desk, quickly tying her hair tighter at the base of her neck. Her chest still felt tight from the argument outside. The trauma had pulled them apart so abruptly she hadn't even had time to steady herself afterward. She had thrown herself straight into work instead. She was flipping through a chart when she heard her name.
"Hey."
Gloria was walking toward her from the hall that led to the offices, one hand holding a clipboard, reading glasses perched halfway down her nose. Gloria had the look she got when she was juggling three things at once but had decided something needed to be said anyway. Gloria reached the desk and rested her forearms on it.
"Why are you only going for six weeks?" she asked.
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
Gloria looked mildly confused. "You're only scheduled out for six weeks."
She frowned slightly, trying to process what she meant. "You only approved six weeks, I wanted longer."
"No," Gloria said. "I approved the same time as Robby."
That made her pause completely. "What?"
Gloria tapped the clipboard lightly against the desk. "I gave you the same block he requested," she said. "Any changes after that would've gone through him."
For a second she just stared at Gloria. Something about the way she said it made Gloria look at her a little more closely. "I didn't know that," she added.
Gloria studied her face for a moment, clearly picking up on the faint tension still sitting there. "Well," Gloria said gently, straightening up again. "I hope you have a good trip."
She glanced briefly over the department floor, where the shift was still moving at full speed.
"Sorry this is your send off," Gloria added.
She followed Gloria's gaze for a second, watching two nurses rush past with a cart before looking back at her. A small smile appeared on her face. It wasn't big, but it was genuine.
"Thank you, Gloria."
Gloria gave her a quick nod before already turning back toward the hallway, disappearing into the noise and motion of the department again. She stood there for another moment, the chart still open in her hands, Gloria's words quietly settling somewhere in the back of her mind. Her hands began to go numb and her heart raced, she backed away and hurried off into the once space she knew would be empty.
The on-call room was dim compared to the rest of the department. A small lamp in the corner cast a weak pool of yellow light across the couch and narrow desk, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Through the door she could still hear the muffled chaos of the floor. Phones rang somewhere down the hall, someone called for labs, and the distant squeak of stretcher wheels rolled across tile. It was quieter here, but the hospital never really stopped moving.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, pressing her palms flat against the cool metal. Her hands were shaking, at first only slightly, the kind of tremor that could almost be written off as exhaustion or leftover adrenaline. She told herself that was all it was. The shift had been brutal, the department overflowing, and her nerves had been stretched thin all night. She pushed away from the door and walked toward the small sink along the wall, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water over her wrists like she had done countless times after rough shifts. It didn't help.
The tightness in her chest had already started building, subtle at first but unmistakable once she noticed it. It wasn't pain exactly, just a heavy pressure sitting squarely in the center of her sternum, like something was pressing down from the inside. She tried to inhale slowly through her nose, the way she had taught anxious patients to do a hundred times before. The breath stopped halfway down, catching somewhere deep in her chest before slipping back out. She tried again, forcing another breath, but this one was shorter. Her heart had started racing, the beat loud and fast enough that she could feel it in her throat.
She gripped the edge of the counter and tried to steady herself, focusing on the sound of the running water, on anything that might anchor her. The next breath came quicker than the last. Then another. Within seconds the rhythm had fallen apart completely, her lungs pulling in shallow bursts of air that seemed to go nowhere. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls closer than they had been a moment ago.
"Oh no," she whispered under her breath.
Her stomach flipped violently, the nausea arriving so fast it stole what little breath she had managed to pull in. She turned just in time to make it into the tiny bathroom attached to the room. The overhead light flicked on harsh and bright as she dropped to her knees in front of the toilet. Her body folded forward and the first heave hit hard, the sound echoing sharply off the tile walls. She braced her hands on either side of the bowl as her stomach emptied, coughing and gagging through it as wave after wave forced its way out.
When it finally slowed she stayed there for a second, forehead resting against her arm, trying to catch her breath. But her breathing refused to settle. Each inhale was still short and frantic, the air barely making it past her throat before rushing back out again. Her chest felt even tighter now, her heart hammering so hard against her ribs that it almost hurt.
She flushed the toilet and pushed herself upright, rinsing her mouth quickly at the sink. The mirror caught her reflection as she lifted her head, and the sight of her own face made her stomach twist again. Her skin had gone pale and her eyes looked wide and unfocused, like she had just run a mile. Her breathing hitched sharply and the panic surged harder.
"No," she muttered to herself.
She hurried back into the on-call room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as the air in her lungs came in rapid bursts. The quiet in the room did nothing to calm it. If anything it made the sound of her breathing louder. Each inhale was quick and shallow, her chest rising and falling too fast to control. She dragged both hands through her hair and started pacing across the room, trying to burn off the restless energy flooding her body.
"Breathe," she said under her breath, though the word came out broken.
She tried again to inhale slowly, but the moment she focused on it the rhythm shattered completely. Her lungs pulled in another short gasp and then another. Her fingers had started tingling now, pins and needles spreading across her palms and creeping toward her wrists. Her heart slammed harder with every step she took.
She shook her arms out violently, like she could physically shake the panic out of her muscles. It didn't work. The energy buzzing under her skin only intensified, adrenaline racing through her system with nowhere to go. She paced the length of the room again, turning sharply at the wall and pacing back the other way, her breathing loud and uneven.
"You're fine," she whispered, though the words sounded hollow even to her. "You're fine."
But the thought that had started this spiral refused to leave her head. The words echoed again whether she wanted them to or not.
If I don't come back.
Her stomach twisted and her chest tightened even more. She bent forward with her hands on her knees, trying to force the air deeper into her lungs, but every breath stopped halfway and bounced back out again. Her fingers curled slightly as the tingling intensified, and the edges of her vision started to blur. She straightened again and began pacing faster, the movement frantic now as she tried to outrun the feeling building in her chest. Her whole body trembled, her shoulders shaking with each breath as adrenaline flooded her muscles. Tears had started slipping down her face without her realizing it, the panic surging through her in waves that refused to break.
Her stomach lurched again and she stumbled back toward the bathroom, gagging over the sink this time. Nothing came up, but the nausea left her shaking as she gripped the porcelain edge with white knuckles. Her breathing filled the small space, fast and ragged, echoing off the tile as she struggled to slow it down. She leaned forward until her forehead touched the cool mirror, squeezing her eyes shut as her chest heaved with another series of shallow breaths.
"Just breathe," she whispered to herself again, but her lungs still refused to listen.
Robby stepped out of the room he had just finished in and scanned the nurses' station, expecting to see her somewhere in the chaos. She had disappeared right after the trauma came in, and he had not seen her since. He checked the chart racks, the workstation, the hallway that led toward imaging. Nothing.
He stopped one of the nurses passing by. "Hey, have you seen her?"
The nurse shook her head without slowing. "Not in a while."
He frowned slightly and moved toward the next cluster of staff.
"Anyone seen her?"
A couple of people glanced up, shook their heads, and went back to what they were doing. The noise of the department pressed in around him, the constant motion making it harder to track anyone down. Normally she moved through the floor like she belonged to the chaos, always somewhere in the middle of it. The fact that he could not spot her anywhere immediately set a quiet unease in his stomach. He turned toward the hallway again and nearly walked into Javadi coming around the corner.
"Hey," Robby said quickly. "Have you seen her?"
Javadi thought for a second. "Yeah. I think she went toward the on-call room."
Robby's brow creased. "Recently?"
"Couple minutes ago," Javadi said. "Looked like she needed a second."
Robby nodded once. "Thank you."
He turned immediately and headed down the hallway toward the staff rooms. The noise of the department faded a little with every step he took, replaced by the quieter hum of lights and distant voices behind closed doors. When he reached the on-call room door he paused for half a second, then pushed it open. The room was dim. At first he thought it was empty. Then he heard the breathing. He stepped inside and his eyes adjusted quickly enough to see the bathroom light on. The door was open and she was standing at the sink, leaning forward with both hands gripping the edge of it, her forehead pressed against the mirror.
"Hey," he said so softly.
She didn't respond.
He stepped closer, stopping just behind her. "Sweet girl."
Her head lifted slightly and she turned just enough that he could see her face reflected in the mirror. Her eyes were red and watery, her chest rising and falling too fast, her entire body trembling like she had been running. His expression changed immediately.
"Hey," he said again, softer now.
"Leave me alone," she said suddenly.
The words came out rough, dragged up through the panic gripping her chest.
He shook his head immediately. "I'm not leaving you like this."
"You are though!" she cried, her voice cracking as the words tore out of her. "That's the whole point!"
He froze.
"You're leaving me," she continued, the words tumbling out faster now as the panic twisted into something sharper. "This whole thing is a plan to leave me!"
"Hey," he said quickly. "No. No, it's not."
"I heard what you told Whitaker!"
"I told you that was a joke," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
She laughed again, a broken, disbelieving sound. "Don't you fucking lie to me." The accusation landed hard in the tiny room. "Gloria told me, she said you're the one who only approved six weeks. She was going to give me the full trip. Why?"
The question hung between them. Robby's mouth opened. Nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the floor. For a second he couldn't bring himself to look at her. The silence answered the question before he ever spoke. Her breathing hitched violently.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Her hand came up to her chest like she was trying to hold it together, fingers pressing hard against her sternum as the panic surged all over again. "Oh my god."
Her knees buckled before he could react. She slid down the side of the wall and hit the tile floor hard, the sound echoing in the small bathroom. The sob that tore out of her was loud and raw, completely unrestrained. Her whole body folded in on itself as she began openly sobbing, shoulders shaking violently with every breath. Robby dropped down toward her immediately.
"Hey," he said, reaching for her. "Hey."
The moment his hand touched her arm she jerked away from him.
"Don't!" she shouted.
He froze.
"Just leave me alone!" she cried.
"Baby-"
"No!" Her voice cracked as another sob ripped through her chest. "You've been planning this the whole time! You want to leave me, so go already!"
"Stop," he said, shaking his head. "That's not what's happening."
"Then why did you only approve six weeks?"
The question came out like a knife. Robby had no answer. He ran both hands through his hair, breathing hard now himself.
"Then get out!" she screamed.
Her sobbing had become loud now, echoing off the tile walls as her entire body shook on the floor. He stared at her, completely helpless. Tears had started burning in his own eyes now, his chest tightening as he watched her fall apart in front of him.
"Baby," he said hoarsely.
He moved toward her again instinctively.
"Don't fucking touch me!" she shouted.
The words stopped him cold. She dragged in another ragged breath, clutching her chest again as the panic surged through her.
