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theonewiththefanfics · 15 days ago

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An Itch You Can't Scratch (one-shot)

Synopsis: After taking a bad fall, Y/N gets rushed to the ED of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital only to come face to face with a man she had a one-night stand with, and who ghosted her that same morning without a word - Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch. As if her bad day couldn't get any worse than it was...

Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!Reader (age-gap relationship (Reader is 26, Robby is implied 46-48))

Genre: angst, fluff, SMUT

Warnings: descriptions of wounds (open breaks), puke, swearing, etc., SMUT

Word count: 13,319 (yeah, this sort of started out like a cute little chaotic story and became... this. I might make more parts to these two, people like it enough, because I already have some ideas, and ideas for other stories too also, let's please pretend like Robby didn't have the worst shift of his life and everyone is happy and alive :) )

Please don't copy my work or repost it onto other platforms. all of the characters belong to HBO Max.

Catch Pt 2 here :)

In all honesty, Y/N thought Sara was overreacting. There was no need to be hauled to the ER on a Monday morning, at seven AM. So, what if she’d slipped in the shower? So, what if she’d hit her head against the towel rack? So, what if she’d sprained her ankle? Y/N could just pop a couple of Tylenol and be on her merry way, but no.

When Sara had heard the thud and the subsequent crash of shampoo and conditioner bottles, she’d rushed inside the bathroom only to find Y/N sprawled out in all her naked glory. She cursed the stupid bathroom latch their landlord refused to change.

After Sara had had her fill of laughter, she helped Y/N stand, get somewhat dressed (a loose cotton shirt and some shorts), and helped her hobble down the stairs of their apartment, her leg in a make-shift splint of dishtowels and left-over wood paneling from an IKEA dresser.

A groan of protest escaped her as Sara parked in the hospital parking lot and rushed to the passenger door, opening it for Y/N and helping her get out.

“You are worse than my mother,” she huffed as she leaned her weight onto her good leg. “I am completely fine.”

Sara sighed, and Y/N rolled her eyes, knowing what was coming. “My love,” she said. “My other half. The Yin to my Yang, the milk to my matcha. My partner in crime for whom I would kill and/or dispose of a body. I can quite literally see the fucking bone sticking out of your lower leg.”

“It’s a sprain,” Y/N gritted through clenched teeth.

“It’s an open fucking break and the fact that you refused to have an ambulance called, boggles my fucking mind, yet here we are.”

To that, Y/N had nothing to say, but still, she thought Sara was being way too overdramatic. And honestly, if she kept mentioning the real situation of her sprain, making her remember the sound of the snap, how it had been the worst sound she’d ever heard, and Y/N had spent more than twenty years listening to her brother singing in the shower, before she moved to Pittsburg for her job, she would put Sara in a hospital bed herself. And then they could be the ED besties.

But the worst was the pain that came when Sara reminded Y/N of why she had to go to the hospital.

It had been a miracle no neighbor had called the cops or the EMTs themselves, though it didn’t necessarily comfort Y/N either. If she could scream bloody murder like that and nobody batted an eye, it didn’t say anything good about the complex they lived in.

One look down had confirmed Y/N’s worst fears – she had, in fact, broken her leg. Not only that, it was an open break where part of her bone was sticking right out of the meat of her calf. For the first few moments, she’d been in such a shock, that the only thought running through her head was – I look like a poor man’s version of a Disney turkey leg. Then she’d started screaming. And that had made her puke.

Right then and there, still lying half out of the shower, half on the floor, she’d emptied her stomach. There hadn’t been much in it, just the cup of water she’d drank when she’d awoken, but still. At least Y/N had been in the bathroom when it had happened. Tiles were easier to clean up than carpet, and she already felt bad enough Sara would have to wash the floor.

But now, as some form of punishment, no doubt, Sara was helping Y/N hobble towards the emergency department of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital, when a sad-looking man noticed them and rushed inside, grabbing a wheelchair, and getting by Y/N’s side in a matter of a second.

“Here, sit down.” The man, Dennis Whitaker he introduced himself, took hold of her other bicep and moved the wheelchair behind her.

“I’m fine,” she groaned. “I’m not an invalid. I can make it inside on my own. Besides, that wheelchair could be used for someone that actually needs it.”

“You actually need it.” Sara levelled a gaze at her. “And I will make you a fucking invalid because I will clock you so hard in the head, you will have a concussion, if you don’t have one from the fall.”

For a tense second, Y/N stood (or wobbled) her ground, Y/E/C eyes locked onto Sara’s hazel ones which were slowly narrowing with each passing moment until she cursed and said, “Alright fine.” Together Whitaker and Sara lowered the injured woman into the wheelchair. “God, I hate your mom-stares.”

“It’s the only way to get you to do anything in terms of taking care of yourself.”

“It’s not!” Y/N protested. “I’ll have you know, I made myself an omelet yesterday for breakfast. Veggies and all.”

“Yeah, after I berated you that a stale Coke from three days ago, isn’t actual breakfast.” Sara walked side by side as Whitaker pushed the wheelchair into the madhouse that was the emergency department.

It was fascinating to observe the situation as an outsider – nurses and doctors were like level-headed owls, their heads swiveling this way and that way, as they assessed the patients and their statuses, while the residents and patients themselves, not all, but quite a bunch, were like headless chickens, rushing around and trying to prioritize afflictions or become a priority to the doctors.

Codes were called left and right, people moved from one side to the other, snapping on gloves and donning protective gear, and in the center of it all, was the command post – the nurse’s station which Whitaker had wheeled her to.

“Dana, is there a room available?” he addressed a slim, blonde woman, probably the one in charge.

“Room six is available, what’s the, oh,” she stopped mid-sentence as she noticed Y/N and the bone sticking out of her leg.

“I don’t mind waiting,” she gave her a sheepish smile. “There’s probably loads of people before me. Besides, it’s just a sprain.”

“Well, that’s probably one of the worst sprains I’ve ever seen,” Dana deadpanned as she motioned with her head towards someone behind them.

Y/N shrugged. “Well, I am just special like that.”

“Yeah, maybe in the head,” Sara grumbled as she gave the charge nurse all the necessary info for the moment. “Speaking of which – she also hit her head when she went down with her… sprain.”

Dana’s lips quirked up as she hummed and tapped something on her iPad, weaving around the table, leaving Whitaker to follow her like a lost puppy as they moved to the room Y/N was now assigned to. “We’ll schedule you a CT ASAP.”

Y/N turned her head to look at her best friend. “Given how this little trip was your idea, you’re paying off my medical debt.”

“Just let these nice doctors and nurses take care of you.” Sara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because quite honestly, I’m not too into the idea of searching for a new roommate. Do you know how many creeps I’d have to go through? And what if the one normal one I find has a fatal flaw?”

“Such as?”

“I dunno. What if they hate musicals?”

“Oh, the tragedy.” Y/N pressed a hand against her chest as they wheeled her inside the room.

There was another presence there, a young doctor, probably late twenties or early thirties. A cute little dimple on his chin, dark hair, and blue eyes. Reminded her a bit of the guy from Air Bud, if she squinted a bit.

“My name’s Dr. Langdon,” he introduced himself, giving Y/N a reassuring smile. “And this is Dennis Whitaker, our fourth-year medical student. Would it be alright, if he and another one of our residents observed the situation today? This is a teaching hospital, but it is well within your rights to refuse.”

She shook her head. “Observe away. Not much I can hide.”

“Alright, thank you.” He ventured out for a quick second only to come back with a young woman who introduced herself as Dr. Mel King, a second-year resident. “Okay,” Dr. Langdon said. “Let’s get you onto the bed and see what we’re working with.”

The three medical professionals surrounded her and helped Y/N move from the wheelchair on the paper-covered bed, without jostling her leg too much, but it was enough.

So far, she’d been able to take her mind off the pain by distracting herself – she bickered with Sara, recited the script of The Hunger Games movie in her head while fantasising about a blond Josh Hutcherson, because Peeta was just elite like that. She’d even gone so far as to go over the division table, but now, as more attention was being placed on the broken leg, it started to hurt more and more. It was like Y/N mind-over-mattered an itching spot left by a mosquito by chanting “It’s not itchy” over and over in her head, but the second she stopped, the itching came back in full force.

“So,” Dr. Dimple, she nicknamed him in her head, started. “What happened?”

Y/N sighed, looking at the ceiling. “Can I just give you the not-humiliating version and say I’m a klutz?”

He gave her a charming smile as a nurse prepped an IV line. “Unfortunately, we need to know beyond “clumsy”. The environment where this accident happened is important.”

"It could introduce pathogens into the wound," Mel, as Dr. King had requested to be called, said.

Y/N chewed on her bottom lip before muttering, “I slipped in the shower and sprained my leg. And then got assaulted by some shampoo and conditioner bottles… and then I threw up.”

“And don’t forget the head!” Sara said from the door where she still stood, observing the work happening.

Y/N threw her a knowing smirk. “Never do. And I haven’t had any complaints yet.”

“The throwing up could indicate a concussion,�� Whitaker said. “Dana’s already scheduled a CT. And in terms of the leg, you actually have an open fra-,”

Y/N took hold of Whitaker’s bicep like he’d done so for her when he’d helped wheel her inside the emergency department. “Please listen to me when I say this – unless you want me to hurl all over you, and trust me, I can aim, the only thing I have, is a sprain. Got it?”

He gulped and nodded, stepping away from Y/N like a man who’d gotten sprayed by too many fluids in one day and didn’t want to be anywhere near the danger zone. “Loud and clear Miss Sprained-Ankle-Woman.”

“Good.” The nausea that’d started creeping up her belly subsided. “Because I can deal with you people having to do things, but if I have to actually listen to any of it, or think about it, I will be sick.”

“We can give you some anti-nausea medication for that,” Dr. Dimple soothed. “But first, we’ll get you a CT, and then we’ll have a surgery room prepped for you because you need to get this reset as quickly as possible. You will probably have some metal plates and screws to hold the uh… sprain together, and then a cast for about six to eight weeks.”

“Great,” Y/N grumbled. “This is just fucking great. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my vacation, before, oh… oh, absolutely not.” Y/N’s eyes widened to a comically large size as she looked past her room and into the waiting area. “Sara, you need to get me out of here right the fuck now.”

“Hey, woah, what is going on?” Dr. Langdon rushed to where Y/N was trying to get the IV line out. “Please don't do that, you'll only hurt yourself more.”

“Y/N, what’s going on?” Sara’s brows were pulled tight in a frown, as she tried to help Dr. King get the oxygen monitor back onto her finger. “You need surgery, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s him,” she hissed, not taking her gaze away from where it’d locked on. “And I don’t want to spend a second anywhere near the dick.”

“Who?” Sara swiveled her head to look beyond the glass separating them from the chaos beyond. “Who’s the dick?”

“Him.”

And then four pairs of eyes locked onto the man standing and talking with the charge nurse at The Hub, Y/N was glaring at.

“Do – do you two know each other?” Dr. Dimple asked. “Do you feel unsafe with him around?”

“Yeah, you could say we know one another,” she scowled and crossed her arms as Mel managed to finally reattach the oxygen monitor, all of their attention onto her. “That’s the dude I hooked up with two weeks ago, and completely ghosted me that same morning.”

Every single head snapped to look back at Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, who’d also finally noticed Y/N was at his workplace, as a patient no less. His eyebrows were right up to his hairline, brown eyes wide with disbelief and mouth agape as she glowered at the older man.

It was quite a surreal moment – all of these capable doctors and residents and nurses, stunned by the information so bad, that they almost seemed to forget Y/N was there. She wondered what was going through their heads, as this seemed like it wasn’t a regular occurrence. Which stung even more – if Michael had been a fuckboy, she could take it, but it didn’t seem so. So, what was wrong with Y/N that had made him run away after the night they’d spent together?

When they’d met at the bar, he had told her he was an emergency department attending. The big boss of his little duckling residents, dutifully running the hospital department with the help of the nurses.

Why, when Sara had finally managed to get Y/N inside the car, it hadn’t occurred to her, he would work in this particular hospital. Just why?

Y/N couldn’t say. Maybe she’d hoped he worked the night shifts. Maybe she’d hoped, he worked somewhere else, or even out of town, but, of course, for whatever sins she’d committed, karma couldn’t do her a solid one.

Sara gasped, rushing by her side as Y/N watched Michael flounder and try and decide what to do – whether to interfere and face the music or run away from the hospital. He apparently chose the latter as he twisted on his heel and high-tailed it to the other end of the department, leaving a cackling Dana behind.

“That’s him?” Sara strained her neck. “That’s the hot doctor?”

Y/N scoffed. “The one and only. Couldn’t even leave a fucking note or something. Like I can take a hint a one-night-stand is a one-night-stand, alright? But don’t just fucking bolt out of the door like your ass is on fire before the other party wakes up. Fucking dickhead.”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t as fun of a night for him, as you thought, and he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Sara raised a brow.

“Oh, trust me,” Y/N smirked. “It was a very fun night for him. I would know. I was there, and you can’t fake the kind of shaking. Four hours will do that to a guy,” she winked and touched the tips of her pointer finger and thumb in an A-Okay sign.

“Yeah,” it was Dr. Dimple smiling at her, the grin on his face almost wolfish in nature. “Yeah, you are absolutely my new favorite person in the world.”

However, whatever he wanted to say or ask, was cut short when Dana returned to inform that her CT slot was coming up, and so Y/N was wheeled away, not daring to look at Michael as they passed one another in the hallway.

As the results came back for a minor concussion, the anesthesiologist informed, that they recommended a spinal for the surgery, while the team prepper, but Y/N shot it down immediately.

“Absolutely not. Look, I know it’s not safe to go to sleep after a concussion, but I will not be listening to the sounds of some bone-carpenter crunching on my leg. Put me under,” she gave him her most pathetic look. “Please.”

The specialist still tried to argue, but he couldn’t do it much longer, as Y/N needed surgery as soon as possible, so after five minutes of strongly recommending the spinal, he relented and in half an hour, Y/N had managed to get hers – she was out like a light, without a sound in her ears.

It was the best sleep she’d ever had in her life. Like floating on a cloud, surrounded by doves and angels singing her lullabies. She never wanted to wake up, but something was rousing her out of the blissful state.

A large warm hand around her palm, thumb rubbing the top of it, was soothing her senses. It was like hot chocolate after being out in the sow. Or sitting by a fireplace with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sprained-Ankle,” a low, rumbly voice greeted Y/N as she floated back into consciousness. Her eyes locked onto two gentle, brown ones, and despite the medication, she knew she wasn’t hallucinating him.

Michael’s face was beard-covered like it had been when they’d met. He still had the same worry lines on his forehead and the crow’s feet around his eyes. Y/N had said she liked those the best.

“It shows you’ve smiled and laughed despite everything else,” she’d informed him over the rim of her Pornstar Martini.

She couldn’t truly imagine just how draining his line of work was, both physically and mentally, but the laugh lines she could see hiding under the beard, harmonizing with those around his eyes, was a feature Y/N had noticed first.

“So,” she slurred her tongue a swollen mass of sandpaper in her mouth, and Michael noticed that, holding a cup of water against her lips until she’d had her fill. “Do I have to keep breaking bones to wake up with you next to me?”

“I hope not.” With gentleness Y/N knew he possessed, yet didn’t expect, he brushed away a droplet that’d slipped past her mouth, and onto her cheek. “I hope this is the only time I ever have to see you in such a state.”

“Can’t promise that,” she shook her head. “I do have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yeah?” amusement was evident on his weary face. “And what kind of reputation is that?”

“When I was in first grade, on the first day of school, I broke my arm. And then like a few months later, I smashed my face against a radiator and split my lip open. Still have a scar,” she pointed right below her right nostril where a sliver of lighter skin was. “And then, but that was like third grade or something, I smashed my head against a metal railing and split my head open. I could even push my fingers inside and scrape my -,”

“Okay, I understand,” Michael interrupted her and pulled the hand that was tapping against the hairline on her forehead. “You are an ED connoisseur, but please, don’t make this a habit.”

“Damn, straight I am.” Y/N gave a confident nod, but before Michael could ask anything else, she said, “You know what I don’t get? Like why did my leg bone hurt while sticking out of my body, but my teeth that are sticking out right now, don’t?” She clacked them for emphasis. “They’re outside bones.”

A soft smile bloomed on Michael’s face as he brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. She could feel someone had put her hair in a protective style and had to wonder if it had been the man beside her. But that wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he care like that for her?

“For one,” he muttered. “You broke your fibula – the smaller bone in your lower leg, and in doing so, hurt the surrounding things like muscles and skin. That is one reason why you felt such pain. And two – if you broke a tooth, it would hurt too. Your cavities hurt, don’t they?”

“Mmm,” a self-satisfied smile bloomed on Y/N’s face. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a cavity.”

“That’s good. Dentists aren’t cheap.” As a response she just clacked her teeth again, making Michael laugh. “How are you feeling? Any pain? Nausea?”

“Nope, I am A-Okay. Honestly, that was like the best sleep of my life. Well…” Y/N pouted, taking her gaze away from Michael’s. “That night when I fell asleep with you is also up in the Top 5, but then I woke up and… you know… you weren’t there.”

She was obviously delirious from the medication being pumped through her veins, but much like when Y/N was drunk, she was a throw-up-remember-everything kind of a girl, instead of a black-out-drunk. Besides, it wasn’t like she could run anywhere. Quite literally.

Michael sighed, dragging a hand down his face, visibly cringing at her words. “About that… I – yeah, I think the only thing I can say is I’m sorry. For, you know, ghosting, as you youngsters say.”

“ ‘S alright.” Y/N shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, as if the second she’d seen him, she hadn’t been ready to bolt. “I’m over it.”

“No, no it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have done that. Because that night was… great. It was amazing, actually. And everything leading up to the uh, you… you know, the...” he cleared his throat, and a smirk pulled up on Y/N’s lips.

“The sex? Come on, you can say it in your big old man age. It’s just three letters.”

“Jesus Christ.” Michael rubbed his neck as a slight pink shade crawled up his neck, which made Y/N let out a chuckle at how uncomfortable he looked talking about this. Maybe it was time to let this go, for his sake and her own sanity.

“Look, if it makes you feel any better,” Y/N shifted to the edge of the mattress and patted the side of her bed, so he could sit down. After asking if she was sure, he did take the offered space. “I – I’ve been treating you a bit unfairly with this. I think my ego was a bit crushed after waking up and not having you there, but, umm… you’re off the hook. Besides, I think I’m in your debt with all of this. Your team is amazing.”

“They’re pretty great, aren’t they?” he mumbled, one of his hands having moved to toy with the wristband the hospital had assigned to Y/N. “But still, how I reacted then, and even earlier in the morning… it wasn’t right. I mean, I’m pushing fifty for fuck’s sake. That’s not what someone my age does.”

“So what?” she raised a brow. “The issue is you think you’re a cradle-robber? Because you’re no more that than I am a grave robber. I’m twenty-six, Michael,” she turned her palm up hoping he’d accept it and slide his hand in hers. After a moment of hesitancy, he did, and Y/N squeezed it in reassurance. “I mean, if you think you’re doing something bad, by having slept with someone two decades younger than you, I’ll have you know, according to regency times, as a woman who’ll be turning twenty-seven this year, I’m pretty much a decrepit old spinster.”

Michael let out a soft laugh as his fingers trailed the lines on Y/N’s palm. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Me? I’m your probably dad’s age.”

“And looking hotter than ever, if you ask me.”

“Yeah? You think so?” He asked as Y/N hummed in affirmation. “Well then, for a decrepit old spinster, you are beautiful. And acting with much more grace than I deserved or deserve.”

Something in the way he said those last few words made her heart squeeze. “Michael… of course you deserve grace.”

“You’re being far too good to me… you’re far too good for me…”

Y/N’s brows furrowed at that. Slowly, she attempted to rise in a sitting position, but she didn’t get far before Michael had his arms around her waist, like they’d been two weeks ago, pushing a pillow to stabilize the small of her back. Once he was sure she was comfortable, he opened an apple juice box and handed it to her.

“To get your sugar up.”

But she just stared at him, only reaching for the little carton after he’d resumed his previous sitting position. “Is that what this is about?” she asked. “Some insecurity you think I deserve better than you? Because I can decide those things for myself. I am an adult. With a fully-developed frontal lobe, mind you.”

He took in a deep breath, held it for a second, then released it, and Y/N watched that whatever kind of decision he’d come to, had released a certain tension that’d been accumulating in his body. “Kind of, I guess. But mostly…” he swallowed, then nodded to himself, eyes trained on her wristband. “Mostly I got scared.”

