#michael robinavitch x admin!reader

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ ROBBY x ADMIN!READER !  ࿔ * ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 📗 possible trigger warnings .' mention of past domestic abuse ( like one sentence ), mention of past physical assult, mention of current struggling family dynamics and past divorce, mention of current incarceration  ‧ 📁 ‧ ━━ WC 1.7k

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⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  NONCOMPLIANT ━━━ chapter one ⋆ ❦ ₊˚. ‧ summary dr. michael robinavitch is a feral trauma goblin with a god complex and a paperwork problem. you’re the new director of emergency services administration. your job is to fix the er. step one is find him. step two is survive him.

the first thing you noticed about the pitt was the smell.

antiseptic, burnt toast, old blood, and cheap hospital coffee—blended together like some fucked-up essential oil labeled "we survive, barely."

you inhaled it like muscle memory.

two years away from clinical work hadn’t dulled the instinct. your heels clicked against the scuffed tile floors like you’d never left. clipboard in hand, tablet under your arm, you moved through the emergency department with the quiet purpose of someone who’d seen worse. been worse.

you weren’t a doctor anymore. not in the hands-on, chest-cracking, call-me-at-three-am-for-an-intubation kind of way. you’d traded your white coat for a navy blazer. stethoscope for a stylus. the trauma bay for the admin wing.

still, old habits didn’t die. they just got promoted. your new badge read : director of emergency services administration.

which was code for: you're now responsible for the financial, logistical, and procedural sanity of the most unhinged department in this entire hospital.

fun.

you’d been there exactly four hours and already regretted saying yes to the job offer.

not that you had much of a choice. director of emergency services administration—what a fancy little title to slap on top of single mom, former trauma doc, and expert in cleaning up messes you never made.

you hadn’t planned to go into administration. you’d planned to be the one in the room holding the scalpel, holding the kid’s hand, holding the line.

so when the pitt came calling—a pay bump, stable hours, and medical coverage good enough to keep your daughter in braces and therapy—you said yes. it also meant your white coat was officially retired, left gathering dust in the back of your closet with your old peds trauma badge.

you hadn’t worn it since your life detonated six years ago, since your ex—Ella’s father—got himself thrown in prison for aggravated assault ( one count against you and another against on of your coworkers for looking too long at you ), resisting arrest, and about six other charges that stacked up like bad karma.

you hadn’t spoken his name ( lucas ) aloud since the trial. He still sent letters from the state penitentiary, still signed the love you both, always yours, as if you hadn’t divorced him the second the cuffs went on. he liked to pretend nothing had changed. you, on the other hand, changed everything.

new career, new city, new job.

but trauma always leaves traces. you carried yours in the shape of a new life. one where 12-hour shifts became school pickups. one where policy replaced procedures, and the only thing you cared about saving was your daughter’s future.

lucas was your before. the trial was your before. the handcuffs on your husband and the social worker asking your five-year-old to point on a doll where daddy pushed mommy was before.

this was now.

you found gloria in her glass office overlooking the edge of the er. she stood with her arms crossed, eyes locked on the organized chaos below like a general scoping out a battlefield. when she turned and saw you, she didn’t smile. she didn’t hug. she just nodded, like she’d expected you all along.

you figured if you could run a trauma bay, you could run a department.

what you hadn’t figured on was gloria.

“morning, sunshine,” gloria said, turning away from the overlook to look at you. she motioned for you to sit, you did. she looked like a woman who commanded a room. which, in a way, she was. chief medical officer for the pittsburgh medical trauma center. your direct supervisor. your mentor, whether you liked it or not.

you blinked at her as she handed you a tablet full of ED staffing audits. “morning.”

gloria sipped her coffee and sighed so long and hard the window blinds rattled. “you wanna know what’s gonna break you first?”

you set the tablet down for a moment. “um, sure."

gloria didn’t miss a beat. “dr. michael robinavitch.” you frowned, picking the tablet up again and began flipping through the staff directory. “r . . . robinavitch . . . robinavitch . . . the trauma attending?”

“senior attending. runs day shift in the er.” gloria leaned back like she was telling a campfire horror story. “fastest hands in the hospital. sharp as hell. saved more lives than i can count." you raised a brow

“sounds like an asset.”

gloria barked a laugh with zero humor. “he’s a walking hr violation. the paperwork nightmare of my career. ignores protocol, breaks chain of command, dodges admin calls like bullets. i swear to god, the man would rather perform an emergency thoracotomy with a butter knife than fill out a budget request.”

you fought a smile. “so . . . a typical trauma doc.”

gloria pointed her coffee cup at you like a weapon. “no, sweetheart. he’s worse.”

you finally found his name in the directory and then tapped his name on your tablet, pulling up his file. clinical evaluations, trauma stats, performance reviews ( scattered with words like noncompliant, reckless, life-saving, and goddamn genius ).

then you opened his id photo.

oh.

oh, no.

tall. dark. absolutely ruined in the best way. messy curls, tired eyes, sharp jaw shadowed in scruff. looking like he’d wrestled a natural disaster and won, then forgot to shower afterward.

you tried not to react. really, you did. but your brain offered one helpful little thought anyway, wowza. you coughed into your hand. professionalism, your old friend.

“and now he's your problem sweetie.” your head snapped up so fast you thought you might’ve sprained something. “what?”

she shrugged, casual, as if your pulse hadn’t spiked just a little. “this is what you were hired for. i need someone to take him off my hands. i spend more time wrangling him i can't focus on anyone else.”

you stared at her for a long, slow beat. then she smiled. it was a kind smile. “oh, honey,” she said, standing with a laugh. “you will do great. i hope.”

the elevator ride down to emergency was its own kind of descent. it was like riding into a war zone and not the clean, organized chaos you were used to from pediatric trauma—this was louder, grittier, bloodier.

alarms were chirping in the distance, the phone at the nurses’ station wouldn’t stop ringing, and someone was actively yelling for a crash cart two bays down.

you’d been in your fair share of ers, but nothing quite prepared you for the sheer volume of the pitt’s trauma bay.

welcome to hell.

you tucked your tablet under your arm and scanned the room. heels clicked against the tile as you walked past overflowing stretchers and half-dead interns. your badge clipped neatly to your blazer, every inch of you screaming “admin”—which meant you were already the least liked person on this floor.

that was fine. you weren’t here to make friends. you were here to meet dr. michael robinavitch. gloria had said, “you’ll find him. just follow the trail of missing paperwork and attitude problems.”

so very helpful.

you glanced around.

no sign of him.

