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katastrophic04 · 2 months ago

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𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: The shift had been ordinary. Until it wasn't. Until her. She shouldn’t be here. Not in his hospital. Not holding a boy whose face hits him like a slap. In the space of a heartbeat, Michael is no longer a doctor. He’s a ghost in his own body, watching his past rewrite itself in real time.

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), female reader.

warning: graphic portrayals of a depressive episode, injured minor.

notes: i lied, it’s actually longer than the first one. Also, i wanted to thank everyone for their kind messages, they made me actually melt 💗💫

word count: 4 k

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

Just for an instant, a second really, everything appeared to stay still. You were both staring at each other with some kind of distant recognition that didn’t really feel right anymore.

Time stopped—or maybe it just cracked. For a second, all Robby could do was stare, breath frozen, stomach caving in on itself like the room had suddenly lost oxygen.

Everyone had seemingly gone silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop—for the story to wove itself in front of their very eyes.

Then everything moved at once.

The trauma bay around him hummed—orders being barked, the sharp beeping of a monitor, a pair of gloved hands reaching for suction—but it all blurred at the edges, sound thinning to a high-pitched whine, like air being pulled from the room.

But he looked at you, really looked at you. Breathing you all in.

And you looked exactly the same.

No, not the same. Older. Stronger. Tired in that way only a mother could be, like you’d carried the weight of a thousand nights with no sleep. But still you. Still you.

His heart stuttered in his chest.

You, on the other hand, were just frozen.

Like something inside of you had stopped working.

Like your brain couldn’t process what you were seeing, and your body was bracing for impact. Your lips parted, soundless, and your expression turned glassy. Like you’d just stepped on a landmine and heard the click.

Michael felt something inside his chest fracture.

Your eyes—god, your eyes—looked through him, then past him, then back again. Like you thought you were hallucinating. Like you wanted him to disappear.

His mouth opened. He didn’t know what he was about to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe just your name again, missing how it felt falling from his lips.

Maybe just please.

Finally, you stepped back.

No—stumbled.

Your hand shot out toward the edge of the table, missing it, and your shoulder hit the wall instead. "I—" you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. "I can't. I can’t do this right now."

And your voice broke on the last word.

He opened his mouth again, throat dry. "Wait—"

"I just—" your hands came up like you could block him out with your palms. "I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I can’t—"

"Hey, it’s okay, just—"

But you were already shaking your head, already turning, already backing toward the door with panic in your eyes like he’d set the place on fire just by existing in it.

You didn’t look at him again. Not really. Your eyes fluttered shut like it hurt to see him. Like his presence was too loud, too heavy, too full of old ghosts and wounds that never healed right.

"I’m sorry to interrupt," Whitaker said gently, stepping in at the exact wrong—and—right time. "They’re ready for us upstairs."

Robby didn’t blame him. Whitaker was just doing his job—by the book, probably didn’t even realize the air had gone thin with something heavier than oxygen. Still, Robby felt the moment rupture like tissue paper.

Of course, it had to be him. Of course, it had to happen like this.

You didn’t even look at him again.

"I have to go," you said. Firm. Final.

He reached for you, instinct more than thought. "Wait."

Gone.

The door swung shut behind you, and then it was just him and the echo of your voice in a room that suddenly felt too quiet.

Michael stood frozen. Stupid. Helpless.

He watched you vanish around the corner—following behind the gurney. Watched the back of your salmon-pink scrubs disappear into the chaos of the ER. Watched you leave him. Again.

But all he could see was you.

The way your hands trembled, like you didn’t know what to do with them.

The way you kept pressing them to your chest like you were holding yourself together from the inside out.

The way you walked—fast, clipped, stiff—like if you didn’t keep moving, you’d collapse.

He barely noticed the rest of the trauma team shifting back into motion around him, unaware that something tectonic had just cracked open right there between the trauma room and the nurses’ station.

Because the second you left, everything else fizzled out.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat. Slamming.

All he could feel was the ringing silence you left in your wake.