“Of what?” Y/N tilted her head. “I mean, I know my morning breath probably isn’t that attractive, and the smeared makeup made me look like a coked-out raccoon, but -,”

“No,” Michael shook his head, chuckling. His cheeks were reddish at her words, but as he lifted his eyes to hers, there was a grateful look to them. Like he was thankful she wasn’t making fun of him even in his ripe old age. “You,” he stumbled over his words a bit, “when I saw you there, sleeping by my side like you belonged… I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than that. And that’s when I thought to myself – if I worked up the courage, could there be more mornings like that? Could I make you breakfast and coffee one day? Maybe I’d get the privilege of falling asleep next to you as we watch movies at night. And that scared me.”

“The possible future?”

“Wanting that possible future, because that feeling, the one that started to grow right here,” he tapped the center of his chest. “I couldn’t think straight. So, I had to go.”

“I mean,” Y/N swallowed hard. “That is a lot to imagine after only a few hours together.”

“Does that… creep you out? ‘Cause it’s totally understandable if it does. I mean Jesus, I’m old… and you’re so young.”

“No, it doesn’t.” And she meant it when she said it. “I find it actually quite endearing, but you can stop being so hung-up on the age difference. If you think there might be some daddy issues on my side, I can assure you – there’s none. I quite like my dad, and I definitely don’t see you as such a figure. Not after the things you did to me. ‘Cause, quite honestly, sex with you was probably the best dicking-down I’ve had in a year.”

If Michael had been drinking anything, Y/N was sure he would have choked with how he sputtered at her words. “Well, uh, yeah, I uh… I’m glad you… enjoyed it.”

“I did. And I know you enjoyed it too,” her smile was nothing short of wicked.

“Yeah, and apparently now the rest of the residents and nurses and doctors know it too?” Michael raised his brows at her.

It took Y/N a while to realize he was talking about when she’d gotten admitted and spilt the beans on their night together, implying their copious amount of copulation. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, but I’d like to think your reputation has now gone sky-high between the female nurses and doctors. Maybe the guys and theys as well. But I do apologize for talking about your private life while at your work. In my defense, until that very moment, I didn’t know you worked here. And well, I was pissed.”

“You and your mouth will get you in trouble one day,” Michael pointed at her.

“Yeah? Would you like to put something in it, to shut me up? Last time, you really liked it when I -,”

“Okay, trouble, that’s enough.” Even though his words had a finality to them, humor glowed on his features. He seemed relaxed. Content even, as he took the now empty apple juice box Y/N had been sipping on this whole time.

“You on a break?” She started scooting down the bed once more, and Michael instantly helped her get situated.

“Want to get rid of me so quickly?”

“No. It’s just you’re spending an awfully long time with me. Don’t you have other patients to check in on? I don’t want you to waste your time if you need to get to someone else. Or maybe grab a bite to eat? I’m fairly sure doctors don’t know how to have a good work-life balance, despite continuously recommending it to us, mere mortals.”

“Time with you isn’t a waste.”

Oh.

Oh, how badly did Y/N want to rip off the little wires connecting her to the heart monitor, because had Michael not turned the sound off, she was sure the whole hospital would be hearing it go nuts at his words, the squiggling beat of it a treat for only Michael this time, because when he noticed it, a smirk bloomed on his mouth. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to, not when he murmured, twining their fingers together, “I want to kiss you so bad.”

“I definitely won’t be opposed to that.” Y/N’s answer might have come way too quickly, but she was beyond feeling embarrassed about wanting him. “You have permission to kiss away. For as long as possible. All day, every day, whenever you want to.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Michael chuckled, cupping her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. “But… not right now. Let me take you out on a proper date. Let me do this right.”

“Oh my God, seriously?” Y/N whined throwing her head back. “You’re gonna make me wait? Especially after that whole speech and whatnot? You are a cruel, cruel man Dr. Michael Robinavitch.”

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he leaned to hover over Y/N, a golden necklace slipping from the inside of his shirt and dangling before her. She wanted to pull it between her teeth like she’d done so during their one night together. It took every dwindling ounce of willpower not to.

“Maybe, I just want you aching. And yearning. You were the one who said men don’t yearn enough nowadays. But I have. For you, for two whole god-damned weeks. Now it’s your turn.”

It was pathetic how Y/N wanted to cry and whimper. “But I didn’t even do anything! You were the one that ran out! Why am I being punished for your actions?”

“Do you – do you not want to go on a date with me?”

“I do, but I’d rather you rail me as soon as possible.”

“Well, for one,” Michael tried to continue on as if Y/N’s words hadn’t made heat creep up his face, but he could only do so much. He was a human, after all. “You’re not allowed any strenuous activities until you’ve got a clean bill of health. And two, all teasing aside, I want to do this properly. I want to do right by you this time.”

“Why would you?” she exasperated. “I wasn’t complaining when you didn’t do it right by me, and I’m certainly not going to if you suddenly decide to stop being chivalrous. Maybe even right here. We could recreate some scene from Grey’s Anatomy?” Y/N wiggled her brows at him, eliciting a deep rumble of a chuckle.

“Grey’s is just a malpractice lawsuit after a malpractice lawsuit, and I, unlike the characters there, don’t want my medical license to be revoked. Until you get discharged, I’m one of your doctors.”

“My hot doctor, you mean.”

The sigh that left Michael was not weary or a worn-out kind of noise. Rather it was a resigned I-guess-this-is-my-life-now kind of a sigh, especially combined with the endearing look on his face, it made Y/N feel warm all over.

Slowly, as they talked a bit more, her eyes began to droop, exhaustion from the morning, from the surgery and the subsequent consequences settling in once more. “Will you stay?” she asked as Michael brushed a knuckle along her jaw. “Just until I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” Michael took her hand in his, sitting down by her side again, as he pressed a kiss to her wrist. “And I… I wish I could promise I’ll be here when you wake up, but I, -”

“I know,” Y/N interrupted him with a soft and understating smile. “By that point, you’ll probably be off saving lives. It’s why I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ll try though.” He promised.

“Okay.”

And with her hand still in Michael’s, Y/N drifted off once again without even realizing it was pitch-black outside, and Michael hadn’t been wearing his shift scrubs. He should have long been home resting, and yet, he hadn’t been able to leave her. Not like he did before.

By the time she awoke early the next morning, Y/N was clearheaded, and yet all her thoughts mulled over the conversation she’d had with Michael the previous night. Would he go back on his word? Had he only talked with her like that because she was high on pain meds, and maybe thought she wouldn’t remember their discussions?

She knew he hadn’t promised to be there when she awoke, so Y/N didn’t hold it against him, but she couldn’t deny the sting. But that was immediately soothed by the hoodie that’d been laid over the back of a chair.

His hoodie.

A promise he would at least have a reason to come back and check in on her. It was Dana, the charge nurse, peeking her head inside that pulled Y/N back into the present. “How are we feeling today? Ready to be discharged? Dr. Langdon will be with you shortly for a follow-up.”

The woman in the hospital bed groaned. “Can’t I just stay here? Like you people – you are normal. Sara will be a mother hen on crack. I am willing to brave hospital food, as long as I don’t have to go home to all that fussing. She’s probably already bullied our landlord into installing a lift or something.”

“She cares for you,” it was Dr. Langdon piping in, as he entered her room, pulling on a pair of gloves and nodding to Dana in thanks. “You’re pretty lucky to have a friend like her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Y/N sighed as Dr. Langdon looked over her leg, asked some questions about pain levels and talked her through the post-op care. “But in my defense, she has a tendency to overreact.”

“I’d say you have a tendency to underreact, but that’s just my professional opinion.”

She rolled her eyes as Dr. Langdon finished his assessment and handed off her chart to Dana, so they could start the discharge process. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.”

“In any case, I do think the whole ED is in debt to Sara.”

To that she raised a brow.

“Well, had she not made you come in, I don’t know if Dr. Robby would have had a chance of seeing you again. Because, if I have to be honest, we’ve all been scratching our heads the past couple of weeks trying to figure out why he’s been in such a mood. Now we know why.”

“You two shit-talking me?” Michael’s soft tone interrupted the conversation, as he crossed his arms and leaned against the entryway. “How are you feeling?”

She tried and failed to hide the heat creeping up her veins. Even if Y/N had succeeded, that damned monitor, the sound no doubt having been turned back on by Michael before he left, to make sure if anything went awry at night, someone was there for her, betrayed her anyway. God, she wanted to punch the smile off both the men's faces.

“Fine.” She turned her head to look at the wall, as a nurse stepped in and removed the IV catheter and wrapped her hand in gauze. “Not looking forward to the itching that will appear, in what? Three days?”

“No scratching,” Dr. Dimple pointed at her with a pen. “You could injure yourself and cause a serious infection. No rulers, no knitting needles, no crochet needles, no twigs or branches, no nothing.”

“But what about -,”

“No nothing,” he emphasized. “Or I will have to recommend Dr. Robby make a house call on you. Though that isn’t much of a threat for you two, is it?”

“Okay, Frank? Scram. Now. There’re patients that need checking on. I can take care of Y/N.”

“Yeah, I bet you can,” Dr. Langdon let out a laugh but was out of the room before either she or Michael could say anything.

The only thing Y/N was happy about, was that the comment had made not only her flustered, but Michael as well, as he shifted on his feet and rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous tick. In the end, he gave her a smile that said “Sorry about him” and padded over to where he’d left his hoodie.

And that only made her even more flustered, because seeing a man like him, so level-headed and sure, get visibly nervous over her, did things to Y/N. Which made her want to do things to Michael, but then Dana returned, two crutches in hand, Whitaker wheeling a wheelchair once more, and all passion slipped away.

“Right, thanks.” She eyed the crutches like they were cow-eating pythons. “I fucking hate my life.”

Low, warm laughter filtered through the room as Dana helped Y/N get redressed and situated her in the wheelchair, crutches placed over her knees as she was rolled to the nurse’s station.

“I uh, took the liberty of calling Sara for you,” Michael said as he leaned against the table. When Y/N raised a brow in question, he elaborated, “She’s in your emergency contacts. Should be here in fifteen or so.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know,” he smiled. “But I wanted to.”

And there it was again, that warmth that blossomed in her chest, only this time she let it spread, let it wrap around her heart and wash away that bitterness, that’d been there since the morning Y/N had woken up cold and alone.

It hadn’t been just the sex, though that night Michael had given her some of the most earth-shattering orgasms she’d ever had (thankfully, Sara had been away with her girlfriend, so she didn’t have to suffer through the teasing).

It was the conversations leading up to it, the sense of ease Y/N felt around Michael. He was witty and sarcastic, his humor dry, but not at the expense of others while being engaging and thought-provoking at the same time. What had sealed the deal for her though was when he actually engaged in the debate, she presented him – if he had to kiss a fish-spider hybrid, what would he choose – fish head, spider body or fish body, spider head?

He’d made her laugh so hard she cried, and when Y/N had deemed it was time to call an Uber and go home, she’d taken the risk and asked if he wanted to come to her place. And after a few moments where she wanted the earth to open and swallow her whole, he’d nodded.

Together they waited for the cab, standing side by side, yet not touching. He’d opened the car door for her, before slipping in himself.

The tension could be cut with a knife, and afterwards, Y/N had given the driver five stars for enduring it, while the whole way, one of Michael’s palms had slowly moved to rest against her thigh, and she’d had to clench them together because if she didn’t, there would be a noticeable wet spot underneath.

After an agonizing half an hour's drive, they finally got to her place. Michael held the door open for her, and insisted on paying for the Uber, no matter how much Y/N protested.

Every step towards the apartment she was renting on the fourth floor of the complex, was agony. As she fumbled for her keys, Michael’s fingers were slowly skimming the side of her dress where the zipper rested.

Y/N’s whole body was a live-wire, and she wondered how in the world had the lock not melted from the heat, as it slid in place and she unlocked the door, the motion now forever having a sexual connotation, for in that moment Michael was the key that would unlock her desires.

Together, they stepped beyond the threshold, and yet still, he never once removed his touch from her body. From that damned little black number. She’d only worn it because she’d been set up on a blind date. They were supposed to meet up at the bar for a drink before going to a play, but as it turns out, even guys who like theatre can ghost.

When Y/N realized the situation, she wanted to go home, as her date was the one who had the tickets, pull this thing off and drink the already opened bottle of wine that was in the fridge, but she could have at least one good cocktail before that.

That’s when Dr. Robby, or as he’d asked her to call him by his first name, Michael, slid into the seat next to her. They didn’t talk for the first five minutes, not until she’d been scrolling through Instagram and some post had caught her eye. Something about green tea enemas and glowing skin, and the man beside had released a heavy-duty sigh, accompanied by “fucking Dr. Google.”

It’s when slowly but surely, they’d struck up a conversation, which had now resulted in Y/N having Michael towering over her, his beard scratching against the crook of her neck where he’d placed his chin.

When his hands wove and settled against her stomach, any sort of resolve she’d had, snapped. Instantly, she turned, weaving her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth to hers in a bruising kind of kiss. The kind that left you breathless and dizzy and wanting more.

She felt an insatiable thrill rush down her spine as Michael responded with just as much vigor, the pads of his fingers digging deep into her hips and pulling her to be flush against his chest, so much so, that Y/N could feel his own desire growing in his groin.

“I’ve never hated clothes more than I do right now,” she giggled as Michael grappled with the door handle and pushed it close without disconnecting from one another.

“Then let’s get them off, shall we?”

The way he dragged the side zipper open, was almost reverent, worshipping even. Like he wanted to prolong the build-up between them, and Y/N couldn’t lie – she was loving it, even if she was losing her mind. So many times, when she’d had hook-ups, guys tended to just get her naked as fast as possible, which was fine. She was down for it, but there was something indescribable about how Michael reveled in feeling her slowly start to tremble, in how he kissed up and down her neck, while his fingers took their sweet time. It drove her insane with want, in an amount she’d never felt before.

His pointer finger dragged its way up Y/N’s bicep, making goosebumps erupt all over before he slowly slid a strap down. Then the other, until the dress was pooling around her waist, and still, where usually she’d be helping the guy shimmy herself out of the dress, Michael didn’t rush. He simply allowed his hands to explore her body, skimming along her ribs and up to the black lacy number she’d worn, then right back down.

“You counting if I have all my ribs in place, Dr. Robby?” Y/N let out a shaky breath, trying to alleviate the gathered tension, for she was just about to combust, but all she got was a soft smile as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her neck where her pulse was visibly thrumming.

“I don’t have much time in my day to stop and admire art. So please, indulge me. And art, which I’m allowed to touch, should be revered even more so.”

Her eyes may or may not have rolled to the back of her head at his words, and he hadn’t even gotten his head between her legs yet. Yeah, Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, the attending of a trauma centre, would be the death of her.

Name of the deceased - Y/N Y/L/N. Date of death - 4th of April, 2025. Cause of death – self-combustion. Reason for self-combustion – a sexy as fuck doctor.

Quite honestly, if that was how she was going to go, so be it.

Finally, though, after what felt like ages, her dress was shed, leaving her only in her underwear and strappy high-heels she’d worn.

“If there is one thing I hate, it’s not having a photographic memory,” Michael grumbled as his hands skimmed along the waistband of her panties. “But trust me when I say this, I will be picturing this moment for decades to come.”

“You are more than welcome to have a look at what’s hiding underneath,” Y/N said. Or that is what she would have said, had she not simply whimpered in response. Not very sexy of her, but the feeling of his chest rumbling with a laugh, totally made up for it.

She gathered enough of her bearings to step out of the fabric around her feet and move them along to her room. Never did his eyes leave her, never did his gaze waver or wander as they faced one another, her queen-sized bed behind her.

“You are awfully overdressed,” Y/N mumbled, allowing herself the luxury of running her palms along the still-covered planed of his chest. His breathing was steady, but to feel the erratic thumping of his heart excited her beyond measure. It meant all that composure was just an act, and she was thrilled she’d be the one to crack it.

She was just about to move her fingers to the buttons of his shirt when Michael slid down to his knees. If his hands hadn’t been resting against her thighs, she was sure she would’ve buckled and crashed. And Michael, damn the man to hell and back, knew it, if only by the smirk that stretched his face as he unlaced the strappy heels she had on and helped her stand on her feet.

Y/N covered her face and groaned, throwing her head back. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Torturing me?”

“Torturing you?” A kiss against her navel. “The only person being tortured tonight has been me. At the bar. In the car. Even now, you’re driving me crazy. So, if this is torture, simply consider it payback.”

With the gentlest of touches, only a doctor could manage, Michael skimmed over Y/N’s stretchmarks, scars and blemishes – pieces of herself she didn’t particularly like, but the way he touched her… it was like he was mapping out the carve-marks of a Michelangelo statue. She was Venus and those – the history of her life.

By the time he got back up to her mouth, she was a trembling mess, her nails digging into the muscles of his back, as finally, to her relief, he allowed her to rid him of the shirt.

Much like he’d done to her, Y/N allowed herself the pleasure of exploring his body, mapping out the ridges and slopes of his chest and abdomen, before moving around to his back, and once they made their way to the small of it, she dug her nails against the skin there. The groan she was rewarded with, was sweeter than the cocktail he’d bought her.

“Is it okay, if I touch you here?” Michael’s fingers slipped along the tops of her breasts before they moved to her back where they toyed with the clasp of the garment.

“More than,” Y/N’s words were a breathless whisper by that point, and her inhale stuttered in her chest as she deftly snapped it open.

It was clear he had experience, and not just because he was two decades her senior, but probably also because he’d done so in the trauma center, he worked at. For a brief, stupid second, she wondered how he could still find such acts pleasurable when he’d no doubt had to have done it during horrendous emergencies, yet all that was wiped away when Michael lowered his head and his teeth grazed a nipple.

Her sharp gasp echoed around them, and Y/N weaved her fingers through his hair, pushing his face closer, as he lavished at her chest. The next day, she was sure, there would be bruises and love bites blooming like flowers across her chest and sternum, not to mention the delicious beard burn.

Y/N moaned as he pulled the peak into his mouth, but when an uninhibited thought entered, it made her throw it back in a deep groan.

“That feel good?”

“So fucking good, but also, so yeah, I,” she stammered trying to get her brain to cooperate and create a coherent sentence. “Okay, so I just imagined you in glasses, and this got like ten times hotter.”

“Glasses?” Michael chuckled, pulling slightly back and looking up at her. “That’s what does it for you?”

“Correction – you in glasses. Though you right now are so doing it for me too. But that image just… yeah… kinda glad you don’t have any on. I’d probably be a pile of ash by this point.”

“Now that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” He said, slowly moving to her other breast, but not neglecting the one he’d already loved on, by cupping it in his large palm. “I mean, I’m just getting started.”

Yeah, Y/N was dead and done for.

As he continued licking at her chest, the hand that’d been fondling one of them, slid down her front and tentatively brushed against her clothed core. It was a single knuckle right against where her clit was, but it was enough for her to jolt in his grasp. Michael just steadied her and held tighter around her waist.

Once he deemed Y/N’s breasts worshipped enough, he trailed back up between them and covered her mouth with his, yet the knuckle, that damned fucking knuckle, still slid against her pussy. He could no doubt feel how wet she was, the material, though there wasn’t much of it anyway, soaked through so bad, her thighs were already sticky.

“Michael please,” Y/N was now openly begging. She was way beyond feeling embarrassed for such a move when in the span of half an hour, he’d reduced her to liquid fire. No one had ever made her feel this wanted. This needed. And she desperately wanted and needed him too.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, as he pushed his thumbs beyond the waistband of her panties and started to lower them down. The cool air hit her exposed core, and Y/N released a breathless moan. “You gotta tell me what you want and don’t want. I’m not gonna go any further until you do.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

She could feel him smirk as his hands took hold of the globes of her ass and squeezed.

“No, I want you to touch me there,” Y/N whined and tried to chase his mouth with hers, but Michael pulled back, shaking his head.

“Gotta be more specific than that, sweetheart.”

She debated on pulling away completely, on not giving him what he wanted either, but she was pathetic for this man. So, instead, she took one of his hands and guided it from where it rested against her ass, towards the front, sighing in relief as he let her do so. With her fingers guiding his, they slid to rest between her legs as Michael slowly, ever so exploratory, found her clit. She pressed her hand harder against his, so he could match the pressure on her core, and when he did so, overwhelming pleasure flooded her veins.