"You want to leave me," she cried. "So just go!"
His hands dropped helplessly to his sides. He dragged them over his face, wiping at his eyes as he tried to steady himself.
"Please," he said quietly. "Just let me help you."
"Get out!" she sobbed again.
Her voice was raw now, her shoulders shaking so hard it looked painful. Robby stood there for a second longer, completely torn, before running his hands over his face again and looking back down at her. She wouldn't even look at him. Her head was bent forward, her body curled in on itself as the sobs tore through her chest.
"I love you." he whispered helplessly.
But she just shook her head, crying harder.
"Just leave me alone." She sobs, the pleading in her voice unlike anything he'd heard from her before, never directed at him.
"Okay okay I'm going."
Robby stood in the doorway for another second after she told him to leave. The sobbing coming from the bathroom filled the small on-call room, raw and uncontrolled, and every instinct in him fought against the idea of walking away from her like this. His hands were still shaking slightly, and he dragged them down his face again, trying to steady himself. When he looked back toward the bathroom she was still curled on the tile floor, shoulders shaking violently as she cried, one hand clutching the center of her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.
The only answer was another broken sob that echoed off the tile walls. Robby swallowed hard. For a moment he looked like he might ignore her and step back inside anyway, but the way she had recoiled from him was still fresh in his mind. He knew if he pushed right now he would only make it worse. He forced himself to step back. His hand hovered near the door frame before he turned and walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
The hallway outside felt brighter and louder than it should have. The sounds of the department rushed back in immediately. Someone wheeled a stretcher past him, a monitor chiming in short bursts somewhere down the hall. For a second he just stood there, trying to collect himself. He rubbed both hands over his face again and started walking. He had barely made it halfway down the hall when he nearly collided with Samira coming around the corner.
"Hey," she said automatically.
Then she really looked at him.
Her eyebrows pulled together immediately. "Hey, what's wrong?"
Robby looked like he had been punched in the stomach. His eyes were red, his jaw tight, and the exhaustion from the shift sat heavily in his shoulders.
"Samira," he said quietly.
Something in his voice made her straighten a little. "Yeah?"
He gestured back down the hallway toward the on-call room. "Go to the on-call room," he said. "Please help her."
Samira blinked. "What?"
"Please go," he said again, the words coming out more urgently this time.
Her eyes widened. "What happened?"
He shook his head slightly, already stepping away. "Just go."
"Robby-"
But he was already walking down the hall, his hand dragging over the back of his neck as he disappeared around the corner. Samira stood there for half a second longer, confusion flashing across her face before concern took over. Then she turned and hurried down the hallway. The on-call room door was closed when she reached it. She pushed it open quickly. The room was dim except for the bathroom light.
"Oh my god."
She rushed toward the bathroom doorway and froze for a split second when she saw her sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up slightly as she cried openly. Her face was buried in her hands, her entire body shaking with every breath.
"Hey," Samira said immediately, her voice soft but urgent.
She dropped to the floor in front of her without hesitation.
"Hey, hey," she said again, reaching forward carefully.
Her friend barely seemed aware she had entered the room. Her breathing was still too fast, each inhale catching halfway through before breaking apart into another sob. Samira gently pulled one of her hands away from her face.
"Look at me," she said softly.
Her eyes were red and swollen, tears still streaming down her cheeks. The moment she saw Samira she tried to speak, but the words got tangled in another broken sob.
"Hey," Samira murmured again.
She slid closer and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, pulling her carefully against her chest.
"It's okay," she whispered.
At first the contact made her tense, her breathing still ragged and uneven, but after a moment she leaned into her, clutching weakly at the front of Samira's scrubs. Samira rocked her gently.
"Breathe with me," she said quietly. "Just slow it down."
Her friend tried, but another sob tore through her chest before she could manage it.
"That's okay," Samira said immediately. "That's okay. We're just going to slow it down together."
She placed one hand gently on her upper back, rubbing slow circles.
"In through your nose," Samira murmured.
Her breathing stuttered.
"That's okay," Samira repeated. "Try again."
Another shaky inhale.
"Good," Samira said softly.
She kept her voice steady, calm, the same tone she had used a hundred times with anxious patients, but there was something warmer underneath it now. Her friend clung to her tighter. The sobbing slowly started to lose its edge, the breaths coming slightly longer now, though her chest still hitched every few seconds. Samira pulled back just enough to look at her face.
"Hey," she said gently.
Her friend wiped at her eyes with shaking hands.
"What happened?" Samira asked quietly.
The question hung there. Her friend opened her mouth like she might answer. Nothing came out. Her face crumpled again and she shook her head hard, another wave of tears spilling over.
"I can't," she whispered.
Samira's expression softened immediately. "That's okay," she said. She pulled her back into a hug without hesitation. "You don't have to tell me right now."
Her friend buried her face against Samira's shoulder, still shaking as the last of the sobs worked their way through her chest. Samira held her tighter.
"I've got you," she murmured.
She kept rubbing slow circles along her back, steady and patient, letting her cry as long as she needed.
"You're okay," Samira whispered quietly. "I'm right here."
-
Four hours later Robby stood at the nurses' station flipping through a chart he wasn't actually reading, his eyes lifting every few seconds to scan the floor. He hadn't seen her since earlier, not properly, not in a way that counted. Every time he thought he caught a glimpse of her, she was already moving away, already gone before he could reach her.
"Where is she?" he asked finally, his voice low.
Dana glanced up from her chart, already knowing who he meant. "She's doing rounds."
He nodded once and set the chart down, leaning back against the counter with his arms loosely crossed. He stayed there, jaw tight, forcing himself to wait. He didn't like waiting, especially not like this, but he knew better than to chase her down in the middle of the floor. So he stood there, watching, tracking movement until he finally saw her coming down the hallway, moving room to room, focused, composed, like nothing had happened. That almost made it worse. He pushed off the counter immediately and met her just as she stepped out of a patient's room, her attention on the chart in her hands.
"Hey," he said.
She looked up, her expression neutral in a way that felt practiced.
"Come here," he added, quieter.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then followed him without arguing as he guided her into an empty room. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the department, leaving them in a silence that felt heavier than it should have. Robby stood there for a moment, running a hand over his mouth, trying to figure out how to start. Then he exhaled and said it plainly.
"I'm sorry."
She didn't move, but her eyes flicked up to him.
"I shouldn't have yelled at you earlier," he continued. "I shouldn't have brushed you off. I knew what you were asking for, and I still shut it down. That's on me."
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, shaking his head slightly. "I was being a dick."
She crossed her arms, not defensive, just holding herself together.
"I don't really even know what to say at this point," she admitted quietly.
He nodded once. "Then don't filter it. I don't need you to make it easier. Just say it."
She looked down, her fingers tightening slightly against her arms as she took a breath that didn't fully settle.
"I'm sorry," she said.
His head lifted immediately. "No."
"I am," she said, pushing through it. "I made it about me. I took something you're dealing with and turned it into my own panic, and that's not fair. I know how you handle things, and I should've just stayed professional. I should've kept it together."
"Hey," he cut in, sharper now.
She kept going anyway, the words coming faster as the emotion built.
"I should've just handled it better, I should've-"
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said firmly. That stopped her. Her eyes lifted to his, glassy now. "I can't sit here and say I would've handled that better,"
She shook her head, tears starting to slip over despite her effort to hold them back. "I should've tried, it was so selfish."
"No," he said, quieter now, stepping a little closer. "Don't do that to yourself. If anything, it was hard to see you like that. Not because you did anything wrong. Because I didn't realize how much it was affecting you."
"Of course it's affecting me," she said, her voice breaking. "I love you."
The words hit him like something physical. He looked away for a second, jaw tightening, trying to hold himself steady.
"I've loved you from the day we met," she continued, her voice gaining strength even as tears fell freely now. "Through every panic attack, every bad shift, every argument. You are my person."
He ran his hand over his face again, slower this time.
"I never thought I'd get something like this," she said. "I thought love was supposed to hurt. I thought that was just how it worked. And then you showed me that it can be good and safe and... real."
Her voice cracked, and she wiped at her cheeks, frustrated with herself.
"There is nobody else for me," she said. "So when you say things like that, I don't hear a joke. I hear something I'm already scared of."
He turned slightly away, his hand going to the back of his neck, his chest rising and falling a little heavier now.
"You're all I have," she admitted, softer, more vulnerable than before. "And I know that's a lot. I know it's not fair to put that on you. But you are my family."
He shook his head slightly, overwhelmed.
"I'm trying to build a life with you," she continued. "I want everything. The house, the porch, the kids, all of it. Things I never even let myself think about before. I want that with you."
His eyes burned, and he blinked hard, trying to keep it together.
"Robby," she said gently. "Look at me."
He hesitated, then lifted his gaze.
Everything was there. The guilt, the fear, the weight of everything she had just said.
"There is no version of my life without you in it," she said. "But right now, you're not okay."
He swallowed.
"And I can't fix that," she added. "You have to want to. You have to actually deal with it."
His jaw tightened, but he nodded slowly.
"You can't keep going like this," she said. "It's hurting you. And it's bleeding into everything else. Work, us, everything."
He nodded again, quieter this time.
"We all just want you to be okay," she finished. "Not just getting through the day. Actually okay."
The room fell silent again, the weight of it settling between them. Then a voice cut through from the hallway.
"Robby, we need you."
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, dragging himself back into control. Of course. He wiped under his eyes quickly, straightening slightly, already shifting back into the role he had to play. She watched him, then offered him a small, steady smile despite everything.
"Go," she said softly.
He hesitated for just a second, like he wanted to say more, like he wasn't ready to leave it here. But he nodded once and turned, opening the door and stepping back into the noise of the department, leaving her standing in the quiet room with everything still hanging in the air.
-
The NICU felt disconnected from the rest of the hospital. The noise of the emergency department never seemed to make it up here. Everything was softer. The lights. The voices. Even the alarms sounded gentler somehow. After the day they'd had, it felt almost wrong that a place could be this quiet. She found him standing near the back of the unit beside one of the bassinets. For a moment she didn't say anything. She just watched.
Robby was holding a baby girl against his chest. Swaddled tightly in a pink blanket with a knit cap pulled down over her head. One of her hands had escaped the blanket and was curled loosely against his scrub top, her fingers no bigger than the tip of his thumb. He was swaying slightly without realizing it, the same unconscious motion she had seen a hundred times when he held scared children in the emergency department. The little girl was completely asleep.
Eventually he noticed her standing there. His gaze lifted and landed on her. For a second neither of them spoke. Then he looked back down at the baby.