you weren’t expecting a red carpet or a nameplate that said here lies dr. robinavitch, but you’d assumed he’d be visible. somewhere. anywhere.

but alas, no tall, brooding trauma doctors in sight—just a flurry of white coats and navy scrubs in varying stages of meltdown. just blur-streaked residents darting past with wide eyes and a nurse cursing under her breath while taping an iv to a man’s thigh.

you approached the main nurses' station, dodging a gurney along the way, adjusted your badge lanyard and approached the first semi-stable-looking person.

a woman stood behind the desk, one eyebrow cocked, pen tapping a clipboard. her scrubs were a dark cloudy gray-blue. her blonde hair was clipped short. her name tag said “dana,” and her expression said “i will end you.

you cleared your throat. “excuse me—sorry—hi. i’m looking for dr. robinavitch?” you said, offering your calmest administrator smile.

she didn’t flinch. just raised one brow and looked you up and down. “you are the new one from admin.”

it wasn’t a question. you nodded. “just started. i’m here to…” you trailed off. the look on her face said she already knew what you were here to do.

“take him off gloria’s hands?” she said dryly.

your eyebrows lifted. “word travels fast?”

she snorted. “it’s the er. gossip travels faster than staph infections." she turned slightly and extended a gloved hand. “dana. charge nurse. day shift.”

you shook it, steady. “nice to meet you. i’m—”

“i know.”

dana jerked her head toward the main bay. “heard admin was sending someone new down here. didn’t think you’d be this… brave.”

brave?

that didn’t bode well.

“is he around?” you asked, glancing at the chaos. “i was hoping to introduce myself.” dana smiled. not kindly. “oh, he’s here.”

you frowned. “Where?”

she shrugged. “somewhere.” then, with exaggerated patience, “depends. do you want to find him? or do you want to survive your first week?”

you blinked then squinted. “you don’t know where he is.”

“i do not,” she said, "we're very busy down here, i'm lucky to get five seconds with him." a beat of silence passed. behind you, someone shouted “code blue—bay two,” and you watched three residents sprint like their lives depended on it.

you turned back. dana hadn’t moved. “i really need to speak with him.”

“yeah,” dana said. “a lot of people say that.”

you pressed your lips together. took a deep, administrative breath. “if you see him, can you tell him that his new admin contact came by? i’d like to schedule a formal meeting before the end of the week.”

dana smirked. “yeah. i’ll be sure to tell him to put it on his calendar." you didn’t believe her for a second, but nodded anyway. dana leaned in like she was sharing the secrets of the universe. “word of advice? don’t chase him. let him come to you. robby is like a feral cat.”

you weren’t sure whether to laugh or be concerned. “is he really that bad?”

dana’s lips twitched. “oh no. he’s worse.”

you opened your tablet and tapped his file. id photo. clinical notes. disciplinary flags. somewhere in this er jungle, dr. michael robinavitch was lurking. and you’d find him.

eventually.

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[oceantornadoo]

rose scented scrubs

ex-husband Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x f!reader

the post-divorce love confession fic of my dreams, word count 5.5k

ps I know Dana said it was her last shift in one of the episodes but idc deal with it I had to write her.

-

It was a few hours into your book when you realized you’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

It had been the first cafe to catch your eye, advertising a yummy pastry you’d been aching to try on a beautiful late Saturday morning. Only after you’d noticed the fourth person in scrubs at the counter did you realize your mistake. The cafe had two entrances - one on the busy street you came in on, the other right outside of Pittsburg Medical Center.

Current workplace of your ex-husband.

You hadn't been near the hospital in months. When you'd been married (the past tense of it a hard pill to swallow, let alone think), you would drive by the hospital on your way to work, leaving early so you could stop by and get a kiss from the man who'd already been up since 5am. After the papers were signed, ink dried and heart broken, you told yourself to revel in those extra twenty minutes of sleep. Now you could drive straight to work, no pit stop needed, and all you had to give up was your marriage.

An almost-kid in black scrubs burst through the door, scanning his phone like his life depended on it. With his flustered expression, he looked like the stereotype of a country boy losing his way in the big city. You checked the clock - 3pm. A little over halfway into the usual twelve-hour shift from 7 to 7. The knowledge sprang up unbidden, carved into your brain by how long you’d lived and breathed it. “Hello! Can I get one black coffee, no cream or sugar, two lattes, regular milk…” he ended with a total of ten drinks, an amount the barista behind the counter barely seemed flustered by. At least for one of them, it wasn’t their first day on the job. He ended up near your chair and the urge to ask was too great, desperation clawing its way out of your throat.

“Are they making the interns get drinks now?” You quip, immediately cursing yourself. There was absolutely no reason to interact, who knows if he’s even in Robby’s department, why- “Yeah, actually. We had a pretty rough time last month, so the admin staff is giving us a new food and drink stipend instead of more staff.” He laughs to himself before remembering that you're a stranger, his cheeks apple red. “Are you a doctor?” He asks. Now it just sounded creepy if you said no, but there was absolutely no chance you could say yes. “No, but I’ve got friends at the hospital.” Friends being Dana, who forces you into monthly mental health check ins where she stares at you until you cry.

“Who’s your friend? If you want, you could stop by with me. I haven’t memorized her name yet, well it’s only my first month, but the front desk worker is super nice, especially since the ER is slow right now.” You gulp at the pit (figurative, not literal) that you’ve dug yourself into. Of course you had to talk to the ER intern. It couldn’t have been Peds, where they’d invite you to say hi to cute babies from the NICU glass? You’ve done it once or twice, bored of waiting on Robby and making friends with all the nurses.

You open to give your refusal and apologies but get interrupted by the barista shouting “Dennis!” Three containers of drinks appear out of nowhere, and you can’t help but cringe at how Dennis has no way to carry them all. He’s currently attempting to balance one on top of the other, and your duty as a Good Samaritan suddenly becomes clear. The thought of seeing Dana, and perhaps Collins or McKay if you’re lucky, makes your heart swell. Robby will be easy to avoid if you stay vigilant. Tucking your book into your tote, you stand and prepare yourself for battle. It’s easy to make your way to Dennis, who looks like a circus performer, and grab two of the drink trays. “C’mon, kid. Let’s caffeinate these people.”