“There,” Y/N breathed. “I want you to touch me there. And then,” she moved his hand deeper, by the wrist, until she could feel the pads of his fingers nudging against her entrance. “I want you to put three of your fingers inside me, while you suck on my clit, until I’m a crying mess.”

As Y/N lifted her head back to look at him, there was absolutely no sign of the warm brown irises that’d looked at her so gently at the bar. Sure, it was dark in the apartment, yet even in bright daylight, she’d bet all her student loans, only two black abysses would be staring back at her, especially with how fast his chest was rising and falling.

“And then?”

God, had his voice dropped even lower? How did he manage to make it so gravelly, yet smooth as the darkest, most succulent chocolate?

“And then…” Her fingers trembled as she moved her hands to the front of his pants, undoing the buckle and flipping open the button, lowering the zipper as she went. All the while, Michael applied steady pressure on her clit, circling the bundle of nerves just enough to drive her towards the edge, but not enough for release to come. “And uhm, then…” She pushed his pants down as far as they would go, letting them bunch around his knees.

It took barely a moment for him to step out of them completely, kicking them to some forgotten corner of her room, leaving him in only his boxers. Somewhere along the way he’d lost the shoes and socks, but Y/N wasn’t about to go and hunt for them. Not with how he still circled her clit with those experienced appendages.

“Yes?” He raised a brow and pressed harder against her clit, making her pull in a sharp breath.

“And then,” Y/N trailed a teasing finger along the band of his boxers, for once delighting in how his abdomen muscles went taut, and his obviously hard dick twitched inside the confines. “And then I want you to fuck me. However, you want to. As long as by the end of it, neither of us know up from down and left from right.”

When she cupped him over the clothes he still had left on, it seemed like it snapped something in Michael, some taut, already fragile wire, that’d begun fraying ever since she’d invited him back to her place. Because this time when he kissed Y/N, it was a hungry kiss. A man starved being served the most lavish meal of all.

She was on the mattress in a matter of seconds, body covered by his towering frame. They molded perfectly together, Y/N thought. When she rolled her hips up to get at least some form of friction, he responded in kind, clearly searching to satiate his own desire.

Michael’s hands slid from her shoulders down the length of her arms before intertwining their fingers and bringing them up and over Y/N’s head, not once disconnecting from the kiss.

“You keep them there,” he instructed, breathing the words into her mouth. “And when I’m done with my appetizer, we’ll move on to the first of the main courses.”

“Appetizer?” Y/N squeaked out. A good hook-up in her books was at least two orgasms, usually only having one. But calling eating her out an appetizer, and then having a numbered list of courses, was something else completely.

Michael’s only response was that same damned smirk she’d learned could only mean torture, as he made his way between her legs, and without wasting another second, diving in between them.

The first lick of his tongue was a broad, all-encompassing one. And Y/N could only hope her neighbors had some good noise-cancelling headphones at the ready.

His forearms had settled against her hips and palms splayed themselves over her stomach to push her down against the bed, as she tried to chase his mouth.

And what a mouth it was.

Who knew the soft-spoken trauma doctor she’d met on a random Friday night at a bar while waiting for a date that never came, would be the creation of the Devil himself?

But when he pushed two thick fingers inside, shortly followed by a third, just like Y/N had asked, all thoughts flew out of the window. The way he curled them in an attempt at finding that spot that made her gasp and choke on air, the way he scissored them, stretching her, preparing her for the first course he had in mind, was diabolical.

Her first orgasm came unexpectedly. She could feel it like a wave – pushing and pulling – but she hadn’t expected the moment it crested and shattered against the rocks, swift and sharp, coming without a warning, all due to the teasing that’d happened before, no doubt.

Michael rode it out with Y/N, until her hips stopped grinding against his mouth, and he could gently remove his fingers from her pussy.

He placed a soft kiss against the inside of her thigh, the skin raw and tender from his beard, that now glistened with her juices.

“ ‘M sorry,” Y/N mumbled, an arm thrown over her eyes as she came down from her high and tears streamed down to her temples, just like she’d requested.

“Whatever for?”

“Didn’t warn you I was coming.”

As the aftershocks receded, and she removed her arm, she found Michael looking up at her completely puzzled. “And why would I need a warning? I could tell, you know.” He rose to hover over her. “The way you were clenching. Fucking proud of it too.”

“No, I mean,” she huffed, trailing a hand down his chest. “Sometimes guys don’t want to… you know… have that in their mouth. They’d rather finish a girl off with their fingers and not have to… taste it.”

Now that was one way to kill a mood, but Y/N had already opened her big mouth and the words were out.

“And why wouldn’t I want to taste it, hmm?” Michael tilted his head at her, as his hands drifted up and down her sides, over her breasts and clavicles, to skim along her neck and finally settle on the pillow beside her head. “Why wouldn’t I want that, when it’s the end goal? You got your tears,” he kissed the corners of her eyes where the salt still lingered. “And I got my wine.”

Her gaze drifted to the beard, the one she would be feeling for days to come, as she went about her life. The one that was glistening with the remnants of her orgasm even in the dark, and Y/N wondered, what it would be like to sit atop it. To have him pull her down by the waist as she claimed his mouth for her throne. They were such salacious thoughts, for a moment, embarrassment flushed through her, but come on! After such an eating out, Y/N was allowed to fantasize.

“And by the end of this, if you let me,” Michael mumbled, a golden chain dangling in between them. Quickly she snatched it between her teeth and pulled, making him come closer. “I’d like to do so at least once more.”

“You are absolutely welcome to it. Morning, noon and night.”

But at that moment, Y/N had no intentions of allowing him to go for another round, as when he leaned down for a kiss, she lifted a leg over his hip and twisted, throwing Michael off his balance and onto his back, with her now on top.

“But right now… you had your starter.” She gave him a wicked grin. “And I’ve yet to still have mine.”

“Fuck me,” was all he managed to groan out as he threaded a hand through his hair, head pressed tight against her silk-covered pillows while Y/N rid him of his boxers.

His length sprang free, thick and aching. It slapped against his abdomen and her hand curled around it immediately to give him some sort of relief, precum dripping from the tip. Or maybe, she intended to do quite the opposite.

He’d taken his sweet fucking time riling her up. She could take hers. But it was the way he let out the smallest of “please”, the way his eyes locked onto hers, practically begging to put him out of his misery, that did her in. She’d tease him come morning. For now, she was way too aroused herself to deprive her body of his any longer.

Y/N gathered a bit of saliva in her mouth and let it drip down onto his length, before dragging her tongue along the vein at the base of it, her lips wrapping around the tip as she made her way up and giving it a gentle, yet firm, suck.

Michael’s hips jolted, and a hand grasped onto her head. He didn’t push it down or pull her hair in any way, more so it seemed he needed something solid to hold onto as she pulled his length into her mouth, until it hit the back of her throat, making both of them choke.

“You don’t need to do that,” Michael started, ready to pull Y/N away if it became too much for her, but she stayed there, relaxing her muscles bit by bit, until he was so deep down her throat, her nose brushed against the hairs of his pelvis.

“Fucking. Hell.” Those were the only two words he managed to express before Y/N trailed her mouth up and started to really suck him off. After that, it was just grunts and groans, his hand tightening and then unclenching in her hair, but never pressing, never pushing her to take more than she wanted to. Michael was completely immersed with her pace, and ready to take whatever she gave him.

That sort of power could make anyone lightheaded, and when Y/N started to feel him twitch in her mouth, she pulled completely off.

Instantly, his eyes snapped open, head rising to look at how she climbed his body and settled her knees around his hips, pressing her core down against his length. She was just about ready to let it slide inside when Michael’s hands closed around her waist and stopped her.

“Condom,” he breathed out, chest rising and falling rapidly, probably the only word he could manage, which was great, because at least one of them still had some thinking skills left.

“Shit. Fuck. Right, yeah.”

Leaning over to her nightstand, Y/N half-fell over the bed to open the lowest drawer. In between her panties and vibrator, was a little foil packet which she fished out. She was glad of Michael’s unwavering hold, because the way she was precariously dangling over the edge, could end badly and with a stupidly gotten concussion.

When she was back to straddling him, opening the packet and rolling the condom on his length, their eyes met.

Michael rubbed his thumb in a circle on her hip. “We can always stop if you don’t want to go any further.”

“I’m not a quitter,” Y/N scoffed, yet it didn’t elicit the smile she was aiming for, as he rose into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around her, hers resting onto his shoulders.

“And this isn’t some race or competition. You can revoke consent anytime you want. And so can I.”

“I know that,” Y/N nodded, her gaze softening at his words. He could easily create a power imbalance between them. With double the decades of age and experience on her, Michael could be pushing at her limits, trying to twist things into teaching her how to properly please a guy and so on, yet throughout all of it, his focus had been zeroed in on her wants and needs. She shifted a bit in her lap at the thought that she hadn’t checked in with him. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” His voice was soft but sure, and then, after a moment of him searching her eyes, the smile she’d hoped for, formed on his face. “But uh, and that is obviously if you are alright with it, I wouldn’t be opposed to adding your… friend… to our activities sometime later.”

“My friend?” Y/N tilted her head in confusion. “Oh…” A furious heat exploded through her body, and not because of the fact Michael’s cock was slowly rubbing against her clit, the head nudging just right for pleasure to zing through her.

He’d obviously noticed her vibrator, though the bright purple shade would be hard to miss. “You’re not turned off by it?”

“Why would I be? You’re a woman who has needs. And if that’s how you take care of them, it’s completely fine. I mean, as long as you’re being hygienic and safe about it. Besides,” Michael breathed against her neck, as his hand slid between their bodies and he grasped himself, lining the tip up with Y/N’s entrance. “Real men see them as tools to use to their advantage, not competition. And well, not to stroke my own ego,” he smirked, “but I don’t think I have any competition here.”

Y/N wanted to call him out for that statement, but he wasn’t lying. Not with the way his length stretched her out as he pushed inside. The fingering beforehand was incomparable to the feel of Michael sliding inside at a slow and agonizing pace, but one she desperately needed and welcomed.

He was thick and veiny, all ridges and girth, and so, so perfect for her.

It took a minute for him to be fully sheathed, and a minute more for Y/N to adjust, her forehead pressed against his, while he rubbed his hands up and down her back while she settled.

This wasn’t fucking. This was sex. This was intimate, and it was something she hadn’t known she’d wanted from a partner. Usually, it was fast and hard, leaving both her and the guy she was with, panting against the sheets. Satisfied in the sense that both (hopefully) had had orgasms, but something was always missing. Now, Y/N knew it was this – time.

Time spent exploring one another, time spent learning and teaching, and time spent simply enjoying each other’s bodies.

“You good?” Michael muttered, shifting ever so slightly and making the tip catch a spot inside of her, Y/N had only reached with her purple “friend”.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “You?”

“Yeah.” Michael kissed her. Whether as an affirmation of his words or simply because he could, she didn’t know. But neither did she care. He was the best kisser she’d had the opportunity to enjoy, so she’d take it.

While they kissed, Michael started moving. At first, it was slow rolls of hips, figuring out what movements made both of their breaths hitch and hearts pound, but it wasn’t long before Michael was on his back, knees bent as Y/N bounced up and down, his thumb pressed against her clit the whole time.

Her second orgasm of the night was a more controlled approach. She could feel the coil tightening in her abdomen, and when Michael started lifting his hips up to meet hers, Y/N listed forward, balancing herself against his chest.

“You gonna come?” he breathed against her ear as she pressed her chest against his, Michael’s hands wrapping along the small of her back and holding onto it, so he could fuck up into her pussy. “I can feel you clenching around me. Fuck, you feel good.”

“Michael,” Y/N moaned his name. Not Dr. Robby or Robby how he’d explained the people in his life called him, but the name he’d asked her to call him. His real name.

One snap, two, three. That was all it took for heat to explode. The only grounding thing in the world was his scent – some form of cheap cologne, antiseptic and sweat, but she knew she still had a long way before she came down, with how he was drilling up inside of her, chasing his own release.

It elicited another, albeit smaller orgasm, but the most pleasure she got was when she realized he’d come with her as his palms grabbed onto her ass and pulled her sharply down, her name a sweet grunt on his lips against her ear.

Yeah. Y/N needed to go out with more doctors. At least they knew where to find the clit and not neglect it once they had.

He brought a hand up to her face and pulled her by the cheek to meet his mouth, a satisfied sigh leaving her as he did so.

“That was the best one yet,” Y/N mumbled against his lips.

“And the night’s still young.”

They went three more rounds after that (because she only had three more condoms, and she’d rather use them on one man who knew how to make her come three more times, than three men, who would have trouble getting one out of her).

Michael was also a man of his word, as he had her vibrator join in on the fun. Y/N had her ass up in the air while he railed her from behind, an arm wrapped around her middle, pressing the toy to her clit, the vibrations sending pleasure unlike any other through her.

His front was flush to her back, beard having left delicious burns down her spine, as he’d kissed her there, before eating her out once more in between the rounds and pushing his again-hard cock inside.

That was the final orgasm she could manage, and it seemed Michael knew it. It was the kind that not only made her legs, but her whole body shake, leaving Y/N a trembling mess against the sheets, while he soothed her through the aftershocks.

“You with me, sweetheart?” he mumbled against her temple as he gathered her in his arms and laid them side by side.

“Jus’ give me a momen’,” Y/N slurred while Michael brushed a finger from her cheek to her jaw and back. “I think I’m a medical fucking miracle with how you just fucked my brains out, and yet, I can still function. Barely though.”

Michael’s chuckle reverberated through her body, as after she’d recovered slightly, he gathered her up and moved them to where she instructed the bathroom was, to make sure she peed and didn’t get a UTI. If these had been normal circumstances, she would have never let a guy see her peeing, but quite honestly, Y/N wasn’t sure she’d be able to get back from the toilet seat on her own.

“You’re more than welcome to have a shower if you want. Of course, only if you’re down with smelling like peaches or passion fruit.” Y/N nudged her chin towards the shower gels lining the floor, one hers, the other Sara’s.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to, but only if you join me.”

She hissed, biting her lip. “I don’t have any condoms left. Besides, from what I’ve heard and read, shower sex can be quite precarious. I’m surprised that you as a trauma doctor would risk such a thing.”

“I’m not asking to have sex,” Michale laughed and helped her stand on her still wobbly legs after she flushed. “I’m asking for you to shower with me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

And that’s what they actually did. They simply had a shower. Michael washed her back and she washed his, along with his hair. When she did so, the blissful look on his face, the way he allowed himself to melt against her touch, sent a new kind of thrill through her. But it also made her wonder – when was the last time he allowed someone to take care of him?

By the time they got out from under the water, it was close to four in the morning, so they dried themselves down and went to bed. Y/N’s down duvet was a warm and fluffy cloud around them. Sure, she could have asked him to leave, but why would she, when he seemed so content to be there? Whether anything came from it once they awoke, didn’t matter. If he didn’t want to leave at that moment, Y/N would be the last person to push him to.

She drifted off almost instantly, warm and safe in Michael’s hold, but when the real morning came and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, body sore and satiated, she was met with a cold spot next to her.

There was no fucking sign on Michael, and judging by how she’d been tucked in, he’d left a while back.

Her dress and underwear had been neatly laid out on the chair in her room, heels tucked beneath it. As she ventured into the apartment, there were absolutely no signs of him, except for a cup of tea on the kitchenette. She knew it’d been made for her – it was filled to the brim, but much like the sheets, it was also already cold.

Sourness settled in her mouth as she poured the liquid down the drain. Not even a single fucking note. It was like they’d never even met.

Y/N hadn’t expected him to leave his phone number, God forbid, his address, what with how he’d laughed when she’d told him she was twenty-six, and he’d responded that he could be her father with that age gap. She knew she was some kind of spur-of-the-moment mistake he’d made. A weakness in his judgement, but fucking hell, she at least deserved an “it was great meeting you, wish you all the best,” note. Especially because he knew the only reason she’d gone to the bar was because she’d been ghosted by a date.

And now – now Michael was also a ghost, an unscratchable, unreachable itch under her skin she couldn’t get to.

That was the real reason Y/N’d felt so bitter for the past two weeks. If he’d been a bad lay, or maybe she’d been the bad party, she would understand the one-and-done-dump, but something about falling asleep while being wrapped up in one another, and then just leaving without so much as a goodbye, was crueler than if he’d left while she was still coming down from her release.

Now though, as she watched him while they waited at the nurse’s station, she noted how his fingers twitched by his side. She wondered whether he wanted to touch her as badly as she wanted to touch him, but then horrible reality kicked in – there wouldn’t be any sort of touching for a while.

She was stuck with her leg in a cast, and a scheduled check-up with Dr. Langdon in a week to take it off and remove the stitches, before it would get swaddled again for a month or more.

Y/N cursed the day she’d met Dr. Michael Robinavitch, for he’d released a monster of carnal urges, she didn’t even really know resided in her. And he was the only one who knew how to properly tame it because even in his scrubs and hoodie, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and all sorts of bodily fluids she didn’t want to think about, all she wanted to do was grab him by the neck and get him to some supply closet to have her way with him like they were actually in Grey’s Anatomy.

“Michael, I,” Y/N started but got cut off by Sara waltzing into the emergency department.

“How’s my pirate doing?” She threw her arms around her shoulders and squeezed. “They assign you a parrot yet?”

“I don’t have a fucking peg-leg.” Y/N rolled her eyes as she signed a final form. With that, Sara took the wheelchair handles, gave Dana a salute and wheeled her out of the hospital, making Y/N crane her neck back and shout a final thank you to the nurse.

She was just about to ask Sara to slow down as she needed to talk to Michael, when she felt his presence moving with them, silent, steady and strong, his hands taking hold of the crutches as the automatic doors opened.

He followed them out and once they got to Sara’s car, helped Y/N settle in the front seat.

“You good?” He tucked a strand behind her ear.

“Yeah.” She gave him a genuine smile, and her heart pounded in her chest as his eyes trailed to trace her lips. “I am. Thank you. For taking care of me in there.”

“Honestly, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the only time I’d like to see you back here is for your check-ups.”

Y/N nodded, suppressing a smile. “Duly noted. No shower karaoke for me.”

“I’m serious. You have an appointment with Frank in a week, but other than that, please take care of yourself, alright?”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” She nudged her head towards Sara who was wrangling the crutches inside the boot of the car. “Mother hen is on the job.”

“Good.” Michael nodded and before Y/N could properly prepare herself, he’d leaned down, cupping her jaw in his hands and kissed her.

Her brain short-circuited at that, but when his tongue probed against the seal of her lips, she had to start wondering if she’d actually died when she’d hit her head in the shower. It didn’t take more than that though for her to open up, for her arms to brush against his scrubs and weave into the salt-and-pepper hair.

By the time Michael pulled back, both their lips were kiss-swollen.

“Let me take you out on a date.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “What happened to the doctor-patient thing?”

Michael only smirked. “You’ve been discharged. You’re no longer a patient of mine.”

“Okay, but even so – what would we do? My leg’s in a cast, and I can barely hobble around with the crutches.”

“I can carry you. I don’t mind.”

“And throw out your back, old man?”

“Hey, I’m not that old!” Michael protested, and when he noted the smile on her mouth, he pressed his against it once more.

“How about this,” Y/N proposed, “when you’re done with your shift, you could come over to my place, and -,”

“Our place,” Sara butted in, sliding into the driver’s seat. “So, whatever you have in mind – no hanky-panky with me next door.”

If Y/N rolled her eyes any harder they would get stuck in the back of her head, but she returned her attention to the awaiting attendant. “And we order some take-out. We watch a movie and then just… go to sleep?”

“It might be very late by the time I’m off.”

When she raised her hand and cupped his rugged cheek, it took him no time at all to lean into her touch. “I can wait.” She pecked his lips. “I’m in no rush.” She could only hope he understood the double meaning behind what she meant with it.

Later that night as Y/N sat by the TV, the glow of the screen illuminating her face, she fell asleep with her head against Michael’s chest.

And when she awoke, her sheets were warm with the remnants of his body, even if he wasn't there anymore.

She was alone, yes, but atop the pillow rested a note:

Shift started at 8. Sorry, I can’t be there to wake up with you. I’ll be home by 9.

It was almost impossible to wipe the smile off her face for the rest of the day.

Even as the itching under the cast started.

-----

Tags: are open :) if you wish to be tagged in further fics, please drop a comment under the fic or message me or leave me an ask :)

A/N: I have arisen

if you wish to know how this man makes me feel, please listen to Slutty by The Scarlet Opera.

I am FERAL.