"She finally stopped crying," he said quietly.
"Poor girl, she's had a rough day." she added
Robby adjusted the blanket around the baby's shoulder even though it didn't need adjusting. Then he checked the monitor lead. Then he looked at the monitor itself. Then back at the baby. Anything except her. She recognized avoidance when she saw it. After a minute she finally walked closer.
"Hi."
"Hey."
"You okay?"
The question hung there. Robby stared down at the baby for so long she started to wonder if he was going to answer at all. The little girl's chest rose and fell steadily against his arm. He watched it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
"No," he said finally.
The honesty surprised her. It seemed to surprise him too. He looked down and laughed quietly to himself.
"No," he repeated. "Not really."
She waited. He knew she was waiting. That seemed to make it harder. Carefully he bent down and lowered the baby back into the bassinet. He tucked the blanket around her, adjusted her tiny hat, checked her monitor one more time, then rested both hands on the edge of the bassinet. Still not looking at her.
"You know what's fucked up?" His voice sounded rough. She stayed quiet. "I don't even remember the last time I had a day where I wasn't thinking about work."
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and stared down into the bassinet. "Everybody keeps telling me to take time off. Dana says it. Abbot says it. Jake won't shut up about it. Take a vacation. Go somewhere. Sleep for a week. But as soon as our trip was brought up it became a big issue for everyone. Its three months. And then what?What do I do after that?"
She stepped closer. "You rest."
"Okay." He nodded. "Then what?"
"You spend time with people you love."
"Okay." Another nod. "Then what?"
"You tell me."
That finally got his attention. His eyes lifted. For the first time since she'd walked into the room, he was actually looking at her. She could see how exhausted he was. How worn down. The problem was that he didn't believe it.
"I don't know how to leave this place."
The admission came out quietly. So quietly she almost missed it. Robby looked away immediately afterward, like he regretted saying it. His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. Then he said it again.
"I don't know how to stop." This time he sounded angry.Not at her. At himself. "That's the truth. The hospital's all I got."
The words hit her harder than anything else he'd said. Because he believed them. She could hear it in his voice. He wasn't being dramatic. He wasn't fishing for reassurance. He genuinely believed the hospital was the only thing keeping him together.
"The patients need me." His fingers tightened around the edge of the bassinet. "The staff needs me, and if I'm not there..." His voice trailed off. He stared down at the sleeping baby. "I don't know."
The honesty of it made her chest ache. Because suddenly this wasn't about work. It wasn't about burnout. It wasn't even about the hospital. It was about identity. About a man who had spent so many years taking care of everyone else that he no longer knew who he was without someone needing something from him. He didn't wanna be on this world anymore. It was so obvious, he was saying it without fully saying it. She stepped beside him and rested her forearms against the edge of the bassinet.
"Robby."
"I know."
"No, listen."
"I know what you're gonna say."
"Shut up for a second and listen to me. You don't have to be useful every second of every day."
There it was. The exact sentence he knew was coming. A small laugh escaped him.
"Apparently I do."
She frowned. He stared down at the baby.
"I'm serious. I walk into that hospital and people need things from me. They need answers, they need decisions, they need help. And lately... lately I don't even have enough of myself left to give them."
Robby had always been exhausted. He'd always carried too much. But there had always been a fight underneath it, some stubborn refusal to quit, some part of him that believed if he just worked harder, slept less, pushed a little further, he'd eventually get ahead of whatever was chasing him. Tonight she didn't see that. Tonight he looked tired of fighting. If she were to be honest with herself she'd say he'd worn that for a while.
"Then let somebody help you," she said softly.
Robby laughed under his breath and shook his head. Not because he thought she was wrong, but because she made it sound so simple. "You make it sound easy."
"Its not easy."
He rubbed a hand across his mouth and stared down at the sleeping baby.
"But it has to actually work." She opened her mouth to answer, but he was already shaking his head. "That's what nobody gets. So I take time off. Great. Then what? I sit at home for two weeks staring at the walls? I go on vacation and spend the entire time wondering what's happening in the ED? Wondering if Dana's drowning? Wondering if one of the residents missed something? Wondering if somebody died?" His shoulders rose and fell in a tired shrug. "I don't know how to be anything else."
The admission seemed to embarrass him. He looked away immediately afterward, jaw tightening hard enough that she could see the muscle jump beneath his cheek. If he could have reached into the air and grabbed the words back, she thought he probably would have.
"You are something else," she said quietly. His eyes lifted. "You're my partner. You're my best friend. You're the person who makes coffee every morning no matter how tired you are. You're the man who cries at animal rescue videos and pretends he doesn't. You're the guy who spent an hour researching cat illness because Fish sneezed twice."
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, but the smile disappeared almost immediately. Robby looked back down at the baby and adjusted the blanket again. It was the fourth time he'd done it since she'd walked into the room. The blanket was perfectly fine.
"I keep hurting people." The words came out so quietly she almost missed them. Robby swallowed and stared down into the bassinet. "I keep becoming somebody I don't want to be." She felt her chest tighten as he continued looking at the sleeping baby instead of her. "I snapped at Dana. I snapped at Abbot. I snapped at residents for asking questions they're supposed to ask. I knew I was doing it, too." A humorless laugh escaped him and he shook his head. "That's the worst part. I could hear myself. I could hear myself saying that shit and I knew it was wrong. But I was so angry."
For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was honest. Robby's shoulders slumped as he stared at the floor.
"I don't even know what I'm angry at anymore. Everything. Myself. The hospital. The system. The fact that people keep dying. The fact that no matter how hard we work it never feels like enough." His gaze drifted back toward the baby. "And then I come home and you're trying so hard."
Her chest ached immediately because she knew where this was heading.
Robby shook his head. "You shouldn't have to do that."
She frowned. "Do what?"
"Take care of me."
The second he said it, she felt fear settle into her stomach. Not panic. Not yet. Just a quiet dread, because she knew where he was going before he did. "Robby."
"No." He cut her off gently and looked away. "You spend every day trying to make my life easier. You make sure I eat. You make sure I sleep. You make sure I take my vitamins." A small smile appeared and disappeared. "You spend all this energy trying to make me happy, and I'm standing here wondering what exactly you're getting out of this. You're young."
The thing he always reached for when he felt guilty.
"You should be traveling. You should be having fun. You should be with somebody who doesn't come home carrying twelve hours of trauma every day."
"Stop."
"You should be with somebody who isn't constantly-"
"Stop."
The word came out sharper this time, and when he finally looked at her he froze. She wasn't angry. She looked terrified. Immediately his entire expression changed. Her voice cracked hard enough that it startled both of them. For a second neither moved. Robby looked confused, then concerned, then guilty as realization dawned across his face. Suddenly he understood what she was hearing. What she thought he was saying. And maybe the worst part was that some small part of him actually believed it.
"Do you know what the worst part is?" she asked.
Robby stayed completely still.
"Why are you changing the subject, making it seem like what you're doing is the right thing, finishing this trip alone and hurting yourself- why because you think that its better for you to kill yourself for what? For my sake? Fuck that! Do you think you're the only person whose scared?"
His brow furrowed. "What? I'm not scared."
"Yes." The tears finally came, hot and relentless, and she scrubbed at them with the heel of her hand, furious with herself for crying when she was so angry. "Yes, you are. You keep telling me what I deserve. What I should be doing. How I should spend my twenties."
Her voice cracked so hard she almost couldn't get the next words out.
"You don't get to decide that."
She shook her head, staring at him like she couldn't believe he was saying any of this.
"You don't get to tell me I'd be happier somewhere else because you're not listening to me. You're listening to whatever voice in your head keeps telling you you're a burden, and you're treating that like it's the truth." She jabbed a hand toward her chest. "I am standing right here telling you what I want, and you're acting like you know me better than I know myself."
Another tear slipped free. She didn't bother wiping it away.
"I don't want somewhere else. I don't want some imaginary future with some imaginary person who's easier to love. I want you. I chose you. Every single day, I choose you."
Her breathing hitched.
"And you're hurting right now. I know you are. I know you're exhausted and scared and drowning in whatever this is. But don't stand there and try to dress this up like you're doing me some kind of favor."
The words came out sharper now, trembling with grief.
"You lied to me, Robby. You looked me in the eye and lied to me so you could die. And what am I supposed to do with that? Seriously, tell me. What am I supposed to do afterward? Wake up every morning wondering what I missed? What I should've said? Whether the last thing I said to you was the wrong thing? Am I supposed to carry that for the rest of my life and call it love because you decided it'd be better for me? You keep talking about my future like you're not in it. Like you've already left. But I'm still here. I'm still fighting for you. And the cruelest part is that you're asking me to understand why you want to die but you won't straight up say it, you're using every other excuse in the book, all while completely refusing to understand what losing you would do to me."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I am terrified, Robby. Every second of every day lately, I am terrified." She pressed a hand against her chest. "Because I love you. Because I can see how much pain you're in. Because I'm watching the person I love convince himself that everyone would be better off without him, and no matter how many times I tell him that's not true, he won't believe me. So don't tell me what I deserve. Don't tell me where I'd be happier. Don't tell me you're doing this for me. If you want to know what I want, it's you. Alive. Angry, depressed, struggling, messy, imperfect. I want all of it. I want the version of you that's sitting right here. Not some memory. Not some apology. Not some letter explaining why you left."
Her voice finally broke completely. "I want you to stay, get some help."
Robby rubbed both hands over his face and stared down at the floor. He looked exhausted. Not physically. She'd seen physically exhausted before. This looked like somebody who had been carrying the same weight for so long he no longer remembered what it felt like to set it down.
"I just..." He stopped and laughed softly, frustrated with himself. "I don't know how to keep being this person. This man I've become is no good for anyone."
His voice was barely above a whisper. For a moment she didn't answer. She watched him instead. Watched the way he couldn't keep still, the way his hand kept finding the back of his neck, the way he kept looking anywhere but directly at her. The baby. The floor. The monitor. The wall. Anywhere except her. Because looking at her meant seeing what this was doing.
"You keep saying that," she said quietly.
His brow furrowed. "Saying what?"
"'This person.'" She shook her head. "Like you're talking about somebody else. Would Dana be better off?"
Robby's jaw tightened. No answer. "Would Jake?" Nothing. She could see tears gathering in his eyes.
"Would Jack?" Still nothing. The silence felt louder than any response she'd gotten all night. Then her voice broke completely. "Would I?"