And all he could think was—She’s here. She’s real. She saw me. And she left.

And behind that, behind the shock, behind the confusion, something darker twisted in his gut.

That boy.

The boy on the gurney.

Michael staggered back a half step.

The timeline rushed in and hit him straight in the face like a brick. Ten years. Ten years since he left. Since he disappeared with nothing but a coward’s note and a bleeding heart.

You hadn’t told him. Not a word. Not a single whisper. And why would you?

He was the one who vanished.

He was the one who chose the silence.

And now here you were, thrown together by whatever cruel god governed the ER, with you looking like you were about to shatter and him finally realizing—maybe he was the one who broke you to begin with.

He blinked hard, his pulse racing, and looked again at the door where you and the kid had left through.

The math wouldn’t stop spinning. The way you looked at the boy. The panic in your voice. The grief.

God.

Is he mine?

The question hit him like a blow to the chest. He couldn’t breathe.

He thought of you walking away, your eyes filled with unshed tears, hands shaking as you whispered those few words.

He thought of that kid, gaunt and still, hooked up to machines, and the way he flinched when someone called out Mom.

It didn’t feel like fate. It felt like punishment.

Like every choice he made led straight to this moment—where everything he’d buried rose back up and God himself asked if he was man enough to face it now.

Michael didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He just stood there—chest tight, stomach twisted, breath caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief—as the trauma team carried on around him, not seeing that he’d just been gutted from the inside out.

He stood there for a long moment, stunned. Then he laughed, under his breath, humorless and tired.

Funny.

The last time he saw you, he’d walked away without a word.

You didn’t stop walking. Couldn’t.

Not until the elevator doors shut behind you with a soft ding and the metal started climbing, floors ticking past too fast. Your hands were still shaking. You tucked them under your arms, tried to breathe through it, but it felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs and replaced with something heavier. Thicker. Like you were drowning.

Beside you, Dr. Whitaker said something—not yet, hopefully soon enough—but it barely registered. You nodded because it felt like the right thing to do. The only thing you could do.

Then you were upstairs, in imaging. There were hands guiding your son into the MRI room. Gentle voices. Paperwork. Another nod. Another smile that didn't reach your eyes.

And then you were alone. Finally.

They told you it would be about thirty minutes, maybe more. Long enough to spiral. Long enough to remember.

So you sat.

The plastic chair outside the radiology wing creaked beneath you as you leaned forward, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands.

You’d seen a ghost.

No—that wasn’t right. He wasn’t a ghost. He was real. He was there. The same hands. The same voice. The same stupid little furrow between his brows when he didn’t know what to say.

And he’d looked at you like—like he’d only just realized everything he left behind had a heartbeat.

Your throat burned.

Ten years.

Ten years of silence, of wondering if he was alive or dead or just fucking cruel. Ten years of birthdays and fevers and nightmares and firsts you had to witness alone. And then he just—appeared. In a trauma bay. In a pair of scrubs. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry.

Not now.

You’d already done that once.

ten years ago...

The apartment was too quiet.

So quiet it rang in your ears, high-pitched and shrill, like the aftermath of an explosion. The silence didn’t sit still—it crawled. Under your skin. Behind your eyes. In the space between your ribs, where your lungs refused to expand right.

It was never this quiet when he was here.

Even when you were asleep, there was always something—is breathing, the hum of the AC, his dumb phone alarms going off too early, his voice grumbling into her shoulder. Now, it felt…emptied. Like something had been ripped out, and the air still hadn’t settled.

The apartment felt hollow without him.

The walls pressed in—close, too close—like they were waiting for you to crack. You kept thinking that if you were to turn your head fast enough, you might catch them shifting. Watching.

The shadows moved wrong. The light hit strange. The floorboards groaned like they were in pain.

Your phone lit up. Then went dark. Lit up again. Dark again. Nothing.

You didn’t remember sitting down.

But you were curled up on the floor of your—your—bedroom, phone clutched in one hand, knees drawn to your chest, trying to make sense of the nothing he left behind.

Waiting.

Begging.