P.S. I hope you enjoyed it :) feedback/constructive criticism is always appreciated :)

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thebestandworstdayofjune · 12 days ago

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sweet nothings

summary: you own a bakery down the street from PTMH, and Dr. Robby is one of your favorite customers. The night of The Pitt Fest shooting, you stress bake and deliver the results to the park near the hospital when you have a gut feeling everyone could use something to lift their spirits wc: 1.8 k+ a/n: this is my first time writing for The Pitt but I really enjoyed it, looking forward to more!! Please feel free to send any requests my way! Yes I stole the title from the Taylor Swift song, some things never change. warnings: two idiots who haven't gotten their shit together and admitted their feelings, general fluff

You’d been elbow deep in flour and cocoa powder the moment that you saw the first message concerning the shooting at Pitt Fest. You whisked and folded, hoping that the familiar movements would quiet the nausea churning in your stomach. You knew that it was going to be a long night for your chosen family, which meant that it was going to be a long night for you. Three batches of brownies, a few dozen cookies and a special batch of gluten free hand pies for Princess later, and you could catch your breath. By the time that you had them all packed up and loaded into your travel tote, the tightness in your stomach had subsided.

It was a cool night, a gentle breeze blowing the loose strands of hair around your face and tickling your cheek as you walked the familiar path to the park in front of the hospital. You’d forgone packing things into your car, unsure if the traffic would still be busy near the hospital. You hadn’t texted ahead, deviating from your typical routine. You knew that they were likely too busy to check their phones, if service was even working again after the barrage of worried calls and texts had tanked it earlier in the evening.

The benches were empty, but it hardly phased you, you’d beaten them there plenty of times. And worse case scenario, most of the security knew you well enough to let you sneak into the Pitt through the back and dump your offerings in the break room before trucking home. You unpacked your bag, setting out the tupperware along with some small plates and napkins. You’d left drinks behind, knowing that someone was likely already making a run for a pack of beers. You tucked the strands of hair behind your ear, settling in for a bit.

It didn’t take long, fifteen minutes or so before Donnie and Princess arrived, rolling the cooler behind them. They waved in greeting, planting themselves on the bench across from you and digging out two beers. You smiled softly, before grabbing a brownie and one of the pies and walking them over.

“You sure you’re not an angel?” Donnie asked, grinning.

“Laying it on thick today?” you laughed.

“It’s the only way I know how,” he hit you with a charming smile that lacked any real commitment. You held back your instinct to ask after his wellbeing, knowing full well that he is not doing well after the day you imagined he had.

You and Princess gossiped about the latest episode of the reality show you were both shamelessly addicted to, and you did your best not to dodge their compliments on the baked goods, knowing they would report back to Michael. Or rather, Dr. Robby.

You’d met him only once before getting properly acquainted after an accident at the bakery had required you to hurry to the nearest hospital. But, he’d given you his first name when placing the order for his latte, so Michael he remained.

You did you best not to ask about the shift knowing that it had to have been a nightmare. Instead, you contented yourself to sitting and listening to them chatter, the time passing surprisingly quickly.

Just as you were starting to feel silly, playing with the edge of the wax paper lining the tupperware with the brownies and chastising yourself for getting your hopes up, a set of footsteps broke through the mess of worry in your brain. Michael had clearly had a hard shift, his shoulders dropping, head hung low and his eyes were dark. You’d been right to come. Jack seemed to be in somewhat better spirits beside him, but he was battle weary even to your untrained eyes.

Michael’s eyes bet yours, his eyebrows creeping up towards his hairline, head tilting in question. “I saw…” you hesitated, unsure of how much to say. “What happened today. Figured you could use a pick me up.” You’d already added a few of the brown butter chocolate chip cookies to a plate, handing them to Michael wordlessly. He took a seat on your side unlittered with tupperware, and you did your best to control your rapidly beating heart. “Jack?” you questioned, motioning to the assorted baked goods on your left.

“Well if you insist,” he laughed, working his pant leg up to free himself of his prosthetic. “Can’t turn you down.” You smiled, adding a bit of everything to a little plate and walking it over to him.

You sat back down next to Michael, insisting to yourself that the heat radiating off his arm stretched across the back of the bench was in no way related to the flip in your stomach. The others chatted amongst themselves, making light of the day. You chanced a glance his way, holding in a giggle when you noticed the couple of crumbs clinging to the side of his mouth. Your fingers twitched to brush them away, but he managed to beat you to it. “Tough day?” he asked, surveying the plethora of baked goods taking up the rest of the bench.

“Just worried.” you shrug, not meeting his eyes. “Hate feeling like I can’t do anything worthwhile to help.” The ‘not like you can’ was unspoken.

Michael cast his glance across the clearing, where his coworkers were smiling and making a considerable dent in your sweets. He didn’t argue with you, knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference, especially on a day like today. “You had one of these yet?” he asked, holding up one of the cookies. You shook your head. “You should, they’re working miracles.”

You blinked at him, your heart picking up speed. You searched his eyes, trying to figure out if he did that on purpose, when a few more people joined your circle. “Samira!” you jumped up, reaching for her. She gripped you tight, sinking against you for the duration of the hug. Samira stopped by the bakery frequently on her way to work, taking advantage of the early hours you kept with the morning shift at the hospital in mind. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I would have made a couple batches of those muffins you like.”

She laughed, head tilted back and eyes light in a way you wouldn’t have imagined was possible after the shift she just finished. “You didn’t have to bring anything, I’m glad you’re here.” she paused for a moment, her gaze shifting behind you for a moment. You craned your neck to find Michael watching the two of your carefully, something different in his expression. “This is Victoria, today was her first day,” Samira gestured behind her to the girl who was standing with her hands clasped in front of her, looking shy.

“Oh! It’s so nice to meet you!” You gave her a warm smile, squeezing her arm gently before turning and placing a few things on a plate for her and another for Matteo. “Here, to soothe your soul.” She took the plate gratefully, Matteo as well.

“Thank you that’s really-” she was cut off by loud, full laughter from behind. Your head whipped around, finding Michael with tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said through his laughter. “I just realized this was your first day.” Everyone quickly burst into various degrees of laughter. Victoria met your eyes, assessing your reaction. You did your best to shrug in a way that said ‘I’m used to this by now’ and you realized that was the truth. You had known Michael for a little over a year, and had slowly integrated into the culture of the ED. You weren’t one of them, but you belonged. These were your people.

“That’s trial by fire, baby” Jack said, raising his can in Victoria’s direction.

“I can almost guarantee the next one will be easier.” Michael said, and you were reminded that he was not just a kind man who stopped in on his way to work most days. He was a mentor, a teacher and someone that changed lives.

“I really fucking hope so.” Victoria looked weary, but not defeated. You felt she would be back.

Donnie was saying something to her, but you didn’t hear. “It’s late.” Michael said, leaning close enough for his shoulder to bump yours. You nod, leaning in as well. “You ready to go?” you nodded again, fighting back a yawn that was bubbling to the surface. He nodded, shouldering his backpack and standing up.

“Last call!” You announced, grabbing a couple of containers and offering second helpings around. A smile took over when everyone accepted the extras. You deposited the container of pies in Princess’s lap, laughing when she promised she would get the container back to you. “You don’t have to lie to me of all people, you know.”

“I don’t even know why I try.” she laughed, squeezing your hand.

“It’s nice that you do,” you insisted. You packed as many empty containers as you could into your tote, and Michael grabbed the few remaining. You gave everyone a gentle wave before turning on your heel and starting towards the bakery. You could hear Michael saying his goodbyes but you continued on, confident that he would fall into step beside you.

After a few moment, you felt him reach for the tote bag you had slung over your shoulder. “Keep dreaming, Robinavitch. I don’t let you carry my stuff on a good day.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“You underestimate me,” you say, assessing him now that you’re alone. He is still clearly exhausted, weighed down by the reality of his day. But he looks okay. Definitely better than when he’d trudged into the park across from the hospital.

“Never.” and you knew he was right. You looped your arm through his, pulling him tight against your side. The two of you made your way back to the bakery in relative silence, taking comfort in the fact that the other is okay. He waited for you to unlock to door before pulling it open for you. You slipped inside, Michael following you to the kitchen. You moved in sync, putting things into the dishwasher, the few bits of leftover brownies into one of the fridges.

Once things were put away, you leaned against the counter, giving him a once over. “You’re not subtle.” he mutters.

You laugh, folding in half with the force. “I don’t know what you mean.” But you do know what he means. You were worried, you showed up with baked goods to mask the fact you were checking on him. it wasn't the first time and it won't be the last.

“I’m okay. Today was rough, but I’m…” he paused, taking a shaky breath. “I’m better now. Jack helped, you helped.”

You took a step towards him, hesitating, waiting for him to turn away or cross his arms or any other sign that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want you. It doesn’t come. Another step, another pause. And then you can’t take it anymore and you are pressed against him, his hands tight around your back.

Your breaths even out, sync up and the rest of the day feels distant. You’re safe, he’s safe and the rest can wait until tomorrow.

#The Pitt x reader #The Pitt hbo #The Pitt max #The Pitt fanfiction #dr robby x reader #dr robby fanfiction #dr robby imagine #Michael robinavitch x reader #Michael robinavitch imagine #Michael robinavitch fanfiction #Michael robinavitch x you #The Pitt x you #dr robby robinavitch #dr robby Robinavitch fluff #dr robby fluff #Michael robinavitch fluff #The Pitt fluff #The Pitt angst #the pitt

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highdramas · 24 days ago

Text

peaceful road | dr. michael robinavitch

pairing: michael robinavitch x f!reader

warnings: language, age gap (reader is 29, robby is 50)

word count: 2392

summary: (small town au) you've lived in cradle point, oregon for nearly your entire life. when you come down with a nasty sickness, you meet dr. robby-- just having opened his new private practice after running away from it all.

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i'm very excited to kick off this series! i admittedly know little about operating a private practice, or medicine in general, so please forgive any inaccuracies. thank you for reading <3

dr. michael robinavitch starts his day at 7am, by habit more than anything else. he doesn’t begin seeing patients until 8am, but there’s something very comforting about the quiet of his office, the sound of the keyboard, the faint sound of johnny cash playing out of his speakers. he makes the short drive to work every day and he now has the time to stop for coffee, rather than make it at home.

life has been slower since that day in the pitt. that day that lead into an almost immediate sabbatical, which then lead to a resignation, he still has to fight off this notion that he gave up, that he conceded something. he wakes up and wonders most mornings still– how are they doing? how’s whittaker holding up? sometimes, he nearly texts dana to ask, then he remembers she’s now at a private practice, too. except she didn’t move across the country.

how could he stay in pittsburgh? what was going to be left for him there?

he loved the pacific northwest for a long time, after visiting one time with collins. he enjoyed portland, but he loved his time on the coast even more. when he thought about where he wanted a fresh start, that felt like a good a place as any.

after extensive research, he decided on cradle point. with a population of 1,500, and no private practice since the last doctor had moved away, it felt like a good place to try. and so he did. and after two months… well, things were going pretty well. it felt like he could breathe, while still doing the thing that he had burning passion for. he could save lives and not put his own mental health in turmoil every single day. he could step away from emergency medicine and live with himself.

that’s what he said to himself, anyway. sometimes, when he was feeling really crazy, he would go to the emergency room in lincoln city, and he’d sit in the parking lot and consider going in and asking if they needed an er physician. but then he always got back into his subaru and made the drive down the coastline back to cradle point.

he’s only on month two of operating his own private practice, and he doesn’t want to say that it’s perfect– he knows it isn’t. but it’s good. and that’s what he cares about.

hearing a tug at the door, his head pops up, tugging his readers off. it’s unusual to get anyone at his door until 9 or 10. he suspects that townsfolk are still trying to decide if they trust him– he gets it. well, not really, but he is starting to understand the small town mentality. the aversion to outsiders.

when he swings open the door and sees you, it starts up those same emergency medicine instincts. you look unsteady on your feet, holding a coffee, sunglasses on the crown of your head. “hi,” you say, voice graveled. “i’ve been wanting to come by and introduce myself–” you give him your name before you cough into the crook of your arm. “i’m sorry, i know you’re probably not open yet. my friends finally shamed me into coming, but i need to be at my shop at 8:30, and i saw that your light was on–”

“no, no. please, come in and sit.” he gestures to an exam bed which you hop onto. he can’t help his slight smile as you cross your legs and toss your bag into the chair by the exam table like you’ve done it the exact same way a million times. “did you used to see dr. jackson?”

michael doesn’t know much about his predecessor, other than that it sounded like he had pretty big shoes to fill. dr. angela jackson was beloved by the people of cradle point. that much was abundantly clear. you flush and laugh a little bit. “she’s my aunt.” you rub your hands on your pants and look at him sheepishly. “that’s a small town for ya.”

he laughs louder at that. “well,” he takes a step closer to you. “i’m not your aunt, but i’ll take good care of you. my name is dr. robinavitch, but most people call me dr. robby. i’m gonna do a quick exam on you and hopefully get you out of here.”

“thank you, dr. robinavitch.” you smile so earnestly it makes his heart stutter over itself.

shit.

–

you had a crush on the hot doctor. why did no one tell you that he was hot?

having lived in cradle point for your entire life, any new person moving into town was undeniably a big deal. it felt like, anymore, people moved away frequently, but there wasn’t a steady stream of those returning. of course, there was the tourists in the summer and the occasional retiree that would settle down on the coast. but most people didn’t feel like living out of the way of so much.

you loved your hometown. you loved the tall trees and the fact that you could walk onto the balcony off your bedroom and hear the faint crash of the ocean. you loved that your best friend erin was just like you, and had stayed, and that every day you could walk ten minutes down the road to see her. you loved that you could take your cat onto the beach in her little harness and leash whenever you wanted. you loved the farmers market. you loved being a business owner in this town. there wasn’t much that you didn’t like.

and you really loved when new people entered your orbit. there was a sort of excitement that it brought– it was so rare, how could you not be excited?

dr. robinavitch is thorough with you. you believe him when he says he’s doing to take good care of you. you’ve been going and going with little slowing since you got sick– not taking days off of work, carrying on despite your body screaming at you to stop. he cradles your face and gently presses on your cheeks, causing you to wince slightly. it’s then when he leans back and looks at you and says, “yeah, you’ve got a pretty nasty sinus infection. i’m gonna get you some antibiotics and you should be good to go within the next week. but you’re gonna need rest– no work. you think you can do that?”

“i can give it a really good try,” you say. “no, no– yeah, i won’t work. i’ll get erin to cover the store for a couple of days.”

“where do you work?”

“i own mazzy’s. it’s a bookstore on main street.” feeling bold, you say, “you should come by sometime, once i’m better. do you like to read? i can give you plenty of suggestions.” you pause, and add, sheepishly, “if you want, of course.”

michael, utterly charmed despite everything in him screaming at him not to be, shoves his hands into the pockets of his zip up hoodie. “yeah, i like to read. i’ve been driving past it every day and thinking about how i should go in. i’ve read through just about everything i’ve got.” that was about all he did during his sabbatical– reading, pretending, pushing it all down. “i’ll come by. i like sci fi.”

“sci fi! we have a great sci fi section–” you sneeze. “and fantasy, too, if you’re into that sort of thing.” you have that same sheepish look on your face and all he can think about is how sweet you are, how in fifteen minutes you’ve made him feel more welcome in this town than anyone else in the past month has made him feel. including his neighbors. no fault to them, he thinks; they would be in pretty stiff competition with you around.

no. you’re younger than him– twenty nine, he found out, as he was doing your intake. he may be having a midlife crisis, but he never fancied himself the type to go for a girl nearly half his age, let alone a patient. but then you start talking about a book called this is how you lose the time war and his heart does that same stuttering that it did earlier. maybe he should be the one seeing a doctor.

“--and, yeah, it’s a love story more than anything. a very good love story. not some of the cheesy slop that’s out right now. i mean, don’t the people want to yearn anymore?” you sigh, clearly exasperated at your own train of thought. you stand and grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “anyway. i’m sorry, i’ll get out of your hair.”

“no, no–” he chuckles, the sound awkward in his ears. “stay in my hair as much as you want.” it’s his turn to flush, but you are too, and you meet each others gaze and laugh together. maybe there’s some knowing it that laugh. that neither of you can quite place it, but… there’s something.

“as much as i’d love to, i should take your advice and get my rest. thank you so much, again–” you open the door to the clinic, greeted by the torrential downpour that started at some point while you and dr. robby were in your trance. “wow. anyway, i’ll be seeing you.”

“oh–” he grabs the door, holding it open for you and looking out at the unyielding rain. “you drive here?”

“i walked. i’ll be fine, i–”

before he can think better of it, he says, “i can drive you,” a doctor for more years than he can count at this point, and he’s teetering on breaking the code of ethics over the first girl he meets. of course. “if you want. only if you want.”

hanging onto the doorframe, you smile a little and look out to the rain. fuck it. “sure. thank you.”

–

you both make a quick jog to his car parked slightly down the road, tugging your hoods over your heads. “this one’s mine,” he says, pointing to an immaculate black subaru suv. he rushes to open your door for you, making sure you’re safely inside before he hops into the drivers seat. the sound of the rain pounding on his car fills your ears, and you’re both slightly out of breath, looking over at each other and smiling. “wouldn’t have been a fun walk home,” he muses.

you blow out a puff of air. “no, it wouldn’t have.” you lean your head back against the seat, sniffling some. “thank you.”

“my pleasure.” you’re still looking at each other for a beat when he clears his throat, starting up the car. “you lead the way.”

you provide him instructions on how to get to your small seaside cottage. it was your parents home– when they decided they were ready to go on and retire in southern california, tired of the rain of the oregon coast, they put the house in your name. it was your grandparents home before that, the entire house wrapped up in the history of your last name.

you provide him anecdotes regarding businesses and landmarks as you drive past them. “that’s mrs. felicia’s diner. have you eaten there yet? don’t get the pie. just trust me.” a moment later, “this is the lookout where high schoolers go to make out or smoke weed. it’s like, don’t they know they’re not that slick?”

michael listens to all your musings, riveted. having grown up in chicago, later relocating to pittsburgh, he’s always been a big city guy. big cities have their own charms, quirks, and rituals– but none the way that you’re describing to him. he likes that about cradle point. that you have a story for every square inch of this town.

“so. why did you move here?” you ask. it’s an innocent enough question, and you’re not the first person who has asked it but it still makes his heart seize up. “i mean– i’m just not used to new people. you’re probably gathering that none of us are.”

“yup, i’ve gathered that much.” he tries not to sound too irritable. it’s not your fault you’re asking. it’s not your fault that he’s so fucked up, that he feels like he can’t run fast enough away from his past. “i was just ready for a change.”

“and where did you move from?”

“pittsburgh.”

“did you like it?”

“yeah, until i didn’t.” he sighs. “i’m sorry. i’m not trying to be a hardass.”

shaking your head, you look down at your hands. “no, i’m sorry i’m prying.”

“don’t be. don’t be, really– i’m the asshole. trust me.”

you begin approaching your street. it’s idyllic– framed with trees, sloping hills with various beautiful beach homes surrounding it. the beach is but a stone’s throw away, and he feels a pang of jealousy. he’s certainly not without the funds, but a beachside home was not in the cards for him. “this is me,” you point to the home, and he smiles a little. of course it is. it’s quaint, but charming. there’s a beautiful garden out front and a cat napping in the front window. “thank you again.”

“you’re welcome. and about before, i–”

“nope. no more apologies needed.” you give a reassuring smile. “thank you for the antibiotics. thank you for the drive. and…” you fumble around in your purse for your store business card and a pen, scribbling a string of numbers onto it. “if you ever want a book recommendation…” you pass the card to him. “just let me know.”

staring down at the card, your logo– a cat sleeping on a stack of books– he rubs his thumb on the worn paper where you’ve just written your phone number with the word “cell” ahead of it. he wonders how long it’s been in your bag. if you give these out to just anyone. “i’ll do that.”

with a final smile and a wave, you speed walk towards your house. he watches to make sure you get inside safely. when the door has shut, he leans his forehead onto the steering wheel, a long breath coming from deep in his chest.

twenty feet away, you’re leaning with your back against your front door, your hand on your chest, an identical breath coming out of you.

#michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch x you #michael robinavitch imagine #dr robby x reader #robby x reader #dr robby x you #dr robby imagine #the pitt fanfiction #my writing #peaceful road

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starkwlkr · 16 days ago

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undressed | michael robinavitch

an: guys i’m finna be in the pitt ‼️ n e ways here’s my contribution to the pitt fics (btw i spent the last few days reading every fic and they’re all soooo good i’m obsessed) and yea this is inspired by undressed by sombr!! and am i rewatching ER? yes ma’am 🫡

He worked on instinct now—his hands steady, his voice calm, his focus laser-sharp. The boy on the gurney, no older than five, had taken a nasty fall at the park. A fractured arm, a possible concussion, a scared father, and a worried older sister waiting outside in the waiting room.

Robby gently adjusted the sling on the boy’s tiny arm. “You’re very brave, Luke.”

Luke sniffled through his tears but gave a shaky smile. “Mom says crying is okay as long as you still try to be strong.”

Robby’s hands froze for a second.

His heart did that thing it hadn’t done in decades—skipped, clenched, softened. He swallowed tightly and looked down at the boy.

“Your mom says that, huh?”

Luke nodded solemnly, then added, “She also says you should always try your best even if you’re scared.”

Robby chuckled softly, a sound that cracked in the middle. He could almost hear her saying those exact words. He hadn’t heard that voice in years, but it still lived in the dusty attic of his mind, untouched but never forgotten.

“I used to know someone who said that too,” he murmured, more to himself than to the boy.

Luke tilted his head, curious. “Who?”

Robby smiled faintly, not looking up from the IV line he was adjusting. “Someone really special. From a long time ago. She wanted to be a teacher. Always had her nose in a book and believed in people—even the worst ones. I thought... I thought we’d be together forever.” He chuckled. Was he really telling a little boy about his failed love life? Yup.

“Did she move away?” Luke asked innocently.

“Yeah,” Robby said softly, the word almost catching in his throat. “Life took her somewhere else. And me too.”

He stood quietly, ruffling Luke’s brown hair. “But if I could see her again—even just once—I think I’d give anything for that.”

And then—

“Luke! Luke, where is he?!”

The voice was frantic, a mother’s voice, rich with fear. Robby froze. He turned just as the emergency room doors flew open, and time. . . time stopped.

There she was.

Hair slightly messier than he remembered, a coat slipping from her shoulders, panic in her eyes—but it was her. The only woman he’d ever really loved. The one who got away while he stayed behind in this city full of ghosts.

She hadn’t changed. Not really. Not where it counted.

“Mom!” Luke called out, smiling through his tears.

She rushed forward, falling to her knees beside the gurney. “Oh, baby, are you okay?” She cradled his head, kissed his forehead, checked his arm with shaking hands. She peppered kisses all over his face until the boy got annoyed.

“I’m okay. Dr Robby said I was very brave.” Luke turned to look at the older man.

Her eyes met Robby’s, and it was like someone had cracked open an old wound and let every ache spill out.

She blinked. “Michael?”

His voice was hoarse. “Hey.”

She stared for a second too long before whispering, “I didn’t even know you were still in Pittsburgh.”

“I never left.”

There was a pause. So much hung unsaid between them. Years. Regret. Memories. Choices.

“Thank you,” she cleared her throat. “For helping him.”

“Of course. . .” He said, his eyes not leaving hers. “He’s a good kid, very brave too.”

And then—without meaning to—his gaze fell on Luke’s face again. On the eyes.

Her eyes. The same eyes he’d once dreamed their children might have. But they weren’t his. They belonged to another man. A life he never got to live.

“So you’re back?” Robby finally snapped out of it.

“Just for the week. My niece is getting married then it’s back to Vancouver. My kids are waiting for me.” She explained.

Kids? Did she have more?

She then realized how that sounded and corrected herself. “My kids i teach. I’m a middle school teacher.”

So she did end up being a teacher after all. . . Robby could remember all the times she would mention how she wanted to work in a school. It was during their high school days that she would go on and on about her dream of being a teacher that cared about the school system.

“You live all the way in Vancouver . . .” Robby said with a sad tone.

“Yeah, my husband has his law firm there.”

Husband. That hurt to hear.

“Can we go?” Luke asked.

“Y-Yeah . . . Sorry for . . Yeah, you’re all good.” Robby helped Luke get down from the gurney. “So if he—” he was cut off by the voice of his first love.

“Yeah, I got it. I actually read your med books for fun after you would fall asleep when we would watch ‘Unsolved Mysteries’. If he’s in so much pain, I know who to take him to.” She held her son close as she spoke.

That was news to Robby. Watching unsolved mysteries was something they would do if they had time, which was rare, but when they did, Robby would end up sleeping after a couple of episodes and that’s when she would take a peek at his books.

“Thank you again,” she smiled at him. And just like that, she was gone—arms wrapped around her son, walking to the waiting room to her family and back into the world that wasn’t his.

Robby stood still for a long time.

In the end, all he could think about was this: the children of another man had the eyes of the girl he could never forget.

And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do about it.

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby #dr robby x reader #the pitt x reader #dr robby imagine #michael robinavitch imagine #the pitt one shot

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angelltheninth · 11 days ago

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Michael Robinavitch Makes Take a Break From Work

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, age-gap, established relationship, co-workers, being tired, overworking, teasing, cheek kisses, headaches, banter

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Another medical show for me to obsess over. So many cool (hot) characters here. Enjoy, comment, reblog, all that good stuff.

Robby couldn't find you anywhere and it was already pretty late. What was worse was that you weren't answering your phone at all, which only added to his worry. In the last few days he'd been seeing you less and less, yes the work was piling up, especially with the recent strings of fights breaking out, but he still wanted to have some time with you.

The last place he looked was where he found you, over your little desk, with a lamp shining at you and the stack of papers and medical records. A cold cup of coffee was in the corner, almost gone.

"I kind of suspected you were here but I really wanted to be wrong. Working late again are you?" Robby's heavy, warm hand pressed against your shoulder, then another giving you a massage. "You're gonna get all stiff if you keep sitting like that. The posture's gonna ruin your spine too."

You chuckled and leaned back, head tilted to look up at him. "Don't worry about me Robby. You know I don't mind awkward physical positions." You teased and winked up at him.

He chuckled knowingly, his hands pressing a little harder, pressing a pleasant sounds from your lips. "Doll, you've only been working here about half a year and in that time there's one thing I've learned about you. How insanely nimble and stubborn you are. But you need to rest every once in a while. As new doctor you should know that. Or did you spend your medical school partying and studying just before tests?"

You thought back to those days, endless hours spent in front of a book, the cheap instant ramen you ate even though you knew how bad it was for you, the sleepless nights... definitely not as much partying or fooling around. You were a good student.

"No parties. Mostly getting as much studying in as humanly possible." You reached for you coffee and drank the last of it. Robby shook his head and sighed. Taking the cup out of your hands he set it back to the corner and pressed his thumbs against your temples.

Again, a soft, pleasant sound left you.

"More like inhumanly possible if the coffee intake is the same as what I've observed. Just because you're in your mid-20s doesn't mean you have to push yourself beyond what's good for you. It's probably not helping your headache either." You groaned under the scrutiny of his words. He was right, absolutely right and it irked you. "Let's go home. I'll make you tea and we can sleep until our next shift. And I do actually mean sleep this time. Promise."

Your cheeks heated up slightly but honestly you felt a little too tired to do anything but sleep once you got home. Even with all the caffeine in your system, it would have inevitably lead to an energy crashout and you can't afford that.

"Always looking out for me. My big, strong man." You kissed his cheek and felt a smile grace Robby's lips.

"Someone has to right? We look out for each other now, doll." Hand in hand he walked through the mostly empty halls, the cold lights illuminating your path.

Dividers by: @/bredasbendystraws

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yakshxiao · 6 days ago

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FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift.

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago.

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different.

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m.

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him.

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck.

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level.

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away.

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months.

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories.

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle.

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet.

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about.

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances.

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #shawn hatosy #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #michael robinavitch #dana evans #cassie mckay #x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you #the pitt max #the pitt imagine #the pitt x you #jack abbot imagine

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xximperioxx · 17 days ago

Text

Work Crush

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!reader

Word count: 3k (I blacked out)

Warnings: age gap (reader is in her 20s), cursing, nothing too spicy - my man just wants to kiss his girl, sex toy mentioned lmao

Notes: y’all this man has me in a chokehold. He may be a little ooc but idc. This is kind of set before the first episode. I literally don’t know any about social workers so please ignore. It’s been soooooo long since I’ve written something so please be gentle. Also when you read it you can totally tell I listened to I Can See You by Taylor Swift writing this.

———————————————

Being a social worker at the Pitt has been interesting to say the least. You never know what’s going to come through those doors. The days are long and the shifts are difficult but the people and families you’ve helped regardless of the situations have made it worth it.

You started as an intern a few years ago, working directly with Kiara. You’ve become a tight knit family in the Pitt in a short amount of time.

You obviously cared for some co-workers more than others. Kiara was like your mom in and out of hospital. Dana was your work mom, Langdon was like your annoying brother, Collins and McKay felt like older sisters. Robby was different.

At first it started as a silly work crush. Blushing every time he said your name. It had to be how he looks in scrubs. That’s what you told yourself anyways. That was until you both saw each other outside of work at a local coffee shop.

You walked into the coffee shop down the street from your apartment, half asleep even though it’s after 2pm on your day off. Lifting your sunglasses to the top of your head, you scan the restaurant. You take an earbud out and stare at the menu debating on trying something new.

You feel someone stand next to you. Not ready to order, you turn to the person, “Oh I’m not ready yet, you can…Robby?”

He looks down in surprise, almost not recognizing you in casual clothes. His eyes travel down to your leggings and an old band tee with your hair in a lazy ponytail. You wanted to cringe, immediately regretting the lazy outfit.

He gives you a smile, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Your cheeks warm from his smile. “Just needed an afternoon pick me up.. well technically morning.”

He lets out a chuckle, “Just woke up too? I think I rolled out of bed like an hour ago.” Lies. He barely slept.

You nod with a smile, noting the lie you can see in his eyes. He feels like you see right through him.

He looks down at you, “Do you come here often?”

You purse your lips, not trying to laugh, “Was that supposed to be a pick up line?”

Robby feels himself grow red. He didn’t mean it like that. At least he thought. He opens his mouth to respond but the barista interrupts him. “Dr. Robby! You want your usual?”

Robby slowly nods in response and takes a step towards the register. You let your eyes finally take him in. Off shift Robby. He was wearing sweats and a hoodie. God he’s hot in regular clothes too. You find yourself thinking he looks a little too good in sweatpants. Get a hold of yourself.

Robby clears his throat. You’re caught red handed. Your eyes meet his. “Let me buy your coffee.”

“You really don’t need to do that.” You stutter out embarrassed. Is he being nice or flirting?

He gives you a look. “Too late. Order.” He motions you over, “C’mon, before I change my mind.”

“Yes, Sir,” you mumble before taking a step towards the barista with a smile. You can feel Robby’s eyes on you. His mind is racing with a million thoughts. He hopes you can’t hear his heart beating out his chest.

As you’re ordering, Robby pulls out his wallet. His eyes can’t help but wander over your ass. He catches himself and pulls himself back when he hears the barista’s voice. He feels like a dirty old man. He meets the eyes of the employee already looking at him. The barista repeats the amount due. Robby quickly hands the cash over.

You both walk to a table. “Thank you for the coffee. I really appreciate it.”

The smile he gives you almost weakens your knees.

“Anything for my favorite social worker.”

You let out a laugh, “Yeah, when Kiara’s not at work. She’s the best. ”

He shakes his head, “Give yourself some credit, kid.” You feel yourself deflate at the name but shake it off. “You’re fantastic at your job.”

“Says you, Dr. Robinavitch.” He makes a face at the praise and shakes his head.

It’s quiet between the two of you. You can see him thinking. Taking a sip of your coffee, you joke quietly, “One of these days, Michael.” His brown eyes meet yours with furrowed eyebrows in response, “You’ll tell me what’s going on in that brain of yours.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the coffee shop, you found yourself watching how he carried himself around patients, around his coworkers, those he thought of as friends, and you. How he cares more about others than himself. The way he smirks when jokes around, the way he smiles when he sees his residents working hard. Your heart begins to beat faster whenever he catches your eye.

You began to feel Robby’s eyes on you more. The lingering touches when he brushes past you to get to another patient. The two of you ignoring what you’re both feeling.

Langdon even noticed the tension. He thinks it’s funny to gag whenever he catches you two looking at each other. It normally ends in a hard shove and a wince.

You don’t realize you’re spacing out in front of the computer until Collins repeats your name for the third time and McKay is snapping her fingers in your face. You blink a few times before looking at her. “Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Collins hums, “Any particular reason?”

You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “I guess I have a lot on my mind recently.”

McKay frowns at you, “Are you taking your medication? You really…”

You stop listening to her as you see Robby walk through the door. His eyes find yours and gives you a smile with tired eyes.

McKay stops talking, following your eyes. She scoffs as Collins and Mohan both snicker.

“How does that song go?” Mohan begins to sing, “‘Daddy’s home, home for meee.”

Collins lets out a loud laugh before joining, “You know your daddy’s home. It’s time to playyyy”

“You guys are mean.” “It’s too early for this” You and McKay say at the same time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had only been about two hours into the shift and you had already talked to families about tough situations. A miscarriage, death, postpartum mental health, addiction. You had lost count already.

Sighing as the low battery message popped up on the tablet you were using, you walked over to the desk to get a new one. Langdon, Mateo, and Mohan were deep in conversation about a patient you assume.

“Listen, all I’m saying is, the majority of the people who use toys like that aren’t getting laid.” Langdon said as if it proved a point.

You turn to the trio in shock, “What the fuck did I just walk in to?”

Mohan greeted you with a smile, “Patient‘s penis got stuck in one of those hands free strokers.”

You blanched at the thought. “That’s rough.”

Mateo nods in response before joking, “It was a sticky situation.”

A snort escapes you, Mohan stifles a giggle, and Langdon groans at the bad joke.

“Alright tea party’s over.” Robby interrupts the group, “Gloria is already up my ass today. I don’t need her seeing this.”

The doctors go in separate directions, each going to check on patients. Robby sits down at a computer with a sigh. He puts his readers on. You glance at him with a smirk as you work on paperwork for a recent patient, “Is today the day?”

He lets out a snarky laugh, “To talk about my feelings? In your dreams.”

“You always are, Dr. Robinavitch. You wouldn’t believe half the things I dream about,” You cheekily respond. He shakes his head at you. A real laugh escapes him.

Kiara comes up to you with a smile and you greet her. She looks between you and Robby. Noting the smiles on your faces. “What’d I miss?”

You hear McKay call you over to a patient. Picking up a new tablet you begin to walk away. You turn your head and joke, “Dr. Robby just mentioned to me he was finally interested in talking to you about what’s going on in that brain of his!”

Kiara looks at Robby with a hopeful smile, “Really?”

“No.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later in the day, you found yourself at the counter again working on a patient file. Langdon noticed you and looked away from Dr. Robby, “What about you, (Y/N), what’s your take on dogs and kids?”

Glancing up from your tablet, “I’m actually more of a cat person myself. Had one growing up and I have one now.” You answer with a shrug.

Langdon scoffed, “You’re basically an old cat lady.”

You send a glare his way.

“You have a cat and haven’t gotten laid in like a year.”

Your face turns red in embarrassment. You confessed to Langdon that it’s been over a year since you’ve had sex when you went out drinking with him and his girlfriend not too long ago. You could almost hear the way the couple let out a sad oh in response now. Could this get anymore embarrassing?

Thankfully you don’t notice Dr. Robby’s eyes widened after hearing Langdon. Surely a young woman like yourself didn’t spend most nights alone. He finds you attractive, he wouldn’t deny that. He remembers hearing you mention Leo a few times in passing. Does this mean you don’t have a boyfriend? He shakes his head, ignoring his thoughts. He could be your dad for Christ’s sake.

“And you’re a swiftie.” Dana added.

You gape at her. “How did you even know that?”

The charge nurse chuckled, “I saw you crying in your car at All Too Well a couple months ago. The 10 minute version if I recall.”

The two doctors raise their eyebrows at Dana, surprised to know her knowledge of the song.

Robby slides his glasses down to look at the charge nurse with a smirk, “Kinda sounds like you’re a swiftie, Dana.”

Your eyes find his and you try not to smile at his way to try to change the conversation. Robby’s smirk turns into a soft smile at you. Langdon looks between the two of you and keeps his mouth shut this time.

She puts her hands up in defense, “Blame my daughters.”

“They have great taste!” You defend her daughters. Ignoring the urge to cringe knowing Dana had caught you crying over a silly guy who broke your heart.

Langdon turned his attention back to you. Pointing his pen at you, he smirks, “Officially an old cat lady…just in a 20 something year old’s body.”

Dana puts her hand on your arm, “Sweetie, you’re too young to turn into a cat lady. You can’t be spending your nights off with your cat.” she says with a light laugh.

“For your information, Leo is great company.”

Robby looks up from the computer, “Leo’s your cat?” Langdon and Dana let out a laugh at his comment.

You pick up your tablet with an eye roll. You mumble, “You guys suck.” You begin walking away before you look back, “You guys remember this next time you need me for a patient!”

Robby found himself standing up and following you. As he got closer to you he began to regret his decision. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie with a sigh.

Now in step with you, his elbow bumps your shoulder.

“That last part didn’t include me, right? Because I-..” A laugh from you interrupts him. He lets out a chuckle too.

“No Robby, I’m all yours.” You stop, eyes wide after realizing what you said. “I mean like - you don’t suck,” Robby’s grin grows causing you to turn red. “..I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Oh no, please keep going.” He teases.

You try to joke, “Is this karma for earlier?”

Your smiles wipe off you when you see Gloria standing with an unimpressed look on her face. She’s looking at Robby. You slowly turn to look at him, placing your hand on his bicep. You purse your lips and lie, “I’ll um… go talk to that patient in 103 that you mentioned,” you lean in whispering, “Good luck.”

He gives you a tight lipped smile.

Collins stops you on your way to speak to one of her patients about counseling. You walk into the patient's room with a calming smile.

As you’re discussing what services will be covered by their insurance, you get interrupted by Robby’s annoyed voice yelling, “I can only tell you so many times that this wouldn’t be happening if you hired more help! It’s fucking ridiculous. We are doing all we can down here while upstairs is empty.”

Your eyes widen and your patient lets out a laugh. You apologize for the language before casually peeking out the door to see what happened. You only see an irked Gloria and a group of nurses and doctors looking at each other awkwardly. No Robby to be seen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After finishing up your conversation with the patient you excuse yourself. Dana looks up from the computer to see you at the desk signing some paperwork.

“You talk to Robby?” She questions.

You meet her gaze and shake your head. She sighs and you look around the room, still not seeing him. “I was going to ask you that. Where did he disappear to?” You get a shrug in response. Nodding, you put away your tablet and decide to look for the stressed doctor.

You end up finding Robby leaning up against the wall in a quiet hallway. His head against the wall with his eyes closed. You watch him for a minute, debating if you should leave him alone.

You decide to join him. Leaning on the wall, your arms brush. It’s quiet.

You rest your head back and close your eyes as you enjoy the moment of peace.

Robby’s voice fills the air, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

You hum, “I know.”

He turns his head to look at you. Feeling his stare, you peek at him with one eye. You can’t decipher the look he’s giving you. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He lets out a chuckle and turns away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You laugh.

The two of you stand in comfortable silence. The loud noise from down the hall drowns out the loudness of your beating hearts.

“Does it bother you that I’m twice your age?”

The question takes you by surprise. This time you turn your head to look at him.

“I find it sexy.” You tease and he lets out a huffed laugh.

It's quiet again. You sigh, “No, it doesn’t bother me. It never did,” you pause almost hesitant, “Does it bother you that I’m young?”

Robby let’s out a tired sigh, “It would be a whole lot fucking easier if it did but it doesn’t.” He runs his hands over his face. “Everything would be a lot easier if I didn’t feel this way about you.”

You nudge his shoulder. You push yourself off the wall and face him, “Tell me about it. I’ve had the hots for you since I started here,” you begin to take a step backward to create some space and laugh, “I tried to convince myself it was purely a work crush and next then I knew is - you’re all I could think about. Day and night.”

Robby reaches for your waist and pulls you in close.Your hands rest on his chest.“Remember when you blushed every time I said your name?” You roll your eyes, “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

He turns serious again, “You take one look at me and I feel like you see right through me and it’s fucking scary. Yet every time you smile at me I suddenly feel like a teenager again.” His thumbs grazing your hips he holds you and jokes, “More like a dirty old perv actually.”