That got him. His head snapped up immediately, like she'd physically hit him. "You keep talking like you're some burden everybody's carrying around. Like everybody would be happier if you could just disappear forever."
His face crumpled. "I didn't say that."
"No." Her voice shook. "You didn't."
She took a breath. "But you're thinking it."
The truth landed between them, heavy and ugly and honest. Robby looked away immediately, and that hurt even worse because she knew him. If she'd been wrong, he would've argued. If she'd been wrong, he would've corrected her. Instead he stared at the floor, and she felt her heart break.
"I don't know anymore." The confession seemed to tear itself out of him. "I don't know what's me and what's exhaustion." He laughed once, humorless and broken, dragging a hand through his hair. "I don't know what's depression and what's reality. I don't know if I'm burnt out or if this is just who I am now."
She stared at him while tears continued slipping down her face. Because suddenly this wasn't about work. This wasn't about the hospital. This wasn't even about their relationship. This was about the fact that the man she loved was standing in front of her unable to see any value in himself beyond what he could do for other people. And that terrified her.
"Do you know what I think?" Robby didn't answer. She wasn't even sure he'd heard her. She stepped closer anyway. "I think you're tired." A tear slid down her cheek. "I think you're hurting. And I think you've spent so many years carrying everybody else that you've convinced yourself the only reason you're worth loving is because you're useful."
His eyes closed hard, like the words physically hurt.
"And I think you're wrong." The room went quiet. The baby stirred softly in her bassinet, but neither of them moved.
"You know what's crazy?" Her voice softened. "If I walked in here right now and said everything you're saying, you'd fight me on it. And if one of your residents said they weren't worth helping unless they could save somebody's life first, you'd tell them they were out of their damn mind. So why are you different?" She gently touched the edge of the bassinet and looked down at the sleeping baby. The little girl had somehow slept through the entire conversation, one tiny fist curled beside her face.
"Look at her." Robby's eyes followed hers. For a moment neither of them spoke. The baby yawned, tiny and perfect and completely unaware of the world she'd been born into. "She hasn't done anything yet," she said softly. "She hasn't saved anybody. She hasn't fixed anything. She hasn't earned anybody's love."
The words hung there, and she watched the exact moment they landed. Because suddenly he wasn't looking at a patient. He wasn't looking at a diagnosis. He wasn't looking at a future trauma. He was looking at a baby. A tiny little girl whose entire value existed simply because she existed. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"If something happened right now," she whispered, "every person in this unit would fight like hell for her. You would."
Robby swallowed hard.
"You wouldn't ask what she's done to deserve it. You wouldn't ask what she contributes. You wouldn't ask whether she's useful."
The tears spilled down his face because he knew exactly where she was going, and he knew she was right.
"She matters because she's here." Her voice broke. "That's it." The baby stretched one tiny hand out from the blanket. "That's enough."
Robby stared at her for a long time. Then slowly, painfully, he lowered his head. And for the first time all night, she thought he might finally understand that she wasn't fighting for the doctor. Or the chief. Or the man everybody depended on. She was fighting for him.
"And if that's still too hard, then do it for us. Do it for the life we're trying to build. Do it for the future you keep pretending doesn't exist. Do it because I want you here for all of it."
For a long moment Robby didn't say anything. He simply stood there staring at the baby, tears slipping quietly down his face. When he finally looked back at her, he looked absolutely wrecked, but for the first time all night there was something else there too.
The little girl stretched one hand free from the blanket again, her tiny fingers opening and closing in the air as though she were reaching for something she couldn't yet name. Robby stared at her. The tears hadn't stopped. They moved silently down his face now, gathering along his jaw before disappearing into the collar of his scrub top, and he seemed completely unaware of them. She didn't reach for him this time. She had spent the entire day reaching for him. She had spent months reaching for him. Instead she stood beside him and watched as something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't sudden. It looked more like recognition than revelation, as though he had finally stumbled across something that had been sitting in front of him all along.
"She doesn't even know what's happening," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving the baby.
She looked down at the little girl curled beneath the blanket. "No."
The words settled heavily in the space between them. She felt them immediately because she knew he wasn't really talking about the baby. Not entirely. The little girl's hand opened again and, after a moment's hesitation, Robby offered her his finger. Her tiny fist wrapped around it without effort. The reaction on his face was so small most people would have missed it. His mouth tightened. His eyes closed briefly. A fresh tear escaped before he opened them again. It looked like the expression of someone who had spent years carrying a wound he had convinced himself no longer hurt only to discover it was still there.
"She'll never remember this," he whispered.
"Maybe."
He shook his head. "No. She won't. She's too little."
The baby shifted closer to the warmth of his hand in her sleep. For a long moment he simply watched her. The NICU hummed softly around them, machines tracing quiet rhythms through the darkness while the rest of the hospital felt impossibly far away. Eventually he let out a small laugh. It wasn't amusement. It sounded exhausted. Worn thin. The kind of laugh that slipped out when someone no longer had the energy to pretend they were fine.
"I got abandoned too, when I was eight." Her chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.
Robby stared at the baby for another moment before carefully sliding one arm beneath her tiny body and lifting her from the bassinet. The little girl barely stirred as he settled her against his chest. She fit there so naturally it was difficult to look away. One hand supported the back of her head while the other adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. His movements were instinctive. Gentle. The same hands that had spent years holding together a trauma department now cradled a sleeping infant like she was the most fragile thing in the world.
"But I got through all of that, and so will you."
His voice cracked on the last word. The baby remained asleep against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, completely unaware that she had somehow become the center of the most important conversation he'd had in months. She watched him carefully. Watched the way he looked at the little girl as though he could somehow see two people at once. The abandoned infant in his arms and the abandoned child he had once been himself.
"You got so many wonderful things to see and so many people to love ahead of you." Another tear slipped down his face. This time he didn't bother blinking it away. His thumb moved slowly across the baby's back beneath the blanket. "I got a good feeling you're going to be just fine." The words came out rough and uneven. Not because he believed them completely, but because he wanted to. "Everything's going to be just fine."
For the first time all night she heard something in his voice that hadn't been there before. It wasn't certainty. It wasn't peace. It wasn't even confidence. It was hope. Small and fragile and terrified, but hope all the same. The little girl made a sleepy sound and nestled closer against him. Robby's eyes closed briefly before he pressed his cheek against the top of her knit cap.
"You're not alone." The tears finally burned in her own eyes again because she understood exactly what she was witnessing. He wasn't talking to the baby anymore. He was talking to the frightened eight-year-old boy who had been left behind. He was talking to the exhausted doctor who didn't know who he was outside the hospital. He was talking to the man who had spent months quietly wondering if everyone he loved would be better off without him. "You're OK."
The words came out almost soundlessly. For several seconds neither of them moved. The baby slept peacefully against his chest while the quiet of the NICU wrapped around them. When Robby finally lifted his head and looked at her, something inside her chest cracked open. His eyes were red. So were hers. Neither of them spoke because there was nothing left to say. They had already had every argument. They had already said all the terrible things born from fear and exhaustion and love. They had spent the entire day circling the same wound from different directions. Now all that remained was the truth of it.
Robby's gaze lingered on her face. He took in the tears she hadn't managed to wipe away, the exhaustion etched beneath her eyes, the strain of a day that had nearly broken both of them. For a moment he simply looked at her, and she realized with a sudden ache that he wasn't looking at her like someone he needed to protect from himself anymore. He wasn't looking at her like a burden he was trying to spare. He was looking at her like the woman he loved. Without saying a word, he shifted the baby slightly higher against his chest and reached for her. She stepped into him immediately.
The movement felt instinctive. Necessary. His free arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her close until she was tucked securely against his side. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, careful not to disturb the sleeping infant between them, and felt him tighten his hold as though he couldn't bear to let either of them go. For the first time all day he stopped trying to carry everything alone. One arm held the tiny girl sleeping peacefully against his chest. The other held the woman who had spent the entire day refusing to leave him behind. Standing there in the soft glow of the NICU, surrounded by quiet monitors and sleeping babies, she felt him lean into her just slightly, and that tiny movement carried more meaning than any promise ever could. Because for the first time all day, Robby wasn't imagining how everyone would survive without him. He was holding on to every reason he had to stay.
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, Friends-to-Lovers ANGST, 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 (it's unserious, I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Jealousy, Vomiting, Reader knows ASL,
Main Song: The Knocker by Tiny Habits
Note: Gif in the moodboard by @/wesandresons. Each chapter is one episode of The Pitt, so the chapters are hella long. Thank you!
SEASON ONE:
Summary: It’s your birthday, but The Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t—feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At The Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives.
You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.
Chapter 1: Everything's Circling Around Us
Chapter 2: Maybe He Doesn't Care For Sentiment, Or He Doesn't Care For You
Chapter 3: My Persistence Left Me Empty-Handed
Chapter 4: I Should've Learned By Now, You Would Say The Words Out Loud Just To Break Me In Half
Chapter 5: When You Drown Once, It's Scary To Swim Again
Chapter 6: You Turned Me Into Something, And I Allowed You
Chapter 7: Why'd You Have To Leave Me Here Still Hoping?
Chapter 8: I Know It'll Take Time, Some Time To Get Over You
Chapter 9: With The Way You Look At Me, I'm Scared It's Gonna Happen Again
Chapter 10: For Me To Let Go Of What You Meant To Me
Chapter 11: I Wish I Didn’t Feel Like A Burden All The Time
Chapter 12: We Both Got What You Asked For
Chapter 13: The System Works, And We All Stay Terrified
Chapter 14: But You Dream Of Some Epiphany
Chapter 15: I Won’t Ever Mind Crisping Up On Your Backburner
PRE-SEASON TWO:
Chapter 16: I'll Just Wait For The Wind To Sweep Away My Words
SEASON TWO:
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?
Chapter 17: Felt Good About You Til I Didn’t
Chapter 18: If She's Got A Pulse, She Meets Your Standards Now
Chapter 19: I'm A Little Bit Lost Without You
Chapter 20: It's An Endless Cycle, Turns Me Upside-Down
Chapter 21: Did You Like Her In The Morning?
Chapter 22: I Just Wanted You To Know That This Is Me Trying
Chapter 23: When It Kills Your Heart But You Can't Say No
Chapter 24: 'Cause I'm A Real Tough Kid, I Can Handle My Shit
Chapter 25: Breaking My Back To Carry The Weight of Your Heart
Chapter 26: I Gave You All My Best Me's, My Endless Empathy
Chapter 27: The Whole Facade Seemed To Fall Apart, It's Complicated
Chapter 28: Always An Angel, Never A God
Chapter 29: They See Right Through, Can You See Right Through Me?