Please. Please. Please.

Not even a call. Not even a fight.

Just a note.

A fucking note.

Not even a period at the end.

Just gone.

Your hands had been shaking then, too.

You couldn’t cry. Not properly. It’s like your body wouldn’t let you—couldn’t. It held everything tight, like it was scared you’d unravel completely if it loosened its grip for even a second. So you shook instead. Buzzed like a broken wire.

Your brain kept folding in on itself fighting to understand what happened—why?

You’d tried everyone. His old roommate. Coworkers. That one friend from med school whose name you always forgot. But no one had heard from him, said maybe he needed space. Or maybe they had and were lying for him. You didn’t know which hurt more.

Time blurred together after that.

You’d called in sick. Voice hoarse. Hands shaking. Could barely get the words out to your chief resident.

She didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t even hesitate.

Just said, “Take the time,” like she already knew. Like everyone already knew.

And of course they did.

He was a junior attending in the same hospital—had been? They'd all worked side by side, shared vending machine coffee and overnight shifts and quiet glances in scrub rooms.

The day he left, he didn't just disappear from your apartment—he disappeared from the job, too. Vanished from badge logs and email chains. Left behind the kind of silence that carried weight. The kind that people tiptoed around.

They all knew before you did.

You could feel it in the way the chief spoke to you now—soft, deliberate, like you were a glass too cracked to carry water.

And maybe you were.

Because all you could think was: God, they must all think I’m pathetic.

Still showing up with his coffee orders memorized. Still wearing the same necklace. Still smiling like you weren’t about to be gutted out for everyone to see.

A resident falling for her attending—how fucking cliché. Tragic, really.

How many of them had smiled back, already knowing? How many had covered for him, lied for him?

You curled tighter into the blankets, the shame curdling in your stomach like bad milk.

Once a respectable doctor—a future star in her field—with her perfect pink scrubs, perfectly color-coded charts, and “good morning, everyone!” predisposition at six a.m., now reduced to a silence that soaked the walls of their apartment—your apartment—like mold.

The knock on the door came hours later. Or maybe a day. Time had stopped meaning anything long ago.

Had you eaten? Showered?

Had the sun come up? Had it ever been up?

You could taste metal in your mouth and bile at the back of your throat.

The world felt wrong in your bones.

You kept thinking maybe none of it had been real.

Maybe you’d made it all up. Maybe there’d never been a him at all—Michael, Robby, or whatever.

Just a ghost wearing his face, leaving behind traces of himself to fuck with you: the crooked toothbrush, the mug by the sink, the hoodie he’d probably forgotten in the dryer.

The knock on the door was distant. Like hearing it through a dream.

Then another knock. Louder. And finally, the scrape of the spare key jamming into the lock.

It was your sister. Probably.

Still, you didn’t move.

The door opened. Footsteps.

Then just a low mutter—"oh my god."

She didn’t say a word at first. Just dropped to the floor next to you and pulled you into a hug so tight it finally broke something loose.

She was warm and real. Smelled like home—and that cloying cinnamon Bath & Body Works scent she swore by. Too sweet, too strong. It hit your nose like a punch, and for a second, it almost made you gag.

"I don’t know what happened," you whispered. Voice hoarse from little use. Barely there.

"You don’t have to—"

"I don’t know what I did."

That cracked something.

The sobs came sudden and raw, like your body had been waiting for permission. Like your cells had finally given up.

"I—I woke up and he was just gone."

She held you like she used to after you had a bad nightmare. One hand buried in your hair. A slow rock. Whispered words that didn’t matter, because it wasn’t about the words—it was about being held together by someone else, because you couldn’t do it by yourself anymore.

"He didn’t even say goodbye."

"Then he’s a fucking coward," she murmured. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

But your body disagreed.

Everything hurt. Your stomach curled tight into itself. Your skin buzzed. Your bones ached. And your head pounded in a slow, steady throb that never let up.

You muttered, "I feel sick."

"You look sick," She said, pulling back just enough to study her. "You’re pale as hell. Have you eaten anything?"