You scrunch your face, “We all have our quirks. Me with my attraction to sexy older men and being a cat lady - ”

“You’re ridiculous,” He cuts you off with a shake of his head and a smirk. “And one sexy cat lady.”

You let out a giggle.

The two of you look into each other's eyes. Robby’s eyes occasionally glancing down at your lips. His head dips down and you lift head up to meet his lips. Your lips brush against each other and you mumble, “Michael, if don’t you don’t kiss me soon I think I might pass away.”

You feel the rumble of his chest as he chuckles, “Always so dramatic.” His lips finally meet yours for a slow, gentle kiss.

You eagerly kiss him back. His hands trail up your body and cup your face, kissing you harder. You both deepen the kiss and find yourself unzipping his sweatshirt and taking it off him. He pulls his hands away from your face for a second to help take it off, your lips never parting. It falls to the ground. Your hands travel up his biceps and back to his chest. After a few seconds, you both pull away with cheesy smiles on your faces, breathless. His hands fall back to your waist and gives you a squeeze.

Your hands wrap around his neck, “That was really nice.”

He lets out a snicker before pulling you into another passionate kiss. His lips begin to travel to your jaw and down your neck. You let out a breathy sigh, “This is even better.”

Your breath hitches as he begins to suck at your neck. This couldn’t keep going farther. It'll only be a matter of time before someone catches the two of you. You let out a moan, “You've had me hot and bothered since you told Gloria off.” He groans before he nips at your shoulder in response and pinches your sides.

You squeak, “And as much as I would love to jump your old man bones right now,” another pinch, “We should really get back before she comes looking for you.” You gently pull his face back up to yours.

He nods. “You’re right.” The look in his brown eyes says otherwise. He shrugs with a teasing smile, “Maybe just one more.”

You roll your eyes before pulling him into another kiss.

It was only a matter of time until Dana found the two of you, “Hey! We don’t have time for this! Get your asses back to work.”

You jump away from each other embarrassed, blushing like two teenagers who got caught by their parent.

#dr robinavitch #dr. robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #dr robby #dr michael robinavitch #the pitt fic #the pitt imagine #noah wyle #hbo

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thepencilnerd · 20 days ago

Text

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you.

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks. You turned bright red, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked.

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 1 month ago

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would it be bad to piggyback off the idea of the jack abbot fic where no one knows about his wife, but kinda flip it a bit and make it seem that the new docs thought reader and robby were married (but their just besties), but it turns out, no its actually jack 👀

Loving your fanfics btw!!

ooooo good one!!!!

Wrong Husband

Summary: You’re used to the new interns making assumptions. You and Dr. Robby have always been close—best friends since residency, the kind of dynamic that makes people look twice. So when this new batch starts whispering about the “work-marriage” between the two of you, neither of you bother to correct it. Until Jack walks in.

“I’m just saying,” Santos muttered as you walked down the hall with Dr. Robby, “they have to be married.”

Javadi snorted. “Right? She calls him ‘grandpa’ when he’s grumpy and he lets her steal his fries during lunch. That’s, like, peak married behavior.”

They didn’t know you could hear them. And Robby definitely did.

He leaned down toward you as you reached the nurses’ station, voice low and dry. “You’re stealing my fries again?”

“Don’t worry,” you muttered, not missing a beat, “I’ll leave you two. Maybe you can finally propose to me after all these years.”

The interns turned white.

You both burst out laughing.

You weren’t married. Never had been. But you loved letting the new staff stew in their awkwardness for a while. It was practically a sport now.

“Wait, are you guys—?” Whitaker started.

You smirked. “Guess you’ll never know.”

A couple hours later, you were sitting at the nurses' station finishing a chart, Robby leaned next to you, sipping bad coffee, when the ER doors opened—and in walked Dr. Jack Abbott.

Buttoned-down. Sharp-jawed. Intimidating as hell.

He didn’t even look up at the crowd—just scanned the room until his eyes landed on you.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

You smiled instantly. Stood up, grabbing your coat. “Yep. Give me two seconds.”

Whitaker blinked. “Wait, you… know Dr. Abbott?”

Robby raised his coffee, still leaning casually. “She knows him alright.”

Jack walked over, slipped his hand around your waist like it was second nature—because it was.

The room went silent.

You looked up at him. “Long day?”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Better now.”

Javadai dropped her pen.

You turned back to the stunned interns with a sweet smile. “You three met Jack, right?”

They just stared.

“Jack,” you added helpfully, “my husband.”

Robby actually choked on his coffee.

“Have fun, kids,” he grinned. “Told you she wasn’t mine. I’m not nearly uptight enough.”

Jack looked him up and down. “You’re not anything enough.”

You tugged his hand gently. “Be nice. They thought I was married to Robby.”

Jack didn’t even blink. “I’ll try not to be insulted.”

As you walked out with Jack’s hand resting possessively on your lower back, the interns stood frozen in place, eyes wide, jaws open.

“…So that’s her husband?”

Robby chuckled behind them. “Yeah. You should see them when they’re arguing about takeout. It’s terrifying.”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfic #the pitt headcannon #dr robby fanfic #dr robby imagine #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch #dr robinavitch x reader #dr jack abbott #dr jack abbott imagine #dr jack abbott fanfic #dr jack abbott headcannon #dr michael robinavitch

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superhoeva · 13 days ago

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“you’re in my spot.”

robby only grins from his kneel in front of your chair, tongue slathering your clit in a wet glob of slobber. you curse, leg hanging helplessly in the air and gripping the sides of your chair for dear life. you can’t even find the manners to greet the grey-haired man as he slinks his backpack off his shoulder, the suckle of robby’s lips making it too hard to think.

“not my fault you took the long way here,” words muffled by he shrugs, hand creeping up to tug at one of your nipples.

“he bein’ nice to you?”

your head shakes lazily, face frowning into a pout that has jack smirking in his hang over you.

“n—fuck, no,” you whine, back arching with a squirm when robby purposefully drags his tongue up your slit a little harder at your answer. “no, he won’t let me come—“

“i don’t know what she’s talking about,” robby flicks his eyes to abbot then back to you before giving your swollen bud a soft suck. “you can come any time you wanna, sweetheart.”

you groan in half-bliss, half-annoyance, your lash line shining with frustrated tears as you turn to jack.

“he keeps stopping. right when i’m about to—ugh. fuck, see?” your whine to jack is covered up by robby, who’s pulling away from you with a giggle.

your head tosses back with gritted teeth, robby and abbot sharing a little look. the former just shrugs while you’re not looking, lips shining as they bend into a smirk. jack shakes his head, trying not to laugh before guiding you to raise your head. his lips dance down your jaw, fingers finding home in flicking one of your hardened nipples.

“so he’s not being very nice, huh?” the question at your ear is low but still heard by you and robby. as you shake your head, a shiver runs corses you.

jack’s hand sinks lower, dragging across your stomach, stopping to press tenderly just above your mound before thumbing at you’re clit.

fuck, robby must’ve done a number on you, ‘cause you’re soaked. jack’s fingers barely have to brush you for them to be covered in your slippery slick. he raises them to his mouth to lick it all off, circling them right back around your clit as you moan a loud curse.

“let’s see if this helps, yeah?” jack speaks lowly next to you, a silent conversation with robby happening easily. the man still on his knees in front of you takes the hint, kissing your thigh and sinking his tongue back inside you. “maybe this’ll make it a little easier, baby.”

the men work in perfect tandem. robby flicking and gliding his tongue deep into your hole just beneath your clit, nose bumping the tips of jack’s fingers every now and then.

eating you hungrily, robby groans, eyes rolling a little when he peeks up to find you sucking on jack’s tongue with a quiet mewl every time he pushes it into your mouth. reaching down to palm his throbbing cock, robby licks you faster. following the pattern abbot’s rubbing against you with a perfect precision.

the three of you are a mess of moans, a few growls even rattling from abbot when your teeth nibble at his lip.

“help me get her there, mike,” jack pants against your lips, bicep bulging as he works you. robby obliges, eyes closing and letting the sounds oozing from you take over his mind. you’re buzzing, thighs shaking and hawing for any kind of air.

“i’m coming,” you rush out and the men groan. “fuck, i’m coming.”

that you do, robby having to hold you steady as you body nearly trembles itself out of the chair, jack also letting you lean you weight against him while you sob into his mouth.

“that’s a girl,” robby mumbles, hot pants rolling across you. he dips his tongue into again, yanking it upwards to dance along side abbot’s fingers as they both help you through it. “that’s it, baby, keep soakin’ me.”

it takes a long few minutes for you to calm. jack’s touch has slowed and and robby’s tongue has lightened, but their touches still ride you high.

“see,” jack declares, pecking your cheek. “just needed a little teamwork, that’s all.”

robby chuckles, hands rubbing along your tired legs. jack studies him, eyes squinted.

“don’t forget to ice your knees, you grandpa,” he tells the man quietly, and even in your post-orgasm haze, it’s pretty funny. robby rolls his eyes with a smile, trying not to wince at the pain shooting through them already.

“fuck off, john,” robby gripes, straightening to pull the other man into a wet peck. it lingers for a long moment before robby pulls back with a grimace. “and, yeah, go grab the ice. please.”

#dr abbot smut #dr robby smut #jack abbot smut #jack abbott smut #michael robinavitch smut #dr jack abbot x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #jack abbot x you #dr robby x you #jack abbot x reader #dr robby x reader #jack abbot imagine #dr robby imagine #jack abbot #dr jack abbott #michael robinavitch #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo

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butyoudidthis4what · 10 hours ago

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The decision fatigue is so real by the end of the week and I have so many thoughts and ideas right now but cannot decide. (They’ll all get done eventually.) (Hopefully 😂).

I will have writing time tonight and this weekend so if you’d like please help me decide! I would appreciate it so much! I’m so thankful for all of your support and want to make you guys happy♥️

#I’m so pleased with myself at the west wing reference #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot imagine #dr jack abbot #jack abbot fanfic #the pitt fanfic #jack abbott #jack abbott fanfic #Jack Abbott imagine #michael robinavitch imagine #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr robby x reader #the pitt fanfiction #might eventually have to decide on one really long part 3 or part 3 and part 4

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theonewiththefanfics · 5 days ago

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Sisyphus No Longer (one-shot)

Synopsis: Robby knows chaos intimately. He knows how to navigate it, and guide others through. But sometimes life throws a curveball so big, not even he can get out of the range of impact.

Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!Reader

Genre: mainly fluffy, lil bit of angst (Robby just lives in an anxious state of mind worrying about his girlfriend)

Warnings: swearing, bit of medical talk (hopefully mostly accurate lol, nothing explicit, though if you pick up on anything please do let me know, and I'll add it here 😊), innuendos, but no smut this time around.

Word count: 10,879 (here we go again 🙃)

This is a follow-up to An Itch You Can't Scratch, but I think you can read this on its own as well :) Please don't copy my work or repost it onto other platforms. all of the characters belong to HBO Max.

Robby’s life was chaos. But it was chaos he was used to.

He knew how to navigate it, like a ship under the blanket of fog. Knew how to bend the mist to his will, and twist it to reveal the correct course of action.

For example, chaos causer No. 1 – Myrna.

She was a regular at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital. She dished out verbal assaults, like it was a Friday at a bar, trying to flash anyone who even threw her a glance, all the while being handcuffed to a wheelchair. The one time she’d managed to Houdini her way out, had sent the whole unit into a tailspin.

But Myrna was a constant in his life. She brought a sense of levity during his incredibly stressful days and allowed him to crack a grin or two. He was her Fruitcake and she was his Fruitfly. They just worked like that.

Then there was chaos causer No. 2 – Good old Gloria.

If there was one thing in the world Robby hated, other than people who took their primary medical advice from Reddit forums, it was suits, and people in them. Especially those that tried to run hospitals, while prioritizing cost-cutting, instead of the safety of their staff and patients.

“Would people recommend this emergency department to their friends or loved ones?” Gloria had asked him a couple of days prior, singing her usual song, albeit in a slightly different key.

The only thing that’d saved her had been the fact a mother had walked in with her five-year-old son, a piece of crayon stuck in his nose.

“Gloria, quite honestly, nobody is walking around recommending emergency departments, because nobody wants to be here. The last thing on the mind of someone with a split open head or a dying parent is leaving a five-star review. But sure. Be my guest. How about you go around the people sitting here, having waited eight hours to be seen, and ask them what they thought of the service today.”

She bristled at his light, but clearly aggravated tone. “I imagine eight hours is a long time to wait.”

“It is. You know how we could cut it down?” He crossed his arms. “More nurses. More staff. More equipment. It’s that easy. But unless you wish to get a rainbow sneezed on you, I suggest you walk away.”

She wasn’t amused by his words, but when Dana sidled up, helping him steady the kid against the unpleasant feel of forceps digging around his nose for a sky-blue piece of crayon, she muttered in a low tone, “This is all alleged, and if anyone asks, nobody has seen or heard anything. But there’s a rumor going around, that someone might’ve put sardines behind the radiator of a certain someone’s car.”

It had taken everything in Robby not to bust out laughing, even as the kid sprayed him with cerulean snot, which brought him to chaos causer(s) No. 3 – the whole of the Pitt.

Ever since his one-night-stand and fleeing escapade had been revealed a month prior, by none other than the woman who was his girlfriend now, nobody was allowing him to live down the words she’d dished out upon her admission to the ED.

Four hours.

Shaking mess.

God fucking help him.

He was Mr. Stamina now.

A ladies’ man (though he considered himself the man of only one specific lady).

His closest friend Jack Abbot had even heard about this. As he’d come in to overtake the Pitt the evening after Y/N’s discharge, he’d clapped Robby on the back and requested his tips and tricks for lasting that long in bed.

“What?” Robby scoffed, pulling off his stethoscope and zipping up his bag. “I can handle a whole ED on top of the hospital board for twelve hours straight, yet you don’t think I can handle one woman for four?”

“I never said that.” Jack lifted his hands in mock surrender. “The real question is – when you two first met – was that during one of your seven days off-shift?”

“Fuck you, man.” Robby pushed past him, ears reddening like ripe raspberries.

“Nah, brother. That job seems to be taken already.”

Robby had just given him the middle finger as he walked away and clocked out.

That had been his life every single day since Y/N had taken a chance on him, and had become the one chaos-causer he was still trying to adjust to.

It had been a little over a month since she’d broken her leg, and it had been a little over a month since they’d officially started dating.

(He’d scoffed at the term at first. “Dating?” he’d asked. “In my big old age?”

“Okay,” Y/N had mocked him. “Would you like to call it ‘wooing’? ‘Courting’? Do we need a chaperone to watch over as we graze our fingers alo-,”

“Alright,” he sighed. “Point taken.”)

He couldn’t be any happier though. The way they’d gotten reintroduced wasn’t one he wished to repeat because seeing Y/N in any kind of mild discomfort made him wince, but he would always be thankful for the universe granting him another opportunity.

He wouldn’t say that by the time she’d come to his place of work with a bone sticking out of her leg, he’d given up on love for himself, but Robby had resigned to the fact that maybe, a relationship, a romantic kind of love, wasn’t in the cards for him anymore.

And yet now, as he dragged his tired legs over to the place she shared with her best friend Sara, his mind couldn’t help but wonder what had he done in this life or maybe a past one, that’d granted him such happiness.

A paper bag of croissants crinkled as he patted down his trousers, searching for the spare key Y/N had given him. Mainly it was because Sara was sometimes out late bartending at her second job, and his girlfriend, her leg still in a cast, was slow to move around the apartment. But still, Robby always knocked first.

It felt intimate, coming into her space like that.

Like returning home, rather than simply staying over at someone else’s place.

He heard shuffling and voices echo before Sara opened the door, welcoming him inside. His brown eyes ventured to the couch on instinct where he’d usually find Y/N, her leg on the coffee table while the two friends watched a movie or a show or a serial killer documentary, only to find it empty.

Robby didn’t have to wonder long where she was, as he turned his neck and found Y/N in a heated conversation, her back towards the living area of the studio-type apartment, phone on speaker as a male voice argued back.

His brain was immediately overtaken by the doctor side of it – he wondered how long had she been standing for. Had she elevated her leg at all during the day? What was her pain level? But the words that came out of her mouth completely overrode the code, as it wasn’t something he expected to hear at all.

“No, you know what you’ve done, Harry? You’ve effectively killed our mother.”

“What’s going on?” Robby asked Sara, as the woman plopped down onto the couch, his gaze frantically scanning Y/N’s form. “Is Mrs. Y/L/N alright?”

Sara waved him off. “She’s fine. In fact, she’s never been better. No thanks to the hurricane over there though. Just listen. Y/N’s been ripping her brother a new one for like twenty minutes already.”

Placing his backpack onto a chair, and sliding to sit on the armrest, he watched as Y/N opened and closed random cabinets, her back taut as a string.

Even angry she was beautiful, Robby thought.

Maybe old and worn men like him did deserve kind and gentle things.

However, the way she spoke to her brother, well... She was as gentle as a cactus spike. “Harry, why the fuck would you do that? Why the fuck would you let her go alone?”

“She’s not gonna be alone, holy shit, Y/N/N! Take a fucking chill pill!” her brother exasperated on the other end of the line. “Dad’s going with!”

“Oh, great!” She threw her hands up and slammed an overhead cupboard closed. “That’s just fucking fantastic! You’ve turned us into Annie! Do you not have enough braincells to realize just how many people go missing while on cruises?”

Robby looked towards Sara who was watching the drama unfold with a wineglass in her hand. “Cruises?”

“One of her mom’s dreams has been to go on a cruise,” she explained. “She’s been joking that when one of her kids makes a million, they’ll get her a cruise pass.”

“And Y/N’s brother made a million?” From what he’d been told, Harry was five years younger than his sister. “Smart kid.”

“Dumb kid.” Sara snorted. “And not a millionaire. He just lives to torture her, I guess. He got their parents cruise passes for Y/M/N's birthday three days ago. Y/N even chipped in thinking it was for a new car or something. Quite frankly, I’m with Harry on this one. Their parents deserve a nice vacation in the Caribbean, but when Y/M/N phoned her to thank them for the present the two got for her…” Sara whistled. “I thought an eye might pop out of her skull. Or at least a vein, so now she’s been having the most epic crash-out. Want some popcorn?”

He could do nothing but shake his head and cross his arms, a smile blooming on his lips as he watched Y/N war with her brother.

“And if they get killed?” Y/N glared down at the phone on the kitchen counter. “It’s international waters! No jurisdiction wants to deal with that shit! They’ll become a fucking unsolved case!”

“Oh my god, they’re not gonna get killed!” Robby could just imagine her brother pulling his hands through his hair as Y/N didn’t relent. “They’re two pensioners who just want to relax on a big boat and see some sights with a Margarita in their hand!”

“And what if they are? Do you know where they keep the dead bodies on cruises? Next to those fucking Margarita mixes!”

Harry’s sigh was royal. “And who exactly has such a vendetta against them?”

“There’s a lot of bad people out there.” Y/N scoffed incredulously. “Do you need me to send you links to all the documentaries there are about people who’ve died under mysterious circumstances while on a cruise?”

“No, what I think is, you need to lay off true-crime for a while. You’re starting to sound like some red-pill conspiracy theorist! Mom and dad just want to have a vacation. Besides, you’re never like this when they fly somewhere.”

Y/N huffed, putting her hands on her hips. “Okay. Fine. How about this – mom is completely time-blind and dad’s a topographical idiot. What if they forget their passports while on some excursion or get lost? I don’t want to see them on a single TikTok about pier runners and whatnot.”

“They drove all through Spain, Italy and France last summer, and fun fact – didn’t manage to get lost,” Harry griped. “I think they will be just fine, especially because they will be with a group and a whole ass guide.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“Why can’t you just be happy for mom and dad? You know she’s wanted to go on a cruise for ages! She was so happy when she saw it was from both of us.”

“Harry…” Y/N rubbed at her forehead, but before she managed to say anything, her brother said something that made Sara choke on her wine.

“Why are you so fucking strung up? Is that new doctor boyfriend of yours not giving you any?”

Quite honestly, if he’d been drinking anything himself, he would have also choked. He hadn’t known Y/N had talked to her family about him, nor had he realized she’d told them it was a serious relationship. It made warmth bloom in his chest. Or maybe that was just the blush turning him tomato red.

“Actually, he’s -,” she twisted around and finally noticed he was sitting in her living room. “Right here,” Y/N finished in a clipped tone. “I’m gonna go. Next time I see you, Harry, you’re dead. Start writing a fucking will.”