Chapter 30: We All Know How It Goes… The More It Hurts, The Less It Shows
Chapter 31: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
PRE-SEASON 3:
Chapter 32: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Chapter 33: For The First Time, What's Past Is Past
Chapter 34: TBA
Chapter 35: TBA
SEASON 3:
TBA
BLURBS/DRABBLES:
Robby is jealous of Park the Shark
Park the Shark reacting to you leaving the Pitt
The Pitt Crew loves you, but Jack just might love you more...
SOMEWHERE IN THE BEGINNING OF THE PAST TEN MONTHS… THIS HAPPENED…
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.
Synopsis: Robby falls in love with a young nurse and fights it every step of the way. But when you know, you know.
Warnings: eventual smut, smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, co-workers to enemies, enemies to friends, friends to lovers, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide, mentions of drug OD, mentions of abuse, violence against medical staff.
🦋 - fluff
🌧️ - angst
🔥 - smut
Pre season one:
one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen
Season one:
7 am | 8 am | 9 am | 10 am | 11 am | 12 pm | 1 pm | 2 pm | 3 pm | 4 pm | 5 pm | 6 pm | 7 pm | 8 pm | 9 pm
Blurbs:
During the ten months between season one and two (can be read as a standalone)
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.
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, Friends-to-Lovers ANGST, 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 (it's unserious, I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Jealousy, Vomiting, Reader knows ASL,
Main Song: The Knocker by Tiny Habits
Note: Gif in the moodboard by @/wesandresons. Each chapter is one episode of The Pitt, so the chapters are hella long. Thank you!
SEASON ONE:
Summary: It’s your birthday, but The Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t—feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At The Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives.
You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.
Chapter 1: Everything's Circling Around Us
Chapter 2: Maybe He Doesn't Care For Sentiment, Or He Doesn't Care For You
Chapter 3: My Persistence Left Me Empty-Handed
Chapter 4: I Should've Learned By Now, You Would Say The Words Out Loud Just To Break Me In Half
Chapter 5: When You Drown Once, It's Scary To Swim Again
Chapter 6: You Turned Me Into Something, And I Allowed You
Chapter 7: Why'd You Have To Leave Me Here Still Hoping?
Chapter 8: I Know It'll Take Time, Some Time To Get Over You
Chapter 9: With The Way You Look At Me, I'm Scared It's Gonna Happen Again
Chapter 10: For Me To Let Go Of What You Meant To Me
Chapter 11: I Wish I Didn’t Feel Like A Burden All The Time
Chapter 12: We Both Got What You Asked For
Chapter 13: The System Works, And We All Stay Terrified
Chapter 14: But You Dream Of Some Epiphany
Chapter 15: I Won’t Ever Mind Crisping Up On Your Backburner
PRE-SEASON TWO:
Chapter 16: I'll Just Wait For The Wind To Sweep Away My Words
SEASON TWO:
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?
Chapter 17: Felt Good About You Til I Didn’t
Chapter 18: If She's Got A Pulse, She Meets Your Standards Now
Chapter 19: I'm A Little Bit Lost Without You
Chapter 20: It's An Endless Cycle, Turns Me Upside-Down
Chapter 21: Did You Like Her In The Morning?
Chapter 22: I Just Wanted You To Know That This Is Me Trying
Chapter 23: When It Kills Your Heart But You Can't Say No
Chapter 24: 'Cause I'm A Real Tough Kid, I Can Handle My Shit
Chapter 25: Breaking My Back To Carry The Weight of Your Heart
Chapter 26: I Gave You All My Best Me's, My Endless Empathy
Chapter 27: The Whole Facade Seemed To Fall Apart, It's Complicated
Chapter 28: Always An Angel, Never A God
Chapter 29: They See Right Through, Can You See Right Through Me?
Chapter 30: We All Know How It Goes… The More It Hurts, The Less It Shows
Chapter 31: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
PRE-SEASON 3:
Chapter 32: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Chapter 33: For The First Time, What's Past Is Past
Chapter 34: TBA
Chapter 35: TBA
SEASON 3:
TBA
BLURBS/DRABBLES:
Robby is jealous of Park the Shark
Park the Shark reacting to you leaving the Pitt
The Pitt Crew loves you, but Jack just might love you more...
SOMEWHERE IN THE BEGINNING OF THE PAST TEN MONTHS… THIS HAPPENED…
Summary: Week two commences with a broken down motorcycle, and ends with Robby making a permanent declaration of love.
CW: Smut, fluff, reader riding a motorcycle without experience, alcohol, smoking, funny (?) sex, swearing, Robby is a smoker.
PART ONE | PART THREE
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DAY 9
“Motherfucker.”
Robby grumbled under his breath as he tinkered with the bike. You were sitting on a rocky outcrop in the shade, sipping on your drink as you watched him work. The midday sun beat down overhead, making the distant horizon look all wobbly, like it was suspended in jelly. Sweat trickled down Robby’s back, staining his white t-shirt - not the smartest choice for a day of biking down desert roads. You, however, were thrilled at the sight of his muscles bulging with every turn of the torque wrench. The sun was still high in the sky by the time he finally wiped a greasy black smudge from his cheek and surveyed his handiwork.
“You wanna try starting her up?” He offered, stealing a sip of your coke.
You rolled your eyes, but pushed to your feet and climbed carefully onto the saddle. “Don’t laugh if I kill this thing.” The bike was heavy beneath your thighs, held upright by the kickstand. “What do I do? Do I just-”
Robby finished off the can, grinning as he stepped closer. His calloused hands wrapped around yours on the handlebars. “Like this,” He murmured, guiding your fingers to the ignition. “Turn slowly, then give the throttle a little twist.”
The engine roared to life beneath you, vibrating through your bones like a second heartbeat. You let out a startled laugh, twisting to grin at him over your shoulder, only to find his face already inches from yours.
“Told you you’d get it.”
You revved the throttle deliberately. “Guess I’m a quick study.”
Robby’s laugh was rough as he packed up his bag. He swung a leg over the seat behind you, his chest pressing flush against your back as his arms caged you in. “Give it some throttle. Slowly.”
“Do you seriously expect me to ride this thing?” You asked as you gripped the handlebars. “I don’t even know how to!”
Robby’s chuckle rumbled against your back, his breath warm on your neck. “Relax. I’ve got you.” His hands covered yours again, guiding them gently. “Right hand twists for throttle - easy. Left hand controls the clutch. Feet on the pegs. And for God’s sake, don’t death-grip the handlebars.”
You swallowed hard - don’t kill you both, got it. “This feels… illegal.”
His lips brushed your ear. “Good thing we’re both into bad decisions.”
Then, he guided your hands, easing the bike forward with a slow, controlled roll of the throttle. The engine purred beneath you like a wildcat, the vibration thrumming through your body as you inched forward on the empty road. Wind blew through your hair as Robby leaned you into a small turn.
“See? Natural.” He teased, voice barely audible over the bike’s growl.
You grinned, gunning it a little harder - just to feel the bike surge forward between your legs. “Oh, I definitely get the appeal now!” You called over your shoulder, laughing as Robby’s arms tightened around you in warning.
“Just be careful, Evel Knievel. We’re not trying to recreate Easy Rider.”
But you could hear the smile in his voice, the unspoken I love you woven into the way his fingers laced with yours on the clutch. The scenery blurred past - miles of dusty plains without a single other soul. Robby let you take a few more curves before easing the bike to a jerky stop as you fumbled the clutch. You sat there for a long moment, breathing in time with the engine as the sun smiled down at you. Robby got off the bike first, big hands wrapping around your waist as he lifted you off, settling your shaky legs gently on the ground.
“That was incredible!” You laughed, half delirious.
Robby pulled you close and kissed you, making your knees wobble even more than they already were. “Mmmm, we’ll make a biker out of you yet.” He saddled up again, patting the seat behind him. “C’mon daredevil, hopefully we’ll reach a motel before sundown.”
────────────
Room four was the only one the motel had left - a twin room with two single beds. After dumping your stuff by the door, Robby grunted with effort as he pushed them both together to make a small double.
“Voila.” He declared, looking adorably pleased with himself.
You practically pounced on him the second the mattresses touched. It had been a long day on the road, and you were still riding the high of your biking lesson. Robby let out a surprised chuckle as you pushed him back against the sheets, already tugging at his belt buckle.
“You know,” You purred, fumbling with the metal clasp. “Bikes aren’t the only thing I’m good at riding.”
“Oh yeah?”
He grinned as he watched you toss the belt across the room, already unzipping his pants. You nodded with a smirk, pulling them down just enough to free his cock - hard and wanting. Robby held you steady as you yanked down your own jeans and panties, already wet enough to take his entire length at once.
Robby’s head fell back against the pillow. “Fucking hell…”
You let out a gasp as you felt him twitch inside you, hands gripping the hem of his shirt like reins. The bedsprings creaked under your shared weight as you began to move, riding him like a mechanical bull as he fucked up into you. He pulled you down for a sloppy kiss as you bounced on him before fondling your clothed breasts. Just as you could feel your climax building, a particularly forceful thrust made the two beds separate slightly, causing you to almost fall through the gap. Robby caught you, of course, laughing into your mouth as you faceplanted on his chest.
“Robby!” You whined, unable to contain your own laughter. “It’s not funny!"
He rolled you both over, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. “It was very funny.”
Your protests died on your tongue as his cock slipped inside once more, the angle allowing him to reach even deeper inside you. Neither of you lasted much longer after that, your cheeks flushing as your orgasm hit and he spilled inside you. He was still chuckling to himself while he brushed his teeth, narrowly dodging a pillow you launched at his head.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He murmured as he settled into bed.
You could feel his grin against the back of your neck, unable to resist elbowing him slightly in the stomach. “You will be.”
Robby nipped at your shoulder, teeth grazing your tank top. “Next place we stay, I’ll make sure we get the honeymoon suite. Deal?”
“What if they don’t have a honeymoon suite?”
“Then we keep riding until we find somewhere that does.”
You smiled as he pressed one final kiss to your cheek, his breath already starting to level out against your back. And in that quiet moment, as he snored softly beside you, you realised that you had fallen in love with him all over again.
────────────
DAY 11
Robby started in abject horror at the neon sign buzzing in front of his face.
‘LIVE KARAOKE! ALL NIGHT!’
“Absolutely fucking not.”
You tugged at his arm, giving him your best puppy eyes. “Pleaseeeeee. We don’t have to sing, we can just order cheap beer and laugh at other people.”
