#noah wyle blurbs

[ilyasorokinn]

expect the unexpected , michael robinavitch

note, i've hopped on the pitt train. someone send help because i now am in love with noah wyle and everything to do with him. that's my husband fr. also, if you have requests, please send them in!! pair, michael "robby" robinavitch x reader summary, y/n and robby were something so long ago that gray hair wasn’t even a worry in his head. now, with a head full of gray hair, y/n and robby, by some miracle, find each other again. this time, he isn’t letting go. warnings, probably medical inaccuracies, heartbreak word count, 3577 words

(gif not mine)

Robby felt the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones. It was a sort of feeling that never really went away, especially in his profession. He was lucky if he got a few hours of sleep, hell, even a half hour. Today wasn't one of those days.

As he approached the nurse's station, he plastered on a look that aimed to convince his co-workers everything was fine. Just his luck, Dana was someone who could see right through him and his fake smiles.

"You look awful," She commented as soon as she saw him.

"Gee, thanks." He spoke sarcastically.

"Maybe this'll wake you up. Kid with a stomach ache or woman with a broken foot." She held up both of the files, letting him decide. He wordlessly took the file in her right hand and walked off to the room where the woman was waiting.

"All right, let's see what we go." He pulled open the curtain and froze. The woman who was typing something on her phone also looked up and froze.

Both adults just stared at each other, not saying a word as they looked at each other. Words seemed to escape Robby as he stared back at the woman Years and years of memories flooded back like waves.

“Michael?” The woman asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Excuse me.” He spoke professionally, grabbing the edge of the curtain and gently pulling it shut. He walked away, ignoring the concerned looks of everyone around him.

He set the file of whatever was handed him and made his way away. The direction was still unclear, but his main goal was away. He ended up in a random storage closet somewhere in the furthest corner of the hospital, closing his eyes and catching his breath.

He felt like the walls were closing in on him and like everything around him was getting smaller. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe.

After a few minutes, he managed to gather himself and stop his racing heart. He stretched his back before he reached for the doorknob and stepped back out into the chaos of the hospital.

When he returned to your room, he found someone else already checking out your foot. When you saw him and locked eyes with him again, you tensed up.

"Dr. Robby." Whitaker greeted, a shaky smile on his face as he snapped on a pair of gloves, "I just started, but I've got everything."

"I can take it from here," Robby stated, not breaking eye contact with you.

"Are you sure? I'm almost-"

"I got it," Robby repeated, cutting the man off and offering him a smile, taking the tools from his hands, and taking over. They switched spots, and Whitaker gave you a smile and a brief wave before he was out of the room, leaving you and Robby in a thick, uncomfortable silence.

Robby worked in silence, and you watched him. You watched every cut, every stitch, everything. You analyzed his face, memorizing every line, every wrinkle, every crease, every gray hair.

"Are you gonna say anything?" You finally broke the silence, feeling like you were going to combust at any point.

"Was waiting for you to." He offered you a smile.

You took a breath, carefully thinking of your next move. You weren't expecting this, that's for sure. When you showed up at