"I can’t. I keep throwing up."

The words made her sister still. Brow furrowing. Concern slowly creeping in as she watched you.

But she wasn’t really there anymore.

You were staring. Blinking. Staring again.

Because when you looked at her—really looked—someone else took her place.

The eyes. Those same eyes.

Dark brown. Deep and unreadable, but soft in that specific, sickeningly familiar way. Like melted chocolate in sunlight. Like every time you’d caught him looking at you during early rounds, like he could see right through you and liked what he saw.

His eyes.

Right there, on your sister’s face. And it didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. Logic had left the room days ago.

Your breath hitched. The nausea came back all at once, brutal and specific.

Not just grief. Not just panic. Something else.

Your hand went to your mouth as the room spun. You shoved yourself up and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time.

The cold tile was unforgiving as you dropped to your knees, your stomach lurching so violently it knocked the breath from your lungs. Bitter, sour heaves wracked your body—nothing left but acid and air.

You clutched the edge of the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing keeping you here, in this reality. When your forehead met the cold porcelain, an involuntary sigh slipped out—half relief, half despair—followed by shallow, stuttering breaths that scraped against your ribs.

Your sister followed—quietly, gently—and was behind you in seconds, no questions and no hesitation. She moved like someone who had done this before. Who had been here before.

Without a word, she gathered your hair, pulling it back with practiced ease. One hand rested steady on your back, the other stroking slow circles between your shoulder blades.

"I’ve got you," she murmured. "Just breathe."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your whole body trembled—not from effort, but from something deeper. Something bone-deep.

Eventually the wave passed. You coughed, spat, and flushed. Tried to rinse the bitterness from your mouth with shaking hands, but your limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

So you just sank back onto your heels, arms limp, forehead pressing against the cool wall beside the toilet.

Your sister knelt beside you. "Are you late?" she said quietly, voice low but edged with something cautious.

Silence.

"And now this."

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She shifted closer beside you, hand still holding a light grip on your arm. "Hey. Look at me."

You turned.

And there it was again—that look. Worry, yes, but something stronger.

A mirror of a fucking mirror.

Because your sister’s eyes were dark. Chocolate brown. Just like his.

The realization hit like a bruise from the inside out. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes locked on the color you hadn’t been able to stop seeing.

The exact shade.

Your sister’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering, then concern. "What?"

But you didn’t answer. Couldn’t explain. Could only look.

Because it wasn’t your sister’s face you were seeing—it was his. Not fully, not clearly. But there. In the eyes. In the color.

Same warm brown. Kind. Deep. Unmistakable in the sunlight.

And for one terrifying second, it was like time bent sideways, and you could already see it.

Those eyes on someone smaller. Someone impossibly familiar.

You dry-heaved again.

But there was nothing left.

Your sister reached out instinctively, steadying you, voice still soft. "Babe…I think you might be pregnant."

The words didn’t echo. They detonated.

The world tilted. The shadows closed in. The silence wasn’t empty anymore.

It was loud.

A voice broke through the quiet. "Miss?"

You blinked up. Whitaker—scrub pants too short, scuffed badge, steady blue eyes—stood in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Uh—hey. Sorry, I—um. The scans came back. No internal bleeding. The head MRI’s clear, no swelling. They’re planning to keep him overnight just to be sure, monitor for delayed stuff, but… he’s stable. He’s okay."

The world tilted again. This time in relief.

"Thank you," you breathed, voice cracking, hands pressed to your chest. "Thank you so much."

He nodded—then hesitated, chewing his lower lip. "There’s just… one thing. There’s no open bed upstairs yet, so they’re going to keep him down here for now. In one of the trauma bays. They’ll curtain it off, make it private. Just temporary."

You nodded without thinking—until it hit you.

Trauma room. Downstairs.

Your stomach clenched on reflex.

Fuck.

Robby was still down there. Which meant you’d all be in close proximity. Same hallway. Same noise. Same oxygen. Which also meant having to talk to him at some point during your stay.