“Sweetheart, I value my ear drums.”
“Michael.”
Robby groaned, a sound that emanated from deep within his soul - not being able to say no to you was going to end up putting him in an early grave. With a triumphant grin, you dragged him into the bar, laughing when he immediately cursed at the tone-deaf wailing coming from the stage. Some drunken business type was singing ‘Sweet Caroline’, badly, his face turning redder with every sustained note.
You and Robby settled into a booth towards the back. As he went to order your drinks, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander over the broadness of his back, the way his arms flexed as he leaned against the bar, the curve of his ass. Wow, you were going to eat him up tonight. Before your thoughts could get too dirty, Robby returned with two frosty glasses of beer - ‘cheap swill’ according to him - and pulled you close to his side as he settled into his seat.
The night went on, and the karaoke got worse and worse. A few drinks in, you had your legs sprawled across Robby’s lap under the table. Every bum note from the drunken singers made him wince like he was witnessing open heart surgery live on stage.
“Oh, come on.” You nudged him. “You see screaming patients almost every day, this is nothing.”
“No. This is way worse. I can’t give these people propofol to shut them up.” He grumbled.
You narrowed your eyes, unable to hide a smirk as you crawled over his lap and shuffled out of the booth. Robby’s hand darted out to catch your wrist, already anticipating what you were up to, but you quickly ducked out of his grasp.
“Don’t even think about it.”
You just waggled your eyebrows at him, strutting backwards towards the tiny stage where the previous singer was finishing their off-key rendition of ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’. As you typed in your song selection, you shot another wink Robby’s way - he shook his head at you like a disapproving teacher, but even from a distance you could see him biting back a smile. You stumbled onto the stage, legs a little wobbly from the alcohol, and grabbed the mic as the first notes of ‘I Touch Myself’ by Divinyls echoed through the bar.
“I love myself. I want you to love me.” You sang with complete conviction, adding a sultry purr to your voice. “When I feel down, I want you above me…”
Robby turned beet red before you had even gotten to the chorus. Jackpot. You continued, adding a purposeful sway to your hips, never missing a beat even when your voice wavered.
“I don’t want anybody else. When I think about you I touch myself…”
The bar was filled with a chorus of hoots and wolf-whistles as you dragged a hand down your body, tracing every inch of your curves. You could practically hear Robby’s thick swallow over the music as he hid behind his beer glass. The song drifted into a short guitar solo, and you took the opportunity to make an instant beeline towards him. Before he could protest, you dropped yourself into his lap, microphone cord tangling around you both as you continued to sing - just for him.
“I search myself. I want you to find me. I forget myself. I want you to remind me…”
Robby kept his hands respectfully on your waist - not willing to give the bar a show - but his thumbs gently snuck under the hem of your shirt, stroking your overheated skin. You grinned as you sang the last verse, the mic being the only thing separating your lips from each other. The stage called you back for your big finish, and you took a clumsy bow as the music faded away and was replaced by chants of appreciation.
When you made your way back to the booth, there was a fresh beer waiting for you - courtesy of Robby, who was watching you with a raised eyebrow. You took a long drink, licking away the foam mustache from your top lip.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He smiled wryly. “Just an … interesting song choice.
You grinned, tangling your leg with his under the table. “I meant every word.”
“And the lapdance?”
“That was not a lapdance!”
Robby considered for a moment, before he finished the last of his beer in one chug and slid out of the booth. “My turn.”
No. No way. There was not a snowball’s chance in hell that Doctor Michael Robinavitch, the man who blushes like a schoolgirl when somebody sings Happy Birthday to him, was going to sing karaoke in a packed bar. You watched with slackjawed awe as Robby selected a song and took control of the mic. He squinted adorably as the coloured lights shone down on him, fingers digging into his palms as the instrumental countdown started. Then:
“Step inside. Walk this way. You and me, babe. Hey! Hey!”
‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ - your face burned as you instantly recognised the song. This was a hallucination, it had to be. Robby had completely transformed, not a hint of self-consciousness on display as he growled out the suggestive lyrics. The mic looked tiny as he gripped it with both hands, eyes clamped shut like he was already trying to repress the memory of the entire night. As the chorus approached, Robby’s gaze locked on you, shooting you a barely-there smirk as he added a little more gravel to his voice.
“Pour some sugar on me! In the name of love!”
A rowdy bachelorette party was absolutely loving the show. The maid of honour and the mother of the bride in particular were especially loud, yelling out ‘take it off!’ as Robby continued to sing. Any other time you’d be pissed that he was getting so much attention from other women, but right now it was just making you ridiculously… horny. They could look all they want, but it was you who would be touching later. Almost as if he sensed your thoughts, Robby approached the table of gaggling women, speaking over the backing track.
“Sorry ladies, only one woman here gets this sugar.”
The wink he shot you made your stomach flip. Yeah, that’s my man. Robby wrapped the mic cord around his knuckle as he headed towards you, leaning right into your space while he sang the bridge.
“You got the peaches, I got the cream… sweet to taste, saccharine.”
As he sang, his gaze travelled over you - from head to toe - making your entire body shiver. He seemed satisfied with the effect he was having on you, unable to contain a smug smile as he finished the song back on the stage. The crowd offered enthusiastic applause, oblivious to the out-of-towners who were using karaoke as their foreplay. Your bodies were both humming like the neon lights that hung in the bar’s window, and you were both desperate to get back to the motel. Robby grabbed your hand before another patron could take the mic, pulling you out of the double doors into the cool night. You barely had a moment to think before he was pinning you against the brick wall outside, the faint sound of bad karaoke drifting through the windows.
“Mmmm! Robby!” You grinned against his lips as he pulled you into a greedy kiss.
“Bike. Now.” He groaned, already tugging you towards it. “Before I do something that’ll get us arrested for public indecency."
────────────
Your legs were thrown over Robby’s shoulders, the broadness of them practically splitting you in two as he buried his cock inside you. He pressed a delicate kiss to your ankle, the tenderness a delicious juxtaposition to the rabid way he was fucking you. His gold chain dangled above you, twinkling in the warm glow of the bedside lamp.
“Never letting you talk me into karaoke again.” He managed to grunt out between thrusts.
Your laughter dissolved into a moan as you felt his cock almost hit your cervix. “You loved it. And I loved watching those women get all hysterical over you.”
“Yeah?” He grinned, his thrusts slowing to teasing rolls.
“Yeah. Cause I’m - oh! - the one you’re obsessed with.”
Robby groaned, changing to a tamer position - your legs wrapped around his waist, as he threaded his fingers with yours above your head. He captured your lips in a slow kiss, his beard tickling your cheek.
“Sweetheart. Obsessed doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
It was your turn to smile now, as you wrapped your arms around him, marking his back with scratches of pure devotion. Robby’s thrusts grew sloppy as he got closer to his release, balls heavy with come. You rolled your hips in time with his movement, working in tandem with him to send you both over the edge. He came first, with a cry of ‘I love you’ as his hot seed filled your pussy. You followed soon after with a blinding orgasm, as he began to soften inside you. The room was filled with the distant purr of cars on the freeway, and the occasional creak from an adjacent cabin. Robby pressed a soft kiss over your heartbeat - still pounding from your climax - before brushing the sweaty hair from your face. You looked at him for a moment, breath hitching as the adoration in his gaze, waiting for him to say something sickeningly heartfelt. Instead:
“Pour some sugar on me…” He half-whispered, half-sang.
You pushed him off with an exasperated laugh, burying your face into the sheets. “Shut up, you asshole.”
“In the name of love…”
“Michael!”
“I’m hot, sticky sweet-”
The rest of the lyrics were muffled by the pillow you thwacked into his face.
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DAY 14
You swirled a salty french fry around the ketchup dish, as you lounged in the comfiest bed you’d had in the last two weeks. The TV was playing an old episode of Family Guy, but you mostly just kept it on to stop the room from getting too quiet. Your eyes kept darting to the window, catching only the dancing reflection of the pool lights in the glass.
Robby had been gone for hours. Well, only one hour. But that was too long for you. The room service burger he had asked you to order for him had gone cold, and there was still no sign of his motorcycle pulling back into the parking lot. He had said he was going to buy a pack of smokes - something about the arid air had made his cravings come back. That was fifty-five minutes ago.
Just as you were considering putting on your jacket and going looking for him, Robby bundled through the doorway holding a paper bag filled with junk food and a pack of cigarettes.
“Hey, that burger for me?” He grinned as he kicked off his shoes.
You crossed your arms, giving him your best pout. “It’s cold now.”
Robby’s smile just widened when he saw you, dropping a bar of chocolate in your lap, like an olive branch made from cocoa. “Sorry I took so long. It took forever to find a store still open, and then I got turned around on the roads, almost ended up in Arizona-”
“You dick!” You shoved his chest, unable to stifle a laugh. “I was worried about you!”
“Ow!”
Robby winced, clutching his pec. Your hand instinctively went to soothe it, pulling back as he shied away from your touch. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No. Just sore.”
“Sore?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing.” He insisted as he flopped back onto the bed.
You straddled his waist, trying to yank your hands out of his grasp as he caught hold of your wrists. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Let me see!”
“No!”
“Michael!”
“Fucking Christ. Alright! Fine!”
Robby relented, watching as you tenderly unbuttoned his shirt. Maybe he’d fallen off the bike and had broken a rib, maybe he’d been assaulted. Your brain went through all kinds of awful scenarios as the last button slid through the hole. You expected him to be broken or bruised…
What you didn’t expect was to see your name tattooed above his heart in swirly writing.
The letters were red around their borders, his skin sore from the needle that had etched you onto his skin forever. You stared down at it for a moment as your mouth gaped like a fish. “Robby … what the hell did you do?”
"Uh… surprise?"
Another moment of suspended silence. And then, you burst into laughter. Borderline hysterical laughter.
“You are such an idiot!” You practically hiccuped, tracing the loopy letters of your name. “You do realise this is a huge jinx, right?”
“Jinx? How is it a jinx?”
“Because couples who get their names tattooed on each other always end up breaking up.”
“And, pray tell, where is this cosmic, all encompassing rule written? In some dating handbooks I never got access too?”
You tried to glare at him, really tried, but it was impossible when he looked so proud of himself. He’d gotten your name tattooed. Right above his heart. The vital organ that kept the blood pumping around his body, kept him alive. Dumbass. You loved him so much.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He said, pressing soft kisses to your palms. “This trip… I expected it to be some sort of … soul searching journey, where I found out the meaning of life, or my true calling, or whatever. But there’s only one thing I’ve got to know for sure in all those miles between here and home.”