It feels like a dream you’ve dreamt a thousand times. Walking into the ER, looking fabulous with your makeup just right and your best perfume on. Dropping off a sick friend and running into Robby, stunning him with your six-month post-divorce glow up. Or maybe it’s a year later and you bring in an injured and scandalously younger boyfriend to show him what he’s missing. After those dreams, you always wake up empty, soul heavy. In other ones, it’s you on the gurney, letting him prove to himself he can save the people he loves, that you’re not just another Adamson. A romantic revelation that would fix those last hollow months of your marriage, grief and regret heavy on his tongue but never making its way out. Those end in tears, your face wet when you wake.

You’d never imagined this - your best weekend leggings and your favorite tote swinging from your shoulder as you follow in what has to be Robby's baby intern. You nod at the woman behind the counter, a new person you don’t know. She seems about to stop you from going in but then you hear a clear voice yell your name. So much for an in and out mission.

McKay greeted you with a warm smile, taking one of the drink trays from you as she nudges your shoulder. “Long time no see!” Her friendly tone makes you ache with regret. You’ve kept up with Dana only because she forced her way into your new, solitary life. It felt uncouth to reach out to McKay or Collins, like it would seem a ploy to get back to Robby. Shame ruins through your veins at your actions, or lack thereof. “Hey, I’m sorry for the ghosting. Been going through some stuff. I like your new bangs!” She doesn’t let you distract her, brows staying knitted at your second sentence. For once, you hate how determined she can be, her maternal instincts knowing no bounds. “What stuff?” McKay pulls you off the side, ignoring the drinks in both of your hands that are definitely in demand.

“Well, I’m sure you already know.” You roll your shoulder forward to emphasize your point. It’s pretty clear what you’re talking about, but the word ‘divorce’ feels too ugly to mention between you two. She doesn’t seem to get the memo, looking you up and down like she’s expecting the answer to pop out of the sweater you’re wearing. “I don’t get paid enough for you to waste my time being all facetious.” You snort, but the anticipation of your next words sobers you quickly. “Moving out, finding a new place, all the paperwork. It’s been a lot, but I should’ve kept up and I’m sorry.” Her lips purse in confusion. There’s a strain around her shoulders and you hate that this talk might be causing it, probably reminding her of her own divorce. “Did something happen at your old apartment? We don’t talk personal lives too much, but Robby would’ve mentioned a flood or something. Or did you guys finally get a bigger place?” The thought of that lightens her eyes, a rare smile you don’t see too much in the ER. Your heart sinks.

Robby didn’t tell her.

Of course, he left the hard stuff to you, once again. “Cass…” you trail off, unsure how to continue. Once again, you’re saved by an interruption. “What are you doing, robbing my best staff and not saying hi?” Dana appears, her short white-blond hair framing her face like a stern angel. You’ve haven’t seen her in a month and a half since she took some time off to deal with personal stuff after a particularly rough shift. She’s never been a big texter, so you anticipated more information at your future catch up, planned for next week. “I ran into one of the interns looking lost in the cafe over and simply had to help.” You tease. Your eyes meet hers but immediately look over her head, searching for him. Wherever she goes, he’s not far behind, always paying his dues in following her wisdom.

“He’s in Trauma 1, helping a drowning victim.” Fuck, you’re caught. Dana smirks at you like she’s inside your head. McKay’s eyes twinkle like there’s something romantic about to happen and you mourn the fact you’re about to give her yet another reason to not believe in a man, again. “I wasn’t looking for him, I was looking for Collins.” You bite, ignoring how McKay’s confusion has reached an all time high to your right. To distract them both, you push the drink tray forward. “I think there’s a hazelnut latte somewhere in here for you, Ms. Busybody.” Dana narrows her eyes as she finds the drink you’re talking about, plucking it out with precision. One drink down, three to go and then you can leave. That intern, Dennis, is nowhere to be found. You’d leave the drinks on the desk, but you know that would be a hazard in so many ways. Plus, some person would probably grab a drink that’s not theirs and you can’t be responsible for pandemonium - you know what lack of caffeine can do to a healthcare worker. Thankfully, the white lids read their contents: black coffee, hot tea, and…hot chocolate? Maybe there’s a kid who needed some comfort.

“Do you know who the rest are for?” You question. Dana shrugs and you can sense some ulterior motive behind her eyes. “Sounds like a question for Whittaker.” That must be Dennis. In the crowd of gurneys and scrubs, you can’t seem to find him. “The hot tea is for Collins and the hot chocolate is for Javadi, one of the interns. Of course, you know who the black coffee is for.” Double fuck.

You had hoped it was someone else who had a taste for black sludge, but unfortunately only one doctor does. Cowardly, you turn to McKay and give her your best try of puppy dog eyes. “Do you mind passing these out?” She snorts, clearly amused. “As if I’m getting between you and Robby mid shift. I remember last October all too well.” You stiffen at the memory. Surprising the staff with pumpkin cookies you’d baked, shrieking when Robby had grabbed you by the hips and ordered you into an unused storage room. How McKay had opened the door (“looking for supplies, I swear I did not want to see any of that”) with your hand in your husband’s scrubs and your leg, chilly in a skirt for easy access, wrapped around his waist.

“I see Collins. It was nice seeing you, McKay.” It’s a rude goodbye, but you can’t stomach anything more. Collins’ signature red jacket is easy to spot as she comes out of one of the nearby rooms, conferring sternly with what seems to be another intern. They just keep multiplying.

“Like I told you, you wait for my instructions, you don’t just intubate because-“ Your eyes catch and the emotional weight around your shoulders sags a bit more. She sends the intern off with one more warning before greeting you with a slight smile. “I heard you needed a hot tea.” You brandish the drink tray like a shield. She takes the cup delicately, taking a small sip and sighing in delight. “I haven’t seen you in six months. Work trip or something? Robby’s been worse than usual.” He didn’t tell her either. It’s starting to look like the only people who know about your divorce are you, Robby, and Dana. It begs the question why, but you’re not strong enough to answer. You know Collins would be a good person to confide in, but you don’t want to drop a bomb on what looks like an exhausting day. Her outward mask might be tough, but once you got over the awkwardness of her being Robby’s long-ago fling, you’ve always been able to see right through it.

“Something like that. You okay?” You move her off to the side before she can get swept into another case. She gives you another one of those barely-there smiles, and you ache to think that she’s been struggling with something, maybe worse than you. Maybe she sees something reflected back, because in a rare move, she opens up. “I had a miscarriage a month ago.” On instinct, you find an empty chair to set the drink tray on before sweeping her in your arms. She doesn’t like to be touched by many, especially at work, but she makes an exception for you.