With that, she ended the call and gave Robby a sheepish smile. “Hi. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I gathered as much,” he chuckled, back popping as he stood up and went to Y/N. It was almost instinctive how his hands found their way to her waist, resting on the dips above her hips. “Seemed like you were in a pretty intense argument. Wanna talk about it?”

“That depends.” Her hand trailed up his chest and settled on the nape of his neck, nails scratching against the skin there, a pleasant hum reverberating through his body. “Will you tell me that my brother is correct, and I’m obviously overreacting about this and that my parents will be totally fine? Or do you have common sense and wish to remain in a relationship with me?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Can’t it be both?”

Y/N threw her head back and groaned, which gave Robby the opportunity to lean down and press a kiss against her pulse point, his own heart jumping in delight as he felt it speed up. He still couldn’t stop reveling in the fact, he had such an effect on this young, amazing woman.

“I know,” she huffed. “I know they will be fine, but I can’t help but worry. I have this irrational fear of cruises. I can’t explain it.” Suddenly she snapped her head up so fast, her forehead almost collided with his teeth. “Oh God. Don’t tell me you’re gonna be like that someday. Because if one of your dreams is to go on a cruise, I think we need to end this right here and now.”

“Sweetheart.” He cupped her face in his palms. “I don’t plan on going on a cruise anytime soon, nor once I’m geriatric. Unless you’re coming with me, I have no intentions of going on such trips.”

Y/N sighed and nodded, seemingly accepting his response. “Okay good. Because I do not have the mental capacity it takes to solve crimes.”

“They will be fine. It’s admirable you care for your parents so much, but they will be alright. And I do agree with your brother – you’ve got to stop watching true-crime for a bit.”

“Well, there’s not much for me to do at home. I still have two weeks until Langdon gets me out of cast number two,” she grumbled and took hold of the crutches she’d placed against the kitchenette. “Work from home is great, until you’re done for the day, and you’re already home. I gotta kill the time somehow until Sara gets home or you come over.” Y/N snorted, raising a brow. “Kill time. Get it?”

Robby just huffed a laugh as they made their way over to the couch, Sara having moved to a loveseat, so they could cuddle while he unwound from the day he’d had.

“Leg’s doing alright?” He checked in, as Y/N put a pillow onto the coffee table and placed her foot there.

“Just fine. Like it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before, and ever since Langdon and Santos put it on.” She leaned over and pecked his lips. The kiss was short, but it was something he’d been dreaming of ever since he woke up in his own bed, in his silent and lonely apartment. “Give them some credit.”

It had been about three weeks prior, that Y/N had come back to the ED for her scheduled appointment with Frank to remove the post-op plaster cast, get the stitches out, and get her leg into the one she’d be wearing for the rest of the recovery time.

When she’d hobbled through the doors, Robby instantly rushed over to help her, smirks and wolf-whistles thrown their way. If he hadn’t been the attending, he was sure they would’ve gone on for the rest of the day. (The nurses did. He didn’t have the power to stop them).

“Back to work, people!” He called out. “Or I’m putting everyone on sanitary duty!”

That got the residents and med students scrambling to find a patient. Dana though, was not under his control like that.

“He treating you good?” The blonde nudged her chin in Robby’s direction. “Because I can give you the combination of chemicals needed to remove bloodstains so that not even Luminol will find a trace.”

Beside him, Y/N snorted at her words, taking the wristband Dana handed her. Without even thinking, Robby slipped it out of her fingers and wrapped it around her hand. An unmistakable heat rose on his face at the action. So simple, yet so telling of where his head was at, what his heart was thinking.

“He’s fine.” Y/N glanced up at him. “Maybe a bit overbearing with the leg thing, but I just chuck it up to those wires they implant in all of your brains when you finish med school.”

“If you say so.” Dana raised her brows and nodded. “Just know – the offer stands.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind,” Y/N chuckled and nodded at Robby that she was ready to move to the exam room where Langdon had already prepped the bed while Robby helped her get situated. Once she was as comfortable as she could be, he crossed his arms and asked, “You okay with a resident coming in and watching, sweetheart?”

He could feel Frank’s eyes snap towards him, the younger man’s mouth curling up in a grin at the nickname that’d slipped past uninhibited, but he didn’t dare look at him. It was like dealing with a wasp – ignore it and hope it goes away. (It didn’t).

“Sure,” Y/N shrugged. “As long as this isn’t some ploy from Saw where my leg will get spontaneously amputated or something.” She threw Langdon a gaze. “It’s not, is it? Because I’ve been having these really weird dreams where my leg just falls off while I’m doing something, and I don’t know if it’s my brain adjusting to the situation, or giving me a premonition I might be ignoring.”

“I doubt Dr. Robby would let anyone touch you with an IV line without supervising.” Rubber gloves snapped against his wrists, but the smirk on his face grew twice as large, as he, no doubt to fuck with Robby, added a little, “Sweetheart,” at the end of it.

“No, I would not.” He deadpanned, and if Frank was gonna be that way, so could he. “Santos!” Robby called out into the hallway, eyes locking on the intern who was milling around the HUB, who he knew Langdon didn’t particularly get along with. Seeing the smile drop from his cocky face was enough of a win. “Come and assist.”

“But that’s just a -,”

“A great learning experience?” Robby stopped whatever rebuttal was about to come out of Trinity’s mouth. “I concur. Now come and help Dr. Langdon.”

She was smart enough not to roll her eyes at him, but her ire was palpable for being called in on such a minuscule job. She had a lot of potential, there was no denying that, but she was too overconfident for Robby’s liking, too alike the many cowboy-types he’d met and had to deal with, so he hoped by making her do the small jobs, she’d start to realize every single thing they did, was important.

A proper IV line was important, listening to the patient as they explained their problems was important, being a steady and soothing presence was important. Even if you were only there to hold someone’s hand – it was sometimes the most important thing they could do.

Langdon huffed as she entered the room, but remained professional as he introduced Trinity as their intern, the woman offering Y/N a small smile to which she responded in kind.

Together they helped her move up her sweatpants to rest against her thigh while Langdon prepped the cast saw. “You alright with Dr. Santos performing the procedure?” he checked in with her.

Robby noted how Y/N squirmed in the bed at the sight of the blade. She was a squeamish person, he knew that, but she was more squeamish because of her overactive imagination. “Can’t say I’m too thrilled about anyone coming near me with a saw, but you people gotta learn at some point, right?”

“I mean, from my experience, everyone could take a page out of a mime’s book,” Trinity smirked as Y/N cocked her head. “They don’t scream.”

Robby brushed a hand down his face as his (unofficial) girlfriend widened her eyes. “Santos, really? That’s -,”

“Dr. Robby?” Dana interrupted him before he could tell that kind of bedside manner didn’t work on patients who already had dreams about spontaneous amputations. “Can you come here for a sec? We need a second opinion.”

He didn’t want to. Despite the fact that he was the attending, and the attending on the shift no less, the thought of leaving Y/N’s side was abysmal. But he couldn’t neglect his duties and show such favoritism, just because his heart worried the whole time she wasn’t in his line of sight.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Santos, listen to Langdon,” he told them and with that went over to Dana, Mel waiting by her side, a nervous bounce to her feet.

It was an easy consult, more to reassure the mother of a sick teenager, the medication they would put him on, wouldn’t interfere with others he was taking and cause an allergic reaction. As he explained it to her, confirming Mel’s diagnosis and Dana’s recommendations, he could hear the saw turn on even a couple of rooms down.

“Go,” Dana nudged him on the hip. “Or you’ll pop a vessel thinking they might be cutting something off that doesn’t need to be cut.”

He brushed a hand over his face, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks as he excused himself and went back to the examination room. As he moved closer, voices could be heard in low tones.

Robby shouldn’t be hovering like that. Y/N was in great hands. He knew nobody would deliberately hurt her, and Langdon, despite everything, was a good teacher. As he reentered the room, giving her an encouraging smile, he took in how Frank instructed Santos to move down the line, answering Y/N’s question as to why an oscillating saw was so much different than a rotating one and why they had to be used in a different manner – a lifting motion, rather than gliding one.

Y/N let out a sigh of relief as the plaster cracked in two and was removed from her leg, no doubt the feeling of it euphoric. He knew how though it had been on her, but as Santos came to remove the lining, something shifted in her.

The gaze she threw Langdon was alarmed. Almost panicked.

It made Robby straighten up.

“So.” Frank started, sitting down on a wheely chair and moving closer to the appendage while Santos got to work on unbinding the gauze that separated Y/N’s skin from the cast itself. “Wanna tell me what you’ve been up to?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she responded in an obviously fake-oblivious tone, not daring to make eye contact with either him or Robby.

“Oh, I think you do.”

“Nope,” she popped the p. “Absolutely do not.”

Robby raised his brows at her, but she just kept looking at the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Frank let out a deep sigh. “Look, I can see that you have been doing something, and I need to know what. The talk about infection wasn’t just to scare you. You have stitches that are still healing. If something got inside the wounds there, it could end really bad. Spontaneous. Amputation. Bad.” He used the words she’d said before.

After what felt like hours, but was probably no more than ten seconds, Y/N muttered, “Hypotheticals?”

“If you must,” Frank’s words were weary, especially as he threw Robby a confused look over his shoulder.

“And you?” she nudged her chin towards the attending. “Do you promise not to have some sort of a meltdown? Or worse – give me a lecture?”

Robby’s mind was a frantic mess, trying to think what horrible thing could have happened, what emergency had he not seen, when finally, she relented.

“Alright. Fine.” The words were basically bitten out. “I may or may not have, hypothetically of course, used a spatula to scratch. And maybe some… metal bookmarks I have. And uh, a wooden skewer, a clean one though. And umm… there might be some bobby pins and hairclips inside as well.” After a beat she added, “They kinda got stuck, and I couldn’t fish them out.”

And, sure enough, when Santos finished removing the lining, three bobby pins were embedded against her skin – one on the top of her foot, one against her knee, and one behind in what Y/N called it, her knee-pit.

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing a breath, as Frank did the same. “Is that all you used to scratch?”

“Yes.” Y/N didn’t dare look at either of them.

“Honest?”

“Yes!” she asserted, before quietly adding, “Nothing else would fit.”

Santos snorted from where she was cleaning down Y/N’s leg and applying an anti-scar ointment on the hurt skin, removing the bobby pins as she went along, thrashing them before the woman could ask for them back.

Robby couldn’t really fault her for her actions. The itchiness and discomfort a plaster cast could create was a lot to deal with, especially with how she’d been cooped up inside for a whole week without much to do.

“You could’ve caused a serious infection,” he sighed and put his hands on his hips. “You know better than to do that.”

She threw her head back in a groan. “Please, Michael. I asked you not to lecture me. I tried, okay? I really did. But then I just kept thinking about how itchy it was, and you weren’t there to stop me, and it just all boiled over. By the time I had the bobby pins stuck, it was too late. So, actually, it’s all your fault.”

He could only let out a slow, steady exhale and shake his head as he moved to stand by her side while Langdon and Santos gathered the materials for the new cast.

“So,” he broke the settled silence, hoping to stop the pout that’d bloomed on Y/N’s face. “The spatula. Was that the one you said melted on the stove?”

“Yeah,” she grimaced as his resident and intern had to position her leg properly. “I wasn’t gonna like, wash and put it back with the utensils, you know? That’s disgusting.”

“That’s what’s disgusting?” Robby looked down at her.

“Uh huh, keep talking like that, and see where it gets you.” She pointed up at him. “As of right now, we’re still in the situationship phase.”

“Situation-what?”

“Oh, please don’t break his mind like that,” Langdon butted in, as he lifted her leg slightly and told Santos how to properly attached the 3D-printed cast. Y/N let out a hiss of pain and he watched how her grip tightened on her sweats.

Robby didn’t even think twice before his hand slipped inside her palm, allowing her to squeeze it.

“Alright, good girl.” Langdon nodded at the woman on the bed before looking up at Robby, the way his jaw clenched, and snickered. “Oh, sorry. Is that a thing between you two? I hope I’m not stepping on some toes here.”

“You know what, Frank?” Robby squinted at his fourth-year resident. “I think I might have just found Gloria some spare funding.”

“Point taken,” he said with a laugh before removing his gloves and addressing Y/N. “How’s the pain? This cast is much lighter, as you can probably already feel, and will be easier to navigate in terms of movement and hygiene gene.”

“Manageable,” she nodded running a hand down the new material covering her leg. “Tylenol – two tablets every six hours, but no more than six a day.”

“Perfect,” Frank nodded and took hold of her chart, writing down her words. “And the pain level now?”

“Like a four? Maybe five?” Y/N hissed. “Can’t say this was too comfortable of a procedure.”

Robby smoothed a finger down her cheek. “Do you feel like you need any medication right now?”

“Maybe?” she huffed. “It’s just that with the moving,” she shuddered and swallowed hard. “I like, I could feel like plates and screws grating against the bones. Like I know they actually weren't, but it felt like they did, and just yeah… I think it’s apparent I don’t do well with these kinds of things. I honestly don’t understand what kind of steel stomachs you have. I would have thrown up all over the place if I had to see shit like this every day.”

“Well, if Gloria thinks our patient satisfaction scores are low now, she should be glad you don’t work here.”

Y/N huffed at Robby’s words. “This Gloria woman should come down and try being a doctor or a nurse herself. I know I’m not the easiest of patients as is,” she winced and threw him an apologetic glance. “And I think I might have traumatized that kid – Whitaker – the first time I was here, but from what you’ve told me about how people treat you… Sound like she’s about as close to real medicine, as Katy Perry is to being a real astronaut.”

“I like you.” Santos pointed at her. “Let’s keep you around.”

She just shrugged, giving Robby’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll stick around for however long this guy wants me to.”

His heart thumped in his chest. He wanted to say, “And if I want to keep you around forever? Will you stay?” but all he did was squeeze her hand back.

It wasn’t the time or the place for it. They were still, as Y/N had said, though he barely had any inclination as to what it meant, the situationship phase, but hopefully there would be more phases. And he wondered where it would lead him.

He was no longer a single ship passing through the night. He had a new constellation in the sky he could follow, as he managed the residents and students, evaded Gloria and her bureaucratic bullshit; whenever his mind needed a respite, he turned to the new stars gleaming in the cosmos.

As Dana had discharged Y/N, and Robby walked her to wait outside for the Uber, he allowed himself to skim his knuckles along hers. She responded by intertwining their pinkies.

And now it had been a month of that.

She was a month of evenings and nights spent together. A month of mornings waking up grumpy that turned to laughter and kisses. A month of good coffee, and bad movies, but he never took it for granted. He finally had a truly safe space to come to after days when he thought nothing good could exist in the world.

The worst time of day though was the very early mornings, like right then, when he had to leave the space he’d come to cherish so much.

When he was cocooned by her arms and blanket, his body soaking up the warmth Y/N offered, like leaves do the sunlight. Cracking a bleary eye open, he noted the slit where he’d forgotten to pull it tight.

A heavy sigh left him as she groaned, pulling at his back so their chests could be pressed closer.

“Don’t." He could feel her mouth move along the skin of his pecks. “It’s way too early to wake up and I’m way too comfy to let you.”

“I need to get ready for work,” Robby brushed a hand along Y/N’s hair. “You can still catch some sleep.”

She just huffed, shaking her head, grumbling softly, “I’m not gonna be able to fall back asleep, and you know it.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, but before he could say anything, she’d already sat up, glaring down at him, as if he’d insulted her. “I’ll get the coffee ready for you.”

“You don’t have to –,”

“I’m already up.” Y/N let out a yawn almost unhinging her jaw like a snake. “Might as well save you some time.”

She was just about to slide out of the bed when he rose too, taking hold of her wrist. “I meant what I said last night. Every word.”

Ever so slowly, mind still addled by sleep, Y/N smiled, leaning back over and kissing him, not caring about either of their morning breaths. “So did I.”

Maybe Robby didn’t actually hate mornings. Not when she poured him his coffee to-go, not when she stood before him, mussing his hair a little and pressing her lips against his.

“I’ll be back by nine.” He wrapped his hands around her waist if only to prolong the time they had together. “And I’ll bring back some of those croissants from the patisserie down the block.”

“The Crème Brûlée ones?”

He hummed against her mouth in confirmation, before pulling away.

“You know, every day you make it harder and harder for me to let you go.” Y/N scratched the nape of his neck.

The smile he entered the ED with was idiotically big, so much so when he met up with Jack on the roof, the night shift attending couldn’t help but break his stoic demeanor.

“Jesus, brother.” Abbot dragged a hand down his face, a corner of his mouth pulling up in one of those rare smiles. “The girl’s got you whipped like a prepubescent teen.”

“I feel like a prepubescent teen with her around,” Robby laughed. “Keeps me on my toes, I’ll tell you that.”

Abbot just nodded, looking over the Pittsburg skyline. “Happiness suits you. You deserve happy.”

He could only smile, because the truth was, ever since the conversation they’d had before falling asleep wrapped up in one another, he was almost euphoric.

They’d been curled on her bed, her legs over Robby’s lap as both of them were engrossed in some form of literature – her in a fantasy book, the kind when he’d asked what it was about, she’d twisted the pages away from him, hiding her face that was no doubt heating up, while he was reading the newest of the medical journals.

It was almost on instinct how his hand rested against Y/N’s thigh, squeezing the flesh there, prodding against the skin where the cast met it when she huffed and squirmed away.

“Don’t," she muttered. “Because unless that hand of yours might slip higher up, you are not allowed to touch like that.”

His lips pulled, ego rising at her words. “I’m just checking if everything’s good here.”

“Everything’s good there,” her eyes drifted to her leg. “Besides, that’s just mean, what with you imposing celibacy on me.”

He threw his head back in a laugh, eyes closed tight at the motion, and he could feel her hand move to the back of his neck. He tilted his head to look at Y/N.

“I like seeing you laugh,” she scratched at the short hairs there, her Y/E/C eyes, a color that had quickly become his most favorite in the whole world, so incredibly soft as she looked at him. “I like seeing you relaxed. I sometimes think you forget how to be human. How to be just Michael.”

“Well, being with you reminds me of it.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. “It’s easy with you around… it’s easy to be just Michael.”

“Yeah?” She tilted her head back to get a better look at him. “Is there a magic button I can push to turn off that doctor brain of yours, so you don’t worry about me that much?”

He gave her a small grin. “It’s not the doctor part of the brain that worries about you. It’s the one that’s slowly falling in love.”

Instantly, her whole body stiffened, mouth falling open.

And so did his, because fuck, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. At least not yet.

Their eyes didn’t leave one another, but for a second there, Robby thought Y/N might not be breathing until air stuttered in her chest.

“Umm,” he cleared his throat and took out the novel from her hands, tucking her bookmark in it before closing the pages. “Look… you don’t have to say it back. I know it might be too soon, but it’s something I’ve been feeling for a while. And… it’s not something I’m gonna take back.”

“So…” Y/N swallowed hard. “So, these aren’t like empty words?”

“No.” Robby gave what he hoped was a warm smile, her eyes lowering to watch how he fidgeted with the corner of a page of his journal. Gently, her fingers slipped between his, easing the rising anxiety. “I mean every single one of it.”

Her little ‘okay’ was nothing more than a trembling exhale as he watched her mull over her thoughts. Just as he was about to say something to let her off the hook, to tell her anything that would interrupt the gathered silence, she spoke up.

“I mean, if you were fucking with me right now, it’d be like the meanest thing in the world.” She sniffled and wiped at the corner of her eye. “I uh… I can’t say I’m there yet, you know, but when I think about us… when I think about maybe a few years down the line it isn’t scary. Does that make sense?” She huffed, her fingers squeezing his tighter, as if afraid he’d disappear, and he squeezed right back, promising he wouldn’t. “Anytime I’ve been in a relationship, I’ve never really been able to see past the next few days. A few weeks maybe, but with you… I can see years. I can even see us with a cat.” Y/N let out a teary laugh, and Robby’s own bubbled up in his chest. “I mean if you don’t get tired of me before that.”

“I’ll never get tired of you.”

“You get what I mean.” She pulled up their interlinked hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I just… it’s a tangible future. A solid one.”

“And solid’s good?”

“Yeah,” Y/N wrapped her other arm around Robby’s back, holding onto his waist like he always did hers. Like she was the one terrified he might slip away. He’d never dream of leaving, not after knowing how it felt the first time. The two weeks of regret and guilt made him wonder if he had norovirus with the way his stomach constantly roiled. “Solid’s very good.”