“What’s that?” You whispered, threading your fingers through his.
“That you’re the one.”
He said it was such clarity, such absolute certainty, like there wasn’t a single thing in the universe that could make him change his mind. You fell asleep that night in his arms, careful not to knock the tattoo healing on his chest. And, the next morning, when you saw him gingerly applying cream to the stinging patch of skin that bore your name on it, you knew without a doubt - he was the one.
Summary: Your final week on the road together takes you to Las Vegas, city of sin and bad decisions.
CW: Smut, fluff, oral f! receiving, kinda rough sex, gambling, alcohol, robby being a little possessive, petty arguments, general las vegas debauchery
AN: I’m so sorry this took me so long to write. Thank you all for the love for this mini series, it has been very fun writing happy Robby, and taking him out of the ER. I hope you all enjoy our final chapter, much love!
PART ONE | PART TWO
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DAY 15
The start of the third week brought about your first argument with Robby. It was a small miracle really, considering the fact that you’d spent almost every hour of the last twenty-one days together. By the time it was over, you’d almost forgotten what it had been about in the first place. Some trucker had hit on you at a rest stop. Robby didn’t like it. You’d reminded him of how many over-familiar waitresses had given him an extra scoop of ice-cream on his pie, in the many diners you’d stopped at. He called you crazy, and said that wasn’t the same thing. You didn’t like that.
You refused to get on the back of the motorcycle, digging your feet firmly into the ground, even when Robby threatened to carry you onto it. The sun was setting slowly beyond the horizon, but you had no interest in going back to a motel. Instead, you sat stubbornly on a rocky outcrop at the side of the road, ignoring every plea from Robby to ‘get on the damn bike’. It was a battle of wills, and you won in the end. Unable to compete with your mulishness, Robby let out an exasperated huff, before crossing the deserted road and marching towards the small complex of stores that surrounded the gas station.
As the sun lowered in the sky, you picked idly at the skin around your nails, trying to stop yourself from checking how long he’d been gone. One minute passed, then two, then three, four, five, six, seven…
“Here. Since you want to be stubborn.”
Robby’s voice rumbled behind you, making you jump as he dumped a rolled up sleeping back and tent on the ground. You chewed your lip as you watched him take out the pegs and tarp.
“You bought us a tent?”
“Yeah?” He replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If we’re staying here tonight, we can’t sleep on the ground, can we?”
He was calling your bluff, waiting for the moment you’d jump on the bike and beg him to take you to a motel with a real bed, and indoor plumbing. So, you picked up one of the pegs and attempted to wedge it into the hard dirt. Robby watched your struggle for a moment, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his lips, before handing over a metal mallet.
“Think you might need this.”
A moment of prolonged eye contact. An attempted glare from you. Then … laughter. Robby could barely hammer the peg into the ground as his shoulders shook with amusement.
“You are such a pain in my ass, you know that?”
You shoved him lightly as you continued laughing, handing him one of the tent poles. “Takes one to know one.”
“Great comeback. Very mature.”
Another whack from the hammer.
“Alright!” You said, hauling yourself up off the ground. “You win. We’ll get a motel.”
Robby grinned slyly as he unrolled the tarp. “Ohhhh no. That store doesn’t accept returns, and you said you wanted to stay right here-”
“Yeah, but I was just-”
“So,” he continued, rising to tower over you. “We’re taking that camping trip I always wanted us to do together.”
You folded your arms. “Here? Like, right here? There's nothing here! This is just … dirt!”
“It’s dry, there are no wild animals around, there’s a 7/11 five minutes away.”
“Exactly, it’s hardly The Great Outdoors.”
Robby fixed the tarp over the tent poles with a flourish, securing it tightly. “Wait until you see the stars.”
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He was annoyingly right. The stars were beautiful. You were both snuggled close in your sleeping bag - a double that felt more like a single with Robby’s broadness - your heads poking out the tent, and your lower halves inside for warmth.
“They’re so beautiful.” You whispered, blinking up at all the twinkling lights above you.
“Yeah. They are.” Robby said, lacing his fingers through yours and bringing your knuckles up to his lips for a kiss. “Worst thing about living in the city is not being able to see the stars.”
The two of you basked in the peacefulness of midnight for a while, the only sounds coming from the rustle of the sleeping bag and your mingled breaths. It almost felt like you could hear music in the sky, if you listened closely; every light above you seemed to tinkle, like a million tiny bells harmonising at once. Robby squeezed your hand gently, guiding it up towards the heavens, where a particularly bright star was burning.
“That’s the North Star.” He moved your hand left a bit, like a pointer. “It’s at the tail of Ursa Minor, the Little Bear. And right below it - just there - that’s the Big Dipper.”
You traced the imaginary lines of the constellation with your finger as you snuggled closer to Robby’s side. “What’s that one?”
He followed your gaze to another string of stars. “Uhh… that’s Draco, I think.”
“You think?”
“Hey, I’m not an astronomer. I just remember bits and pieces of what my grandpa told me. He used to drive us both out to the country to go stargazing, but I always just wanted to go home so I could watch Elvira’s Movie Macabre.”
“Typical.” You chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “You poor grandpa was trying to impart some useful wisdom to you and all you could care about was- OH MY GOD! ROBBY! A SHOOTING STAR!”
Robby winced slightly as you dug your nails into his bicep, your eyes transfixed as you watched the tiny comet sprint across the sky. He watched in quiet amusement as you scrunched up your nose and crossed your fingers as you made a wish.
“What did you wish for?” He whispered.
“Can’t tell you. It won’t come true otherwise.” You whispered back, booping his nose. “Didn’t you make a wish?”
Robby captured your lips in a slow kiss as the stars continued to light up the sky above you. “Didn’t need to. Already have everything I need.”
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DAY 20
The sign caught Robby’s eye immediately - twenty miles until Las Vegas, Nevada.
“How about it?” He asked you over his shoulder, just loud enough to compete with the purr of the bike’s engine. “Feeling lucky?”
You squeezed your arms tightly around his middle. “ As long as you don’t lose the rest of our money by betting on red!”
Robby grinned and turned the throttle, flying you both towards the setting sun and the city of sin. It was just getting dark by the time he pulled the bike onto the strip, swerving past taxis and pink limos as you gawked at all the garishness. Every sense was assaulted from the moment you parked up. Neon lights of every color beckoned you to drop all your cash on a blackjack game or a lapdance, music pulsed from outdoor speakers surrounding the casinos, and the smell of fried onions from hot dog stalls seemed to follow you everywhere.
Robby kept his arm protectively around your waist as you weaved past drunken gamblers and tourists, pressing the occasional kiss to your cheek whenever he saw a guy checking you out. The two of you came to a stop outside the Bellagio to watch the fountain show. Robby wrapped his arms around your middle from behind, resting his head on top of yours as the music started - Time To Say Goodbye.
The fountain spurted with every beat of the song, making it look like the water was dancing before your eyes. You could feel the humidity envelop you as the occasional droplet caught your face. Robby swayed you gently in time with the music, his breath hot against your neck as he nuzzled close. When the song reached its crescendo, the water jets seemed to reach right up to the sky. Your gasp of awe made Robby chuckle behind you, earning him a sharp elbow to the chest.
“Shut up, it was cool!”
“It was pretty impressive.” He conceded, taking your hand and kissing it with a flourish. “So, blackjack or the roulette wheel first?”
You scoffed, but laced your fingers with his and followed him into the casino. It was somehow even more hectic inside than it was outside. Robby deftly dodged a speeding mobility scooter - years of moving around gurneys in the ER - and led you through the section filled with slot machines. A hoard of seniors, cashing in their pensions, slammed down on plastic buttons as ‘WIN’ or ‘LOSE’ filled the screens in front of them. You looked down at the carpet beneath you, a horrendous mixture of colours and shapes that made your eyes go out of focus.
“Is it a rule that casinos have to be fitted with the ugliest carpets ever made?”
Robby barked out a laugh as he marched you both towards the bar. “It’s to hide the vomit stains.”
“Think we should get them installed in the ER then.”
You leaned against the bar with Robby, looking over the endless cocktail menu as you waited to get served. He got a scotch on the rocks, and you eventually decided on a cosmo for yourself. The two of you took your drinks and headed towards the roulette wheels, watching as the white ball spun around and betting chips slid across the table. Robby handed you his glass, telling you he’d ‘just be a minute’, leaving you to watch a man in his sixties lose what looked to be his entire life savings on the number thirteen. Just as the next round of betting was closing, Robby dropped a handful of chips on the table.
“All on black.”
“Michael!” You gasped.
But before you could count just how much he was about to lose, the roulette wheel began to spin. You dug your nails into your palms as you waited for it to slow down, watching as the ball rolled over 22, 23, 24, 25 … 26 … 27 … 28. Black. Robby grinned like a Cheshire cat as the dealer slid his chips, plus a handful more, back to him.
“What?” He shrugged at your look. “You said not to lose our money on red.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, before grabbing a couple of chips from his hand and putting them down on the ‘even’ betting circle. The wheel was spun again. There was a strange mixture of dread and adrenaline coursing through you as you watched the ball start to creep over 2, 3, 4, 5 … 6 … 7 … 8. Even.
You whooped as you collected your winnings, proudly showing them off to Robby. “I won!”
“Placing a $1000 dollar bet your first time? Pretty ballsy.”
Your mouth dropped open. You flipped one of the chips over, gasping at the $100 marking on the back. “Robby! I can’t believe you almost let me lose $1000 dollars!”
“But you didn’t.” He said with an air of quiet confidence as he finished off his scotch. “You’re lucky, kid. Always have been.”
You practically melted as he kissed you in the middle of the casino floor, everyone around you too drunk or money crazed to give a damn about a couple of tourists in love. “So … you’re saying I should put all our money on your birthday?”
Robby laughed as he dragged you away from the tables. “Absolutely not.”
You followed him with a giggle, dropping your empty cocktail glass onto the tray of a passing waitress.
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A few drinks and a few more games later, you and Robby were on a winning streak. You were also very tipsy. Robby had been sitting at the blackjack table, with you in his lap, for the last half hour. He’d only gone bust twice, and won the hand a few more times. Every time he chose to double down or got that intense look of concentration on his face, you pressed a soft kiss to his neck, barely able to concentrate on the actual game or the money being passed around.