“Oh, Heather.” It’s all you can say. She doesn’t cry, too battle worn and aware of the eyes on her, but the breath she takes is a near thing. After a few seconds, she pulls back, tight lipped and eyes shining. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there, but this isn’t about me. Oh, honey.” You murmur. You squeeze her hand, trying to impress on her all the things you cannot say. Heather Collins doesn’t like empty platitudes, so you don’t try to give her any. For a second, she squeezes your hand back before her mask slides back into place. “Thank you. Robby’s been kind, let me go home early the day it happened and pick the best shifts. It seems he kept it secret, so I’m thankful.” You don’t mention that the last time you talked to him was six months ago in a lawyers office. You know Robby and even if you were still together, he would’ve taken this secret to the grave. One of the things you love about him.

She switches the topic to you, asking about your supposed trip, but a miracle, or rather a group of interns, rumbles past you. You might not be a doctor but they’re easy to spot, unsure or overconfident, spilling unhelpful advice like gospel. “Hey! Any of you Javadi?” You call out. The girl nearest you whips her head around like you just cursed her name. She looks barely past college, hair pulled back into a ponytail of midnight black. “Me. I- that’s me.” You bend down, plucking the hot chocolate out of its tray and handing it to her. Her eyes are bright and thankful, like it's a winning lottery ticket instead of a drink. “Thank you! I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, Doctor…”

“Robby!” The middle intern says, her posture stiff with self-confidence. “Um…” you trail off, looking to Collins for help before remembering she doesn’t know. “I heard Princess and Perlah talking. You’re Robby’s wife, right?” All you can do is gape at the gall of her, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Collins restrains a laugh, unhelpful, and the other interns are looking at you like you’ve hung the stars. What in the world do you-

“Indeed. Last time I checked, this was a hospital to learn, not gossip. Keep it moving, you three.” His voice is like melted honey, warm and gooey and too comforting to name. Collins mentions something about a patient, taking her leave with raised eyebrows. It’s hard, but you try not to acknowledge the voice behind you as you watch her walk away. Only when her red jacket disappears from view do you turn.

He doesn’t look good. It’s what you said you wanted, of course, but the truth is, you’re just concerned. There’s dark circles under his eyes, almost covered by those black rounded glasses of his. A few new grays grace the side of his head, stark against the rest of him. The wrinkles on his face make him look aged, not the wise wizard you forced him to be for Halloween a few years ago. His scruffy beard dots his jawline and the ache to feel it is so deep, you fear it’ll never leave.

“Hi.” You whisper shyly, a knock-kneed girl instead of the woman you are. He smiles that gentle smile of his, crow's feet unapologetic, and it seems to turn back time. Just yesterday, you might’ve been making dinner together or cuddling on the couch. “Hi. I heard you’ve got a drink for me?” You nod, not trusting your voice as you point to the chair in between you. Deft fingers find his cup and pull. It’s hard not to watch them work, not to trace the calluses and the nimble movements. “Since when do interns order you around?” He asks, taking a second to gulp down his coffee. You stare at the movement of his throat, so many dirty memories making themselves known in the back of your head. “I’ve been demoted, I guess.” It didn’t mean to come out like that but it’s clear that’s what he thinks, a sudden frown appearing on his face.

“Is something wrong? Some paperwork I need to sign?” He asks in a burst. Your stomach churns at the rejection and instinctively, you take a step back. He seems to try to follow you, but the leg of the chair stops him. “No, I just - It’s funny, I guess. I was at that new cafe across the street and ran into an intern who looked like he needed help and well, I figured it would be nice to see Cassie and Heather, so here I am.” You end your rant with a shrug, instantly regretting every decision that led you here. Of course you were going to run into him. There wasn’t any other path, not for you. And of course, he just thinks you’re here for paperwork. He’s clearly moved on, even if he looks like he’s hurting. It’s time you do to.

“Well, that’s all my drinks, so…” Trailing off, you look around desperately for help. The Pitt seems to be against you, everyone following their standard practice of leaving you two alone when all you want is to be away from him. “How are you?” He whispers like a secret, voice raspy but sure. Emotion swells in your sternum instantly at his question. Soft eyes take your awkwardness in stride as he steps around the chair until he’s on your left, back to the Pitt. The familiarity of it is like a bullet to chest. “I’m fine. You?”

Robby shrugs, letting you trace the lines of his shoulders under that familiar sweatshirt. "Rough couple of months, to be honest." You blink at his honesty. That same honesty that led to that fateful conversation - you'd served him the divorce papers, but he was the one to suggest lawyers and due process. The papers were meant to wake him up, make him realize how much he needed to fix this, but all they did was end things.

"I wanted to see you. Dana wouldn't give me your new address, something about not being ready. Plus, I think you blocked me," he laughs at himself like it's funny, what he's admitting. A thousand questions form, 'why' and 'when' and 'what'. You'd blocked him and deleted his number the moment the papers finalized, knowing you weren't strong enough to truly recover if you could talk to him. It looks like he didn't do the same, and a rare burst of hope shines through the fog that's made itself at home in your brain. You gape, no words coming to you.

One of those hands, strong and capable and not yours, raises to push his glasses up his nose. You freeze.

It's still there.

Three years ago, ring shopping to find a perfect band. He got a black plastic version as well, something he could wear to work without worrying about blood or a rogue patient. That same black band still graces his ring finger, a blaring alarm that things aren't what they seemed.

"Michael." There's nothing else to add, your eyes still trained on his hand. Of course, all-seeing as he is, he picks up on what you're looking at right away. He's quiet, face worn with contemplation. "Why?" You ask, voice wavering. Tears form in an instant, choking any air in your lungs. "I couldn't take it off," he admits, somber. You think of your own ring, tucked away in your new bedstand that you had to build yourself. "I don't understand," you rasp.

"Baby, I've been-"

"Robby, we need you!" A voice breaks through the bubble you're in. Without realizing, you've become almost nose-to-nose, curling your hands to your chest in an attempt to not touch him. He sighs, pulling back a little, and it's like losing the warmth of the sun. "You know where the staff lounge is?" He asks, smiling when you nod immediately. "Wait for me. I'll be there soon." He hands you his coffee and rips himself away, already reaching for a hand sanitizer station.