You weren’t a monster. After today, after everything, you couldn’t just slip away without a word. That wasn’t who you were. You refused to be.

But holy shit—why now?

You rubbed your face with both hands. Tried to push the day back, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, it would stop sinking its teeth into you.

It felt like too much. Too soon.

You could picture him already—playing in the nurse’s stations, standing near the room with his arms crossed.

Probably rehearsing what he’s going to say. Probably thinking too much. Or not enough.

Just watching and waiting for the right moment to step in and wreck your life all over again.

He’d come in with that voice—low but tight—and try to stay calm, but you’d hear the cracks in it. You’d feel the weight of everything unsaid pushing through the seams.

He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t have to.

He’d just talk, and somehow it would still feel like an accusation.

Like he was grieving something you took from him. Like you’d been the one holding the clock all this time.

Every sentence would be punctuated by a move of his hands—cutting through the air, trying to explain nine years of silence like it could all be mapped out in a few breaths.

You’d sit there, swallowing the heat in your throat, thinking—you left.

But it wouldn’t feel like a win.

It wouldn’t feel like justice.

It would just feel heavy. Sad. Like two people holding the same loss from opposite ends and breaking under the weight.

In the end, when there was nothing left to say, he’d take off his glasses and sigh—like that would make it all go away. Like blowing the air out of his lungs might somehow undo the last ten years—the same way he always did after a bad call earlier in the shift, when guilt started to creep in.

You hated that you remembered that.

You hated that part of you was waiting for it.

You breathed in, shallow. Let it out slow.

Okay. You’d do it.

So you nodded again, carefully this time, like the motion might somehow make the pieces of your life come apart.

Whitaker seemed to notice, but didn’t push. "You’ll be able to see him soon. They're just finishing the last few checks."

You sank into the nearest chair before your knees could give out entirely.

Whitaker hovered awkwardly for a second like he wasn’t sure if he should leave—then sat beside you with a quiet breath, clasping his hands between his knees. "You look like you’ve been through it today."

You let out a shaky, humorless laugh. "That obvious, huh?"

He offered the faintest smile. "I mean… I’ve only been here six weeks, so I don’t really have a baseline. But yeah. Kind of."

A small silence stretched out. Not awkward. Just there.

Then he glanced at the ID still hanging around her neck. "You a doctor?"

You blinked, like you’d only just remembered you were wearing your scrubs. "Yeah. Attending. OB/GYN."

"Ah." His voice softened. "You work here?"

You shook your head. "No, St. Luke’s. But I know some of the attendings here, sometimes I get called in for high-risk emergencies."

"Cross-trained?"

You nodded. "Emergency med. Just enough to be useful when everything goes sideways."

"That’s kind of badass." He let out a quiet whistle. "Bet you’re good in a crisis."

You huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh. "Usually better than my own."

He nodded like he understood. "And your little guy—how old is he?"

"Nine." A smile tugged at your lips despite everything. "Well. Nine and a half, if you ask him."

"Good age."

"Yeah," you said quietly, "he’s a good kid."

"Was it just the two of you today?"

"Yeah. We were headed to—"

You froze mid-sentence, eyes wide.

"Oh my God," you whispered, scrambling for your phone. "Show and Tell."

"What?"

"Career day. It was today. I was supposed to talk to his class about my job—he was so excited—I have to call the school—"

You fumbled to unlock the phone with trembling fingers, heart suddenly thudding all over again, but in a totally different rhythm. Whitaker didn’t stop you. He simply reached out and rested a hand on your arm, grounding.

He just hesitated—and then, gently, offered, "Do you want me to get someone? Or… I can just sit here."

You shook your head, already scrolling. "I just—I have to let them know. His teacher. So they don’t think we just didn’t show."

"I’m sure they’ll understand."

"I know. I just…" Her voice cracked. "He was so proud. He kept practicing how to introduce me."

She swallowed hard, staring at the screen like it might swallow her back.

"I promised I’d be there."

Because that’s what you do, right? You promise. Even when there's nothing left to give.

next chapter ↠

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