It was just after midnight by the time you both left. Robby cashed his chips in, leaving with $1000 more than he came in with. Not a bad day’s work. He squeezed your hand as you both walked back down the strip, swaying slightly as the alcohol warmed you from within and gave the harsh lights that surrounded you a dreamy glow. After you’d walked off your daze a little, Robby pulled you to a stop in front of a small, pink building. You blinked up at the sign.
24/7 WEDDING CHAPEL! GET MARRIED TODAY! OFFICIALLY LICENSED!
You burst out laughing in the middle of the sidewalk, earning you a confused look from a passing group of Japanese tourists. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” Robby asked with a coy smile. “You don’t want to marry me?”
“Are you seriously asking me to marry you, right now, in Vegas?”
“Yep.”
“You’re drunk.”
Robby scoffed, almost offended. “I’m slightly inebriated. Sober enough to know what I’m doing. Sober enough to know that-” He got down on one knee, joints cracking slightly. “I want you to be my wife. I want us to be together forever - or at least the thirty or so years I’ve got left in me. I want all your mail to be addressed to Mrs Robinavitch. I want a stupid piece of paper that says we’re together. I want-”
You pulled him up into a kiss, almost knocking over a plastic flamingo that had been stuck into the chapel’s astroturf. “Shut up. Of course I’ll marry you.”
Robby lifted you up with a laugh of victory, squeezing you tight as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “That’s my girl. C’mon, the casino winnings will pay for it.”
“Wait!” You said, wriggling from his grasp. “There’s a dress rental shop a few doors down. You can see if the chapel has a rabbi while I’m gone. I just … I still want to do this right.”
Robby’s grin faded into a soft smile. He kissed you gently, his lips lingering against yours. “Me too. Go quick though, before I haul you in there.”
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It didn’t take you long to pick out a wedding dress. You opted for a shorter, simple style, cut just below the knee with no frills or lace. As you walked back towards the chapel, white heels clacking against the sidewalk, you felt your stomach churn with excitement. Robby was waiting for you in the lobby when you walked in, chatting with an Elvis impersonator by the front desk. He did a double take when he saw your dress, his jaw almost hitting the floor.
“Sweetheart … you look.”
You did a little twirl, the skirt of your dress blowing out as fake-Elvis whistled appreciatively. “Good?”
Robby walked towards you like he was in a trance, hands resting tentatively at your waist, like you were a mirage that would disappear if he got too close. “Yeah, just … feeling like the luckiest bastard in the world right now.”
The two of you walked down the aisle together, arm in arm, towards the rabbi that Robby had hired to perform the ceremony. You stood beneath a white arch that had been threaded with plastic roses, laughing softly together at the incredulity of it all: the tinny speaker playing a cover version of ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’, the mandatory witnesses sitting in the back row, your cheap dress, and the pawn shop rings Robby had bought. It was the best wedding you could have ever hoped for.
Robby turned to you for the vows, threading his fingers through yours as his neck flushed red.
“I wish it hadn’t taken me over fifty years to find the love of my life, but no amount of time spent with you would ever be enough for me. You make me laugh when I don’t want to, you remind me that there’s good in the world on the days I only see the bad parts, you’re too smart for your own good, you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes, and you survived three weeks with me on the back of that bike. They’ve been the best three weeks of my life, and this has been the best day of my life. I’ll love you forever, no matter what, and I promise I’ll never stop trying to deserve you.”
You blinked back your tears, laughing wetly at the overwhelming amount of love in your heart.
“Michael … I love you. That’s my vow. I love you when you’re cranky in the morning, I love you when you leave your coffee mugs in the sink, I love you when you complain about my choice of movies, I love you when you do something dumb like getting my name tattooed on your chest.” A laugh. “I love how you make me feel safe, and warm, and loved. I love that you make every kiss feel like the first and the last. And … I love that we could keep riding together forever and I’d never want to do anything else.”
It was Robby’s turn to fill up. He sniffed discreetly, squeezing your hand and giving you a private wink as the Rabbi closed out the nuptials by placing a glass beneath a cloth. Robby stepped on it, the shatter echoing around the room as your matching rings gleamed beneath the lights.
“Then, by the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I pronounce you husband and wife, you may now kiss-”
Robby couldn’t wait another moment. He dipped you low, kissing the surprised giggle right from your lips as the Rabbi shook his head fondly. You shrieked with laughter as he scooped you up, bridal style of course, carrying you back down the aisle, and past the Elvis at reception who shot you both congratulatory finger guns.
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“Honeymoon suite, please.”
Robby grinned at the hotel’s receptionist, an older woman who was surrounded by a cloud of apathy that had formed over years of working the graveyard shift. You were still giddy from the wedding, or maybe the casino’s cocktails hadn’t quite left your system yet. Either way, you clung tightly onto Robby’s arm, smiling against his jacket as he swiped his credit card. As soon as the keycard was in his hand, Robby was sweeping you into his arms again, kissing you all the way to the elevator as the receptionist rolled her eyes.
The honeymoon suite was quite possibly the most ridiculous place you’d ever stayed in your life - and that included the horror movie motel you and Robby had crashed at, your first night on the road. There was a huge bed right in the centre of the room, with a heart-shaped headboard and rose petals scattered on the sheets. The windows took up the entirety of the wall, giving you the perfect view of the Vegas lights. You ran your fingers over the golden fixtures on the dresser, tracing over the ornate doorknobs as Robby dropped your bags by the door.
“This is so-”
Robby kissed you before you could finish your sentence, hauling you up and dropping you on the bed within seconds. You were used to his enthusiasm for sex, how he always managed to make an afternoon quickie feel like the most intimate lovemaking, but the hunger in his eyes at that moment was unlike anything you’d seen before. He pinned your hands to the mattress, threading his fingers through yours as he looked down at you.
“Welcome to your honeymoon, Mrs Robinavitch.”
Your face ached from how wide you were smiling, wrapping your legs around his waist as he ducked his head to leave a lovebite on your neck. “I like the sound of that.’
“Good.” Robby said, shrugging off jacket and shirt, groaning slightly as your fingers traced over the softness of his stomach. “Because I’m never gonna get tired of saying it.”
He whispered the words ‘Mrs Robinavitch’ against your skin, kissing his way down your bare arms, across your jaw, your clavicle, as you melted into a puddle against the silk sheets. You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down so you could capture his lips with yours.
“I have a surprise for you…”
Robby perked up, his eyebrow raised as he looked at you with a quizzical smirk. “Oh yeah? What kind of surprise.”
You smirked, trailing your hand idly down the seam of your dress. “Take this off me and find out.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. The sound of your zipper seemed to echo through the room, bouncing off the black marble furniture. Robby took his time pulling the dress down inch by torturous inch, unwrapping you like a birthday gift. Your breath hitched as it dropped to the floor, leaving you in just your bra and panties … and the lacy garter you’d bought from the bridal boutique.
“Fucking hell…” Robby groaned as he zeroed in on it, his hands already skimming up your thighs. He snapped the garter against your skin, chuckling darkly as you whined. “This is pretty.”
You waved your leg in the air, resting your foot on his shoulder. “You want to take it off me?”
Robby pressed a lingering kiss to your ankle. “It would be my pleasure.”
You gasped as you felt the scrape of his teeth along your thigh. He bit down on the lacy edge of the garter, dragging it slowly down your leg, his eyes on you the whole time. Your bra and panties quickly followed, the rose petals on the sheets sticking to your overheated skin. Robby swirled his tongue around your peaked nipples, blowing lightly on his drying saliva to make you squirm. Between every kiss he pressed to your skin, he murmured a word of worship, like he was reciting a holy scripture: beautiful, perfect, sweet, my girl, my wife.
The first swipe of his tongue through your dripping folds had you arching off the mattress. Robby had always been accomplished when it came to giving head, but this was a revelation. You could feel tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes as he ate you out with a passion you never thought possible. He fucked you slowly with his tongue, swirling around your weeping hole before sucking lightly on your clit - just enough to keep taking you to the edge and back again.
“My beautiful wife.” He whispered as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, nipping at the skin. “My pretty girl.”
You watched the whole time, catching the reflection of the two of you entwined in the ornate mirror fixed to the opposite wall. Robby’s arms clamped tightly around your thighs, burying his head between your legs like he was trying to drown in your pussy. When you came, your vision whited out for a moment as the violent pleasure overtook your body. Robby prolonged your orgasm as long as possible with little kitten licks, only backing off when you kicked him away.
He crawled back up the bed, cradling your jaw and capturing your lips in a slow kiss - letting you taste your sweetness on his tongue. You whined into his mouth, your touch trailing down the road of hair leading to his belt. Your trembling fingers struggled with the clasp, letting Robby take over for you, only to push him onto his back once his cock was finally free.
You took his aching length in your hand, thumb swirling over the leaking tip as you pressed a kiss to the tattoo of your name above his heart - almost healed. The two of you let out a shared moan as you sank down onto him, taking him all in one go. Robby’s fingers dug into the softness of your ass, giving it a quick squeeze.
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you too.” You whined, still so overwhelmed at how full he made you feel.
You wanted to take it slow, make love, do it the way you thought wedding night sex should be. But Robby was splayed out beneath you, a fire in his eyes, and words of devotion on his lips, and you couldn’t hold anything back. You rode him with reckless abandon, fingers clinging onto the muscles in his chest as he fucked up into you. Every time his cock hit that perfect spot inside you - the one he’d memorised your first night together - you cried out loudly. Robby cursed under his breath, groaning as he watched your tits bounce above him and his tight balls slap against your ass.
“That’s my girl.” He groaned, grabbing your hips when your movements began to grow sloppy. “My pretty baby riding me so well. You close?”
You nodded as you whimpered, desperately chasing your release. Robby rolled you both over, holding your legs open wide as he thrust back into you, fucking you into the silk sheets. Your second orgasm was somehow even more blinding than the first. It hit without warning, making you clench around Robby’s cock as your body turned to jelly. Robby quickly followed you, his hot come filling you up as he moaned your name. The two of you panted into each other’s mouths, naked and entwined on the bed of rose petals as Vegas winked beyond the window.
“Marriage is consummated now.” Robby murmured after a while, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “No annulments.”
You laughed breathlessly, nuzzling your nose against the scruff of his beard. “Shut up, Robby.”
“Long road back to Pittsburgh tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” You sighed softly. “But I’m sure we’ll find some excitement along the way.”
Robby took your hand in his, tracing his thumb over your cheap wedding band, his kiss a silent promise that he would buy you a real one when you returned home. You didn’t care either way. The ring didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that the wish you’d made on the shooting star had actually come true.
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