-

In the staff lounge, your book sits unopened on the table. It's hard to do when your mind won't stop whirling, wondering if you've gotten this all wrong. The door bursts open and you snap up, hopeful, only to shrink a little when you realize it's not him. You recover quickly, not wanting to seem rude in a place you're not supposed to be in. "Hi, Kiara." You've only met her once or twice, but she's the kind of comforting soul you'd remember. She gives you a smile and then beelines for the electric kettle in the back. "Mrs. Robby, how are you?" You gulp at her question, realizing your ex-husband truly told no one about his divorce. "I've been better, but nothing I can't handle. You?" It's hard not to be honest when she's so easy to talk to, pulling out a chair for her to wait for her kettle. "One of those days. A mother just lost her child, so I'm making her a hot tea." Despite the dark news, the tight-lipped smile she sends you seems genuine. You ask about the ER overall and she tells you about the mass-casualty event that happened last month. You know a bit from Jake's mom, checking in on him through her instead of wanting to bother a grieving teenager who'd already been frustrated about the divorce.

As the kettle finishes, the door bangs open again. This time it is Robby, who looks flustered but sends you a smile anyways. It's like licking a spoon of brownie batter - secretive and a little wrong, but delicious anyways. You shouldn't have waited, should've left when you could, but deep down you need your questions answered. Kiara passes him with a cup in her hands, whispering something into his ear as she leaves. "I will." Robby replies, making you frown at the secrecy. Usually, if they're discussing a patient, they'll do it in front of you without names. Whatever that was had to be personal, and you're too emotionally raw not to ask.

"What was that?" You mutter, a little unkindly. Robby takes a seat, and you push his coffee cup towards him. His knee taps yours in thanks and stays there, its presence bewildering but not unwelcome. "She told me to use the communication skills we've been talking about." A laugh bursts out of you and you regret it instantly, your knee pressing into his. "Since when do you have communication skills?" You chortle. That's one of the things he might have at work, but never in a relationship. It used to be a joke between you, how you had to pry his true feelings out of him at the beginning of your relationship, but it turned to bitter satire in the end.

A heavy hand lands on your thigh, burning its way through the thin fabric of your leggings. "I know my communication has been...lacking," you hold back a snort, "but after last month, I've been talking to Kiara. Seems like I should've been following my own advice all this time." He admits, squeezing your thigh at the end of his sentence. Wide-eyed shock works its way through your veins. He actually addressed the major reason you said you wanted a divorce. The contentment you feel is like a nugget of gold, there for you to hoard and keep safe from judgement.

"Robby, that's wonderful. I'm proud of you, really." You exclaim, finding his hand on your leg and covering it with your own. The silicone of his ring digs into your fingers, and you let it. "I like it better when you call me Michael." He confesses. His chair squeaks as he turns towards you, shifting positions until his knees bracket yours on either side. His free hand raises to cup your face, familiar fingers petting your hair and your skin.

"Why are you wearing your ring, Michael?" You blurt, the need for his answer too great to hold back. Your ex-husband sighs, leaning forward until his face is all you see. On instinct, you reach out to take off his glasses and set them on the table. He always complained they hurt his nose, so he only wears them when reading. You brush the imprint left behind, smoothing down red marks and tracing the places you used to kiss every morning.

"You're still the love of my life, sweetheart." He confesses as you stiffen. He takes the lead, guiding you out of the chair and onto the worn couch on the far side of the room. It's easier to sink into his hold here, your face and your heart in the palms of his hands. Yells echo through the door, giving you an out to slide back and interrogate.

"That's how you treat the love of your life? You barely talked to me for months, Robby. You refused to go to therapy or marriage counseling and..." What you leave unsaid is too hurtful to bare. An old insecurity that was watered by months of loneliness, Robby picking up shifts to skip out on weekends together. "And what, baby? Don't hold back now." He practically demands, tugging your legs into his lap so you're under the full force of his stare. "And you started skipping weekends with me. Taking shifts when we were supposed to go on dates. Smelling different, like perfume instead of disinfectant." You whisper the last part, staring at your hands in your lap.

He laughs. An actual laugh.

You try to push off of him, but he tugs you until all the fight drains out. "I really fucked this up, haven't I?" He states. Robby almost never swears, so the use of one makes you pay attention. "Will you stop being an asshole and tell me what you mean?" You pout, upset that your emotions are getting brushed off. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip that juts out, tucking it back until he touches your teeth. "Detergent, baby, I swear. They found some awful cheap laundry detergent for our scrubs. I had some bad luck for weeks, fluids on me every day." He reasons, but you refuse to believe it. He knows you too well, of course. Robby tilts your chin until your eyes catch on a box of Rose Detergent for Hospitals, Clinics, and More near the trash can.

"This is what I mean, Michael! This kind of shit was in my head for months but I couldn't talk to you." He sobers instantly, that constant forlorn expression of his making itself known on his face. Robby interlaces your hands, laying his in your lap. Against your will, it grounds you. "The administration had wanted me to do a post-COVID remembrance for all the workers we lost and I just couldn't. Couldn't look at you without being reminded that I lived when so many better people died. I felt like I didn't deserve our happiness, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry." Only when he brushes your face do you realize it's wet. This is what you wanted for months, to hear the thoughts in his head instead of his sarcastic quips or his no-nonsense tone. This was your husband.

He held you to his chest, letting you calm down to the sound of his heartbeat. There's a compulsion under your skin, wanting to bind you two together until you don't know where you end and he begins. Ambulance sirens and pattering footsteps and shouts of pain all fade away when you work your hands through his scruffy beard, admiring the glints of silver that show here and there. "You might be a doctor, but you're an idiot." He nods, letting you curl further into him. "I don't regret divorcing you, because I am not doing your emotional labor for you." Another nod, this one shorter and more serious. "But I'm willing to try again, if you want to. The right way, where we go to counseling and actually talk." Finally, a grin. It changes his entire face, muscle and sinew rearranging into the man you once knew.

He doesn't have to answer. His kiss does it for him.

It's soft and tentative, barely there. A surge of anger sinks through you at how utterly bull-headed he's been. You push into him until his back hits the sofa, climbing him until your pelvises meet in a kiss. You pour months of resentment into your kiss and he meets you halfway, muscles under you tensing as you clash. "You asked to get lawyers." You bite his jaw as you say it, a fact you've been stewing over. "Wanted to make sure you got my money." He squeezes your ass, pulling you into him until you roll your hips over his cock, barely contained by his scrubs. This isn't the place for your first recoupling, but with how the couch is out of the way of the window over the door, and that no one seems to be looking for him, it'll do for now.

"Such a stubborn old man." You gripe, then gasp as he nips your neck. Robby lays kisses to your jaw, trailing down to your neck and sucking hard like a teenager. Broad hands urge your hips to grind, fucking yourself in his lap as you chase satisfaction. It's been so long since you've had an orgasm, every attempt reminding you of Robby. "Pretty sure you used to call me something else, baby." He mutters, one hand leaving your waist to sneak under your sweater. He finds your nipples hardened and achy, pulling one out of your bra cup and rolling it between his fingers. "I only call my husband that." You whine as your clit hits just the right angle of his clothed cock, bucking faster in his lap.