Afterwards, they simply basked in the silence, and not before long, they were both side by side, covered by Y/N’s down duvet. He could tell she was just on the cusp of sleep when his words brought her back. “Cat? Singular?”

“Maybe two,” she shrugged in his hold, yawning. “Or more. It depends on how many tears it takes for you to adopt a whole shelter, and trust me – I took theatre in high school. I can cry on command.”

Robby snorted shaking his head.

“But honestly,” Y/N continued, “I’m down for almost like any kind of pet, as long as it’s not a gerbil or a Guinea pig.” He felt her frown against where her face was tucked in the crook of his neck. “Those things die traumatic and dramatic deaths, and, not to toot my own horn here, I think I’m traumatic and dramatic enough for the both of us.”

They fell asleep debating whether or not a landlord would allow them to keep a python as a pet, and Robby debated all the ways he could covertly block any search results on her devices about snake breeders.

It was the question he’d presented to Dana and Heather, by the time it was four in the evening and the ED had slowed down a bit, hoping to get some advice from the two women.

“Wait, don’t tell me you’re afraid of some little snake!” Heather pointed at him over the counter where he sat at the HUB station. “Dr. Robby! I didn’t take you for such a wuss!”

He removed his glasses rubbing at his eyes. “First of all, she said she wanted a cat at first. And now suddenly I have to contend with the fact I might have to live with a twelve-foot Amazonian predator?”

“Actually, royal pythons grow between three to six feet, not twelve,” Dana said. The two threw her a gaze, and she shrugged. “Kid’s going through a weird reptile phase, so I’ve been getting all kinds of interesting facts about them.”

“Do not let them interact.” Robby pointed at her. “They will only encourage one another, and then both of us will -,”

But his words were cut short as the pagers came to life, pulling all of the Pitt into action as a fire was happening in a local area, three ambulances inbound, five minutes out. However, any sort of thoughts about preparation for the incoming got washed away when the words Green Garden Glen came up.

Instantly, Robby’s blood ran cold, his head snapping towards Heather and Dana. “That’s Y/N’s apartment complex. That’s her address.”

“Robby, don’t go there,” Dana said, taking him by the biceps. “We don’t know anything yet, okay? Call her first while we still have some time. We’ll handle the prep.”

“Fuck!” he buried his hands in his air, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, yeah. Okay.”

It was a miracle his hands were steady as he fished the phone out of his pocket, years of conditioning taking over, even as his mind was like a ship being tossed around by a hurricane. But as the line kept beeping until an automated voice told him “The number you are trying to reach is unavailable,” he could feel the boat begin to sink.

“Did you get through?” Heather asked, a frown on her face as Robby shook his head. “You know it doesn’t mean anything. The cell towers probably just can’t handle the influx right now.”

But any words he might have, were stuck somewhere between his heart and his throat, as his brain mulled over what might’ve happened. Had it been her and Sara’s apartment? What was the damage? What was the cause? A candle? An oven? A stove? A forgotten hair-straightener?

Robby would have kept spiraling like that, had it not been for Collins who brought back his attention to the present as the first gurney got wheeled in, an elderly man on it.

He’d been around Y/N’s and Sara’s enough to recognize him as their first-floor neighbor, the one with a penchant for yelling at people who he believed were there to steal the roses he grew below his window.

Mohan and Whitaker were examining him as they got instructed to wheel him to room eight by Princess.

“Conscious and somewhat coherent,” Robby heard Whitaker describe while the neighbor kept rambling on and on about how the fire must’ve been set to kill his plants. “Surface level burns to the upper arm area and stridor in the lungs from smoke inhalation. Lidocaine was administered on the scene and continuous oxygen is being given.”

“Recommendations?” Mohan asked.

“Keep him on oxygen,” Mel piped up from where she’d joined the two. “Monitor the levels and if needed, prescribe antibiotics afterwards.”

“And the burns?”

“Given how it’s surface level, we’ll hook him up to an IV to replenish the fluids in his body, and wrap it up with some bacitracin on the affected area. A tetanus shot for precautionary measures,” Whitaker rattled off, eyes shooting between Mohan and Mel. “Is – was that right?”

“You’re doing good, kid,” Mohan nodded and with that, they all disappeared into the assigned room.

Robby’s eyes scanned the ED – Langdon was intubating a woman with the help of Mateo and Javadi, Dana had taken on a mother with a child, a bleeding burn wound to the kid’s leg, and Collins was coordinating with Princess and Perlah, all the while he stood there like a fucking idiot.

“Get it fucking together,” he muttered to himself. It would do nobody any good if he didn’t do his job. He was the attending, for fuck’s sake. People relied on him. And yet he couldn’t move. It was only when a voice he dreamt about sounded in the room.

Robby might’ve gotten whiplash from how fast he snapped his neck towards the entrance and saw Y/N get wheeled in on a gurney.

“I’m fine,” her words were muffled by an oxygen mask as Dana rushed for her. “Seriously. Just got my leg bumped against the doorway, but I’m alright.”

But the words had no meaning when Robby’s eyes zeroed in on her stomach.

Red. Deep, dark red seeped through her (his) shirt, the one she walked around the apartment with, the one he’d remove from his body on her request and lay on a chair for her to wear the next day. It was now covered with too much of her blood.

Why wasn’t Dana putting any pressure on it!?

He was just about to rush to her when Heather stepped in the way. “Robby, no. You shouldn’t do this.”

“The fuck I shouldn’t, I need to!” he exasperated, watching as McKay ran for her and together with Dana, wheeled Y/N out of his sight.

“You, know this better than I do, we’re not supposed to treat people we know and care about.” She once again got in his way. “Don’t give Gloria a reason to get on your ass about preferential treatment.”

“I don’t give a shit about Gloria or the administration!” He snapped. “Not when the woman I love is actively hurting!”

“Yes, you do,” Heather asserted. “And it’s because you do, you will let McKay and Dana take charge. You know she’s in good hands with them. And you’re no good to Y/N without a head on your shoulders.”

“Heather, please.” He dropped his head. “I can’t…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence for her to understand what he meant, because he’d already said the quiet part out loud.

He loved her. Plain and simple. He wasn’t falling in love, not like he’d told Y/N the previous night. He already was in love. He just didn’t want to scare her away, by telling the true intensity of his feelings. And how could Heather or anyone ask him to step aside when his worst fears were coming true?

After he’d heard about her nightmares about how she thought her leg might spontaneously fall off, certain images had appeared in Robby’s mind during the darker times of the day – Y/N in his ED, hooked up to a million wires and tubes, a ventilator keeping her breathing, while a neuro told him there was no brain activity.

He’d woken up in a cold sweat that night, one of the few times they’d stayed separate. A full moon had blazed through his window as he’d made himself a cup of coffee and plopped down onto the couch.

Robby had debated about calling or texting Y/N, just to make sure it had been only his mind working against him when she’d called him first.

He picked up on the first ring. “Sweetheart?”

He was breathless to hear her voice.

“Sorry,” Y/N muttered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” his reply came quick, soothing her worries. “I was already up.”

“Why?” He could hear her shuffling and huffing as she no doubt pulled herself into a sitting position. “Was it a bad shift? Need to talk?”

“No, no…” he shook his head, even though she couldn’t see. And it hadn’t been a bad shift. It’d been a usual one, though his mind did wander to Jack and how it was going now. The night brought out every type of insane. “ ‘S probably just the moon. I forgot to pull the curtains closed.”

“Ahhh.” Robby could practically see the grin stretching on her face. “So now you agree with me? That the full moon does make people crazy.”

He chuckled recalling the debate they’d had the previous day. “I never disagreed with you. Anyone that works in any type of social sphere, knows full moon equals trouble. I just said people are not like the ocean – we don’t get the water in our bodies pushed and pulled at like that.”

“Whatever you say, gramps. I don’t need you to confirm I’m right and you’re wrong.”

They’d spoken for well over an hour that night, falling asleep on the phone to one another’s breathing as their lullabies.

What if he didn’t get that anymore? What if he no longer had the chance to fall asleep next to her? To watch her put her makeup on? To help her wash her hair or curb her shopping addiction?

What if he no longer could have that solid future with a cat in it?

Fucking hell, he’d take a billion pythons if he had to, just as long as Y/N was there to help him with them.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to rage and shove Heather away, but he knew she was right, and as that settled in his mind, all the energy left him like a tidal wave.

Robby barely felt her pull his face to the crook of her neck, his hands weaving around her shoulders searching for any kind of grounding.

“I can’t lose her,” he muttered, tears he’d tried to suppress falling unabated onto her uniform, while Heather rubbed a hand up and down his back. “I don’t think I can get through that.”

“Look.” She pulled his face out from where he’d hidden it and made him look her in the eyes. “Go and help Santos. I’ll go talk with McKay and Dana, and see what the status is.”

And there was nothing more he could do than just nod.

It took her over three agonizing minutes, three minutes of him attempting to do his job as an attending, three minutes of challenging the decisions of his students, and making them explain their conclusions before Collins returned.

The rock sitting atop Robby’s chest finally rolled away when she said, “Y/N’s fine. McKay and Dana gave her a thorough examination, and apart from mild smoke inhalation, there are no cuts, no burns, no bruises, no nothing.”

“Thank you.” He pulled her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you for being a sound voice when I couldn’t think straight.”

“She’s really important to you, huh?” Collins pulled back, teasingly emphasizing the word ‘important’.

“I yeah…” He dragged a hand down his face, the tips of his ears blushing, which meant he was probably as red as a fire truck already. “Yeah… She’s… something.”

Heather patted him on the arm. “I’ll help them finish up here. You go and check on your… something.”

He was never living down his words, but he didn’t care. By the time Heather had taken over, Robby was already halfway across the unit and entering the room where McKay and Y/N were conversing.

They’d switched out the oxygen mask for a nose cannula, which meant she had to be getting better, but the second their eyes locked, Robby was by her side, her cheeks in his hands as his gaze roamed over her face and body.

“Michael, look at me.” Y/N placed her palms over the top of his hands.

“I am.”

“No, you’re assessing me,” she countered him. “I said, I want you to look at me.”

“I’m…”

“Michael…” her tone was soothing. Warm. Comforting. And finally, he glanced at her. “I’m fine. And before you say or ask anything – it’s not blood.”

Her hand went to the back of his neck, scratching at the skin there, trying to calm him. He should be doing it to her. Y/N had been the one who’d just gotten rescued from a burning building. But he couldn’t tell her no, as her fingers wove through his messy hair, calming his racing heart.

“I was making dinner. Found that pasta recipe, the one I told you about when mom and I went to Valencia and got drunk off a pitcher of Aperol.”

“So, this is…” His eyes went to the large red stain on the front of the shirt.

“Tomato sauce. Poured the whole fucking jar onto myself when the fire brigade arrived. Sirens scared the shit out of me. Didn’t have time to change before I smelled the smoke and started on my way down.” Y/N smiled at him. Not a teasing quirk of the lips, but a reassuring one. She probably saw he wouldn’t be able to handle it in that moment. “It’s just tomato sauce.”

And as what she was saying, registered in his brain, Robby could note the tangy and slightly sweet scent of the fruit. There was also some basil and garlic in there as well. And the color? Yeah, as he looked it over again, it wasn’t the dark and rich tone blood had, but a lighter, more orangey one.

He looked up at her, her hand on his cheek. “I’m fine.”

It was enough for him to pull Y/N into an embrace, knowing it wouldn’t hurt her.

She was alright.

She was living and breathing.

Her heart was beating in a steady rhythm against his chest.

She was safe and in his arms.

As he catalogued these things, noting them down into the chart he had of Y/N in his head, Robby finally allowed himself to relax, as her hands moved up and down his back, dragging away the horrible images that’d invaded it.

It was McKay clearing her throat, that suddenly reminded Robby where he was. “I uh, I’ve scheduled an x-ray for that leg of hers.”

“Which I don’t need.” Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Well, as your doctor, I say you do,” McKay countered.

Robby intertwined their fingers. “Do it for me, please. All the jostling as you got down the stairs couldn’t have been good for the break.”

“Fine,” she groaned. “But honestly, I wasn’t doing much of the climbing. Halfway down a fireman got hold of me and I got carried the rest of the way.”

“Oh.”

That was all he said, but it was definitely the wrong thing to say, because of the way Y/N’s gaze snapped to his, scanning his face for something. And when she found whatever, it was, she was looking for (a slight twitch to his left eye), her lips pulled back into a ferocious grin. “Jealous?”

Robby sputtered before scoffing. “Of what? They were doing their job. If anything, I’m grateful for them.”

And he was, of course. The thought of the firemen not getting to Y/N in time as she clambered down her fourth-floor apartment with a broken leg, was terrifying. But he couldn’t do anything to stop the blush from rising, nor could he hide the way his eyes shifted to McKay who was grinning just as much as his girlfriend.

God, the Pitt would have a field day discussing him.

“Don’t worry.” Y/N leaned up and pecked his cheek. “I kinda like it when you’re jealous, but as much as men in uniforms are hot, I prefer mine in hoodies.”

A violent heat exploded through his body, especially as she looked him up and down like he was a walking-talking meal, and McKay didn’t do him any favors by letting out a low whistle and even pawing at him.

That made Y/N throw her head back in a laugh, only to elicit a big coughing fit. Immediately, his palm was pressed against her back, helping her ride it out. Her teary eyes lifted up to meet his, mirth still glimmering as he wiped a tear from the corner of it.

“Serves you right,” he mumbled, and chuckled, kissing the top of her head before helping her lay back.

As McKay went on to check with radiology and get her a gown so she could get out of the dirty clothes, Robby handed Y/N a cup of water, before asking, “Where’s Sara? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” she sighed, giving him back an empty cup. “She went out of town to visit her girlfriend’s parents at around two-ish? I don’t have my phone with me, though. Could you give me yours so I can give her a call?”

“Of course.”

“The apartment’s fine, by the way,” she said as she punched in Sara’s number. “The fire inspector said we’re okay to live there, as the only damage is the smell, but I’ll just air it out.”

He despised the words coming out of her mouth. The thought of Y/N in an apartment that smelled of fire and smoke, surrounded by danger – Robby’s brain simply couldn’t comprehend it, so his mouth moved before he could tell it not to.

“Move in with me.”

The phone in her hand clattered to the ground, but neither cared. “What?”

“Move in with me,” he said again, only a bit slower, to allow his head to catch up with what was happening. Not that it helped.

“Michael…” Y/N let out a nervous laugh. “We’ve been dating for barely a month.”

“I know, I just… I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Your place is ruined.”

“My apartment’s fine.”

“Okay, let me rephrase that – as if I’d let you move back somewhere fire detectors are more decorative than action figures.”

She raised her brows at that. “How’d you know the fire detectors didn’t work?”

“You said it yourself – the sirens scared you. Means the detectors didn’t do their job. The building’s definitely not up to code.”

“Look…” Y/N took one of his hands in hers, squeezing them whether to comfort herself or him, Robby didn’t know, but he held onto her touch nonetheless. “The only reason you’re asking me right now is because you’re scared. So please don’t get me wrong, when I say ‘no’, it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because I want you to ask me when the time is right. Not after some emergency, but when you feel like you’re truly ready for it. I told you before – there’s no rush.”

His heart warmed at her consideration. They’d had a similar conversation before where Robby’d laid out his insecurities of him being older, of feeling like he had to play catch-up with the younger generation and the world that was constantly changing.

She’d thrown him the most epic side-eye she could muster while half awake and looking at him over the bowl of her oatmeal. After a long moment of silence, she sighed, chewed what was in her mouth and put her spoon down. “Do you really think I don’t feel the same way? I mean, you’ve done so much already in life. You have so much experience, and you’ve contributed so much good to the world. I constantly feel like I have to play catch-up with you. With proving my worth, with proving how even though I’m twenty-six, I’m worthy of you.”

“You are! Why would you ever think any different?” He was flabbergasted even at the insinuation she wasn’t.

She raised her brow at him. “Then why would you think that way about yourself?”

Y/N had him there. Michael chuckled and shook his head, raising his coffee in a toast. “Touché, sweetheart.”

Now, she was looking at him from the hospital bed, eyes just as kind as they’d been that morning. “When the time comes, I will say yes. But I want this to be something not done under duress. If it makes you feel any better, I can stay at yours for the night, but I’d like to go home and grab a few things before that.”

“I can lend you clothes if you need them,” he eagerly offered. Call him a simp, as the youngsters said, but he lived for seeing Y/N in his clothing. Once the cast was off her leg and she’d gone to at least a couple of rounds of physio, he’d get her to wear just one of his shirts with nothing underneath. And hopefully she’d allow him to peel that piece of clothing off too…

“Oh, no, that’s not… that’s not it.”

Robby’s brows rose at the sudden stuttering and shyness, her heart picking up its rhythm and announcing it to everyone through the monitor she was hooked on. Now it was his turn to grin. “So, what’s going on?”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “You’re gonna think I’m weird.”

“Sweetheart,” he hung his head like it was a horrific prognosis he was pronouncing. “You already are.”

“Micheal,” she dragged his name through a laugh. “I’m being serious.”

“And so am I.”

“Alright, fine… Just please don’t laugh at me.”

“I promise.” Though it was tough as it was to keep the smile from his face.

She took in a deep breath as if steeling herself before nodding. “I uh, I got a weighted blanket.”

Robby’s brows rose. “Okay… I’m not sure why I would find it weird. I mean if you think I’m such a blanket hog, you could’ve just said so.”

“No,” Y/N shook her head, chuckling. “It’s not because of that. Though I have read that statistically, relationships where partners sleep with separate blankets, are healthier, happier and last longer, but it’s not because of that.”

“Then why?” He brushed a finger along her cheekbone. “You having trouble sleeping?”

He couldn’t remember Y/N tossing or turning much, though quite often if he got to her place after a prolonged shift, she’d already be in bed by then. Quietly, he’d shower and pull on a clean pair of boxers, before sliding into bed next to her. Like a magnet, she’d turn towards his chest, her good leg slipping over his hip and head moving to lie next to him on the pillow.

“You’re one creepy crawly,” Michael had once told her as they were settling in for the night, his arms in a tight hold around her waist. By the morning, it would be numb, but he’d take it if it meant she stayed close. “It’s like you’re trying to get inside my skin.”

So, he thought of that moment, when Y/N asked, “Do you remember that week when Jack asked to switch around for the day shift? It was literally the worst sleep I’ve ever had. And not because of anxiety or anything else… because I just can’t fall asleep normally without you.” She lifted her eyes to his and gave a shy shrug. “I can’t do it without your weight pressed against mine, or without feeling the dip in the bed when you sleep next to me. You… you’ve burrowed inside me like that.”

The night when she’d called out of the blue came back to him.

How quickly she’d sense him slipping into the sheets beside her.

That same morning when she said she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep after he’d woken to start the day.

So many little things fell into place.

“So yeah.” Her eyes were filled with hope as she looked at him. “When you do ask me to move in, properly ask me, I will say yes. Please don’t doubt that.”

Robby was sure his heart was about to burst from his chest.

On the one hand, he hated knowing Y/N couldn’t fall asleep without him being there. She shouldn’t be losing valuable time her body could be using to heal and rest, just because of him and the job he had.

On the other, knowing the impact he had on her life, knowing just how important he was to her…

Because she was that important to him too. Whenever he was too tired after a shift and went back to his place so as to not disturb her, his mind always remained there. He fell asleep to the image of Y/N playing behind his eyelids and woke up with her voice whispering ‘good morning’ in his head.

He craved her presence, craved her smile and looks. He wanted for her mornings and evenings, and happiness and pain she might have. And for once, he felt like someone craved him that way too.

“So…” Robby knew he must be red all over from the way his body felt on fire. “Can I ask you next week then?”

Y/N chuckled, pulling him by the sleeve of his hoodie, so he could lean over her. “You’re impossible. But you’re my impossible.”

Their sighs of relief mixed together, as their lips met.

He wouldn’t tell her he was in love with her. Not yet. There was nowhere to rush.

Robby was no longer Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill, only to watch it crash back down.

He was Odysseus finally returning home to his Penelope.

Tags: @kathrinemelissa A/N: I don't feel like this is my best work. I've rewritten this like three different times, and I had a couple of ideas that at the time I felt I could combine into one, but I don't think this flows as good as I would like it to, but I just really wanted to write from Robby's perspective for this one :( Part 3 is already in the works, and I'm definitely feeling better about that one :)

If you wanna be tagged, let me know :)

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