"Everyone around here knows you as my wife." He shoots back, pinching your nipple to emphasize his point. You find the crook of his neck and lay your forehead there, panting as your thighs burn with their ministrations. His hand on your waist flattens, fingers inching closer to your front but not where you need them. It's clear he's waiting for something, his thumb tracing the outline of your panties as he stays there. The longing to give in is too great.

"Please, Daddy. I need to come." You moan, not letting shame make its way into your head. You can feel him grin against you as his thumb finds your clothed clit, rubbing small circles as you keep bucking. It's what you needed, release creeping over you until you collapse in his arms. He moves his hips a few times into you until you complain of overstimulation.

"Think I just came in my pants." He mutters as you pull back. Giggles erupt from you, turning into snorts as you take in the pained expression on his face. Dr. Michael Robinavitch, coming in his pants like a teenager as his wife straddles him.

"Good thing they have scrubs. And a new rose detergent, I heard." You sass, squealing as he pinches your nipple, still cupped in his hand. He rights your clothing as you calm down, tucking your bra back in place and untwisting your leggings. "You're lucky I love you." He pecks your forehead before resting his own against it. You close your eyes in satisfaction, relieved to have filled this year-old hole in your heart. "I love you too, Michael." Your breaths mingle for a few moments, peace in the middle of the most unpeaceful place in Pittsburg.

Someone bangs on the door. Dana smirks at both of you like she predicted this was coming. "Two GSW's on the way, five minutes." You both sigh at getting caught, yet again. At least it was Dana. "Just enough time to get new scrubs." You cheer. He laughs, moving you both to a standing position before pecking your forehead again. "Put your address in my phone." He orders, fishing out his phone from where it fell into the couch cushions. "So forward, Doctor." You laugh as you type into his familiar phone. "I'll be over with takeout around 7:30, Mrs. Robinavitch." You grin.

"With your luck, it'll be 8 o'clock."

"Will you still wait?"

"Always."

-

this got away from me but wow it was necessary

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 1

Next

[Series Masterlist]

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!DocReader

Synopsis: Reader meets Dr.Robby during his panic attack.

Word Count: 906

Content Warning: Age gap; reader in her 30’s;mass shooting; death; blood; gunshot injuries; angst; grief; medical procedures; I don't know have any medical knowledge 🥹; PTSD; panic attack;if I've missed any warnings, please let me know.

A/N: I have been thinking about Dr.Robby for the past 15 weeks and needed to let it all out

First time putting my crazy thoughts on tumblr! Eeeek

You had started your shift earlier than usual that evening. Dr. Abbott had called you, letting you know it was going to be all hands on deck with the Pittfest shooting.

Despite being new to the hospital, you appreciated that Dr. Abbot had called, and so you rushed to get ready and headed out to make it to the Emergency Department as soon as humanly possible, battling chaos and traffic due to hell breaking loose. When you got there, Dr. Shen had quickly briefed you as you looked on to all the trauma victims coming through without an indication of it slowing down anytime soon.That is how you spent your first two hours, drilling IO’s and making sure the rest of the patients weren’t bleeding out while working with the limited resources the hospital had available.

You’d only been there a month. Wanting to pursue emergency medicine, you had accepted a fellowship position at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital in Emergency critical care, packed up your life in New York and made the move to Pittsburgh.Although you were new, everyone was welcoming and eager to help amid the chaos that night shift could be. You hadn’t had the chance to meet everyone yet, so as you glanced around the Emergency Department, you were met by the faces of doctors, nurses and admin staff who weren’t known to you.While the victims did not stop coming, you found yourself moving on instinct in the Yellow zone. Assessing, treating, and trying to do your best to learn when there was a particularly bad patient. Time moved by in a blur, but your mind was painfully aware of every patient that you had treated, all the blood, all the pain, all the tragedy.

—————————————————————————

“I’ll go get you a blanket,” You smiled reassuringly to your patient as you made your way to the Pedes room.

You had heard Dana and Abbott and a few others had been looking for Dr. Robby, whom you hadn’t met yet but knew sooner or later would meet tonight.Ellis walked towards you as she headed to the yellow zone. She looked tired but so did you all at this point. 

“Hey, if you're heading back to Red, can you try and find Dr. Robby? Abbott’s looking for him,” she said, not slowing her pace.

“I don’t know what he looks like,” You called after her, puzzled.

“Tall, moody, and sad eyes,” she threw over her shoulder without turning. Leaving you with more questions.

——————————————————————————-

You gave the security guard a small smile when you walked into Pedes, sighing at the room and what it had become - you hadn’t noticed yet that aside from the deceased patients, there was someone on the floor in tears.You stood there for a second, frozen and unsure of what to do. Slowly, you chose to close the curtain behind you, giving him a small amount of privacy, making sure the view into the outside hall was blocked. 

You moved slowly to avoid startling the man in front of you, he sat against the wall with arms wrapped around his knees, gripping a necklace and reciting a prayer that sounded familiar to your ears.The Shema. You'd heard it during morning services in your teenage years and well into adulthood.You crouched down slowly and knelt in front of him, you didn’t make any moves to touch him, and began softly praying along.His breath caught in his throat, but his sobs and prayers continued. He lifted his gaze as you met his red rimmed eyes with a sympathetic smile, his face scrunched with confusion, you could tell he had been crying for a while.You found yourself at a loss on what to say - you hadn’t met him before, so you weren't sure how to help. she noticed his badge then, poking through the bloodied scrub. “Michael Robinavitch, MD”

Dr. Robby.Realisation hits you then that you had found him in what some would say his most vulnerable state.“I don’t know much of what you’re going through right now at this moment,” you began quietly. “But I do know that today has been brutal, and I know that I’m probably the last face you would want to see since you don’t know me and I don’t know you. But know that all I see is that you have done your best tonight, and although it feels like a losing battle, you’re still here. So if you need this time to process, then that’s okay - we all deserve a moment of peace”You slowly stood offering him your hand. He took it, and you helped steady him as he stood. You locked eyes again, and you smiled as you turned to head to the shelf and grab a blanket. You turned around with a blanket in hand, “I’ll see you out there,” offering one last warm smile as you disappeared behind the curtains. Once you closed the door, you let out a long exhale and made your way back to your patient.

After apologising to your patient for taking so long, you noticed Ellis was looking at you with a worried look.“You good, Williams?” she asked 

“Yeah, I’m okay - just tired, that’s all”, you said quietly, brushing it off.

“Did you end up finding Dr. Robby?” Your movements stopped for a split second before you forced a small apologetic smile and shook your head.“I couldn’t find him. Sorry” 

—————-

Apologies in advance

[jacksabbotts]

introducing . . . ADMIN!READER . ᵒ . 📁 📗 🖋️

you are the new director of emergency services administration — but don’t let the title fool you. you are not some clipboard-carrying bureaucrat hiding in an office tower. you are boots on the floor, sharp-tongued and sharper-eyed, calling out code violations and budget oversights in the same breath.

you didn’t leave peds trauma because you couldn’t handle the blood. you left because your ex-husband caught a felony charge and suddenly your daughter needed a parent who made it home for dinner.

you built a new life out of broken glass and court transcripts. clean slates don’t exist for people like you, but second chances? sometimes. if you’re lucky.

you run on burnt coffee and low expectations. you iron your blouses and wear heels taller than your patience. you keep your voice low but your words cut deep. sarcasm is your default setting; exhaustion is your baseline. empathy? well, you still have it — you just learned to lock it behind steel doors so it doesn’t get in the way.

and then there’s michael robinavitch.

the trauma attending from hell. the man who thinks hospital policy is a suggestion and quarterly reports are a personal attack. he’s chaos where you are order. instinct where you are strategy. hands covered in blood while yours are ink-stained with budget reports.

and yet—he’s not what you expected. you thought he’d be arrogant, impossible, unmanageable.

(okay, fine. he is those things.)

but he’s also brilliant. fast. reckless in a way that saves lives and destroys protocol in equal measure. and under all that noise, there’s something quieter. something raw. something that sees the mess in you and doesn’t flinch.

you call him dr. robinavitch like it’s a warning shot. he calls you admin like it’s a dare. this isn’t a romance. not yet. right now, it’s a warzone. but maybe someday—if the paperwork ever gets filed and the walls come down—it’ll be something else.

this isn’t a series — it’s a universe. a collection of standalone stories where tension simmers, tempers flare, and slow burn becomes something neither of you can ignore. angst, banter, quiet softness, and ( eventually ) smut. not today, though.

today, you have got reports to file and a trauma attending to wrangle.

CHAPTER ONE noncompliant ( wc 1.7k ) CHAPTER TWO tbd ( coming soon ) CHAPTER THREE tbd ( coming soon )

michael robinavitch x admin!reader concepts

⤷ tbd ( coming soon ) ⤷ tbd ( coming soon ) ⤷ tbd ( coming soon )

🔖  .  @silas-aeiou @alldaysdreamers @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @notgothenough @timeofmadness @valkyreally @hiireadstuff

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the admin!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune + @saradika-graphics + @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  main masterlist ||| more robby ||| inbox

possible trigger warnings .' lowercase intended!!! medical trauma and emergency scenarios work-related stress, trauma-induced detachment, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and emotional exhaustion, abuse and domestic violence ( from readers ex ), single parenting, possible power imbalances, profanity and substance use, implied threats of violence / retaliation, smut ( detailed per part )

[jacksabbotts]

⤷ . ᵒ . 🥼 .༄ dr. michael robinavitch masterlist ! ࿔* ━━ ⋅⋆

main masterlist || inbox ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

* ( contains smut / mdi 18+ )

✧ policy and procedure x admin!reader* in which you ( the reader ) are the new director of administrations for the pittsburgh medical trauma center. without understanding the level of robby's skill to get out of doing paperwork, you offer to take him off your boss and mentor, gloria's, hands. you really should have thought this through. ⤷ series masterlist

[internetdaddy98]

Point of Care

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby and Y/N share a quiet dinner at a cozy, dimly lit restaurant, where they allow their relationship to move past the secrecy and uncertainty that has defined it. 

Word Count: 1.9 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times.

The HR office was tucked away in the admin wing, far from the chaos of the ER, far from the trauma bay and the noise of overhead codes. You had only been here once before, during your orientation. It smelled like coffee, printer toner, and bureaucratic permanence.

Robby walked beside you, his hand grazing yours occasionally but never quite closing the distance. They weren’t here for declarations or fireworks. Just a form. A conversation. A choice made real on paper. The HR coordinator, a polite woman named Marissa, greeted them with a curious smile when they entered. “Dr. Robinavitch, Dr. Sheridan, what can I help you with?”

Robby cleared his throat, but it was you who spoke first. Your voice was clear and composed.

“We’d like to disclose a personal relationship, in accordance with policy.” Marissa blinked. Then smiled with polite surprise. “Of course. Give me just a moment.” Marissa made a few notes. “And Dr. Robinavitch is not your direct supervisor for evaluations, correct?”

“He oversees me clinically during shifts, but my academic advisor and evaluation lead is Dr. Langdon,” you clarified.

“Good,” Marissa said, with an approving tone. “Then this will go in your file as a disclosed relationship with no formal conflict of interest. It’ll be flagged in case of any potential future issues—scheduling, assessments, anything like that. Transparency protects both of you.”

She handed them the forms, two copies each, standard hospital-issue. Disclosure, acknowledgment, consent. You signed quickly. Robby paused for just a moment before adding his signature.

When you were done, Marissa took the forms back with a practiced efficiency. “You’re all set. I appreciate you coming in. It speaks well of both of you.”

“Thanks,” Robby said, rising with a polite nod. You followed, the knot between your shoulders easing a little.

When you stepped out into the hallway a few minutes later, you bumped your shoulder gently against his arm. “So… that’s it?”

Robby nodded. “That’s it. You’re officially my HR-sanctioned problem now.”

You laughed under your breath. “And you’re mine.”

They didn’t kiss, didn’t hold hands, not here. But they walked back toward the elevators side by side, a little lighter, a little steadier. No more secrets. No more limbo.

Just them.

By the book. ---------------------------------

You celebrated by having a romantic dinner. It was a quiet corner table in a warm, dimly lit restaurant tucked between buildings older than either of you. The kind of place with flickering candles in amber glass holders and exposed brick walls soaked in years of laughter and whispered conversation. Outside, the city bustled in its usual rhythm, but in here, the world had narrowed to just the two of you, seated across from each other like the edge of a confession neither had fully spoken aloud.

You looked different now. Softer somehow, your long hair curled loose over your shoulders, cheeks touched with warmth that wasn’t just from the wine you’d shared. You were in a sweater that slipped a little off one shoulder, and jeans, and no trace of the badge that usually clung to you like armor. Robby couldn’t stop looking at you. Not in a possessive way, but in the way a man looked at something he’d convinced himself he could never deserve.

And yet, here they were.

The silence between them was comfortable now, not cautious. A shared peace that had taken months of slow-burning tension, half-spoken words, and stolen moments to arrive at.

“I think Dana’s onto us,” You murmured with a wry smile, your fingers gently circling the rim of your wine glass.

Robby let out a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Dana’s been onto us since last winter.”

You laughed, and the sound made his chest ache. He’d once thought he’d never hear you laugh like that, freely, without hesitation. It felt like a kind of miracle. Your voice belonged to him now in a way he would never take for granted.

He reached across the table and let his fingers graze yours. You met him halfway, linking your hands slowly, tenderly, like this was the first time all over again.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” you said softly.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. Your pulse was fast. So was his. “Me neither.”

“I mean it,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Not just sneaking around. Not just seeing each other when we’re off shift. I don’t want this to be something temporary or secret or… cautious. I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m not completely, terrifyingly in love with you.”

The words stunned him in the gentlest way. Not because he hadn’t known, he had. But because you’d said it without fear, without retreating. Just you, laid bare, offering everything.

He swallowed hard. “Jesus, Y/N…”

You didn’t look away. “I need to know if you feel the same. If this is just… something you’re trying not to regret. Or if you’re in this, really in it.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he exhaled, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“I’ve spent my whole life living by rules I thought would protect people. Thought if I kept my distance, if I didn’t let anyone get too close, I could control the outcomes. No one got hurt. No one depended on me more than they should. I survived that way. But I wasn’t living. Not really.”

He looked up, and his eyes were glassy. “You undid me. In the best goddamn way. And now I don’t want to imagine a version of this life where you’re not in it.”

You blinked hard, your fingers tightening around his.

He added, quieter, “This isn’t just some late midlife crisis, some reckless mistake. You’re it, my sweet Sheri. You’re it for me.”

The candle between them flickered like it knew. You smiled slowly, radiant and soft and just a little broken open, and he thought you’d never looked more beautiful.

You sat there for a long time, fingers tangled on the tabletop, trading small stories about your first impressions, the awkward early days of your residency, the way Dana had teased Robby mercilessly after catching him staring at you one too many times during rounds. He told you he remembered your first shift like it was yesterday, the way you’d walked into the trauma bay with your tiny frame and enormous eyes, so quiet he’d nearly overlooked you. And then you’d stepped up to run a code with the kind of calm confidence that made him stop in his tracks.

You told him about all the nights you’d gone home aching because you’d wanted so badly to impress him, not just as your attending, but as a man you admired, respected, maybe even adored long before you admitted it.

By the time dessert arrived, something chocolate you didn’t really touch, you were leaning toward each other across the table, full of memory and warmth, the gravity between you undeniable.

You looked at him, your brown eyes soft, clear, and deeply certain. There was something about the way you were watching him, steadier than he’d ever seen, though your cheeks were flushed, and your lips slightly parted like you had something just on the edge of confession.

“Come home with me,” you said, gentle and sure.

The words pulled something from deep inside him, a jolt of surprise, not because he didn’t want to, but because it felt like stepping over another boundary he hadn’t let himself imagine crossing until now.

Her home.

Her life.

He hesitated only for a breath, and in that breath, your fingers gripped his tighter, anchoring him.

“It’s okay,” you added quietly. “You don’t have to. I just— I want you to see me. Not just in your apartment. Not just at work. I want you to know who I am when the day is over and everything’s quiet.”

And how could he say no to that?

He nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

Outside, the night was cold, but when he pulled your coat around your shoulders and kissed your temple like a promise, you didn’t feel a thing but his hand in yours and the heat of the future unfolding in front of them.

Your apartment was in Shadyside, tucked on a quiet tree-lined street in a high-ceilinged brownstone with soft golden light spilling through arched windows. The interior was warm and elegant, mid-century furniture, thick rugs, bookshelves crammed with everything from poetry to medical journals, candles you actually burned, and little details that made Robby pause in the doorway as he took it all in.

It smelled like you. Soft floral notes and warmth. A place he already knew would haunt him if he ever left.

You watched him with a small smile as he walked the perimeter, taking it in. His fingertips skimmed a framed photograph of your family, you and your parents at a summer estate by the water, smiling in linen and sunlight.

“You’re rich,” he said after a beat, half-joking but not really. His brow arched. “Like, actually rich.”

You rolled your eyes, amused and unbothered. “My parents are.”

“And you live like this?”

“Yeah. Why?” you teased, tilting your head. “Worried I’m a little too high society for your taste, Dr. Robinavitch?”

He smirked but said nothing, stepping closer, his eyes roaming over the apartment with new context.

You were quiet for a moment, then shrugged as you slipped off your shoes and curled up on the couch. “I never wanted anyone to know. Not at the hospital. I didn’t want it to change how they saw me. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I don’t,” he said, voice low as he joined her on the couch. “It’s just another part of you. And I want to know every part.”

Your breath caught for just a second.

Then, after a moment, you said softly, “My family does Thanksgiving big. My mom starts planning in September. My dad orders wines like he’s hosting the President. We get in fights about how to roast the turkey, and there’s always at least one person crying by dessert.”

Robby watched you.

“And I’d like you to come.”

His eyes widened slightly, and for a second, the old instinct kicked in, distance, retreat, stay safe.

But you reached for his hand again, and your grip was steady, your gaze open.

“I’m not asking you to meet them tomorrow,” you said. “But I’m not hiding anymore, and I don’t want you to hide either. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it.”

He nodded, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, slow and full of love. “We’re doing it.”

Later that night, he stood in the doorway of your bedroom as you changed into a soft T-shirt and shorts, your hair loose down your back, face clean of makeup. The quiet intimacy of it startled him more than sex ever could—watching you fold back the comforter, light a candle on the nightstand, and slide into bed with the ease of someone letting him in fully.

He joined you under the covers, unsure of the right way to exist in someone else’s space, but you turned toward him, warm and sleepy, and laid your head on his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re going to hate how early I wake up,” He mumbled.

“I already do.”

He laughed softly as he held you.

They stayed like that for a long time, limbs tangled under the weight of down and history and the kind of love that doesn’t always announce itself loudly, but settles deep, unwavering.And sometime in the early morning, just before the sun rose, Robby looked down at the woman sleeping against his side, her lashes dark against her cheek, her breath soft and even, and thought: This is it. This is home.

-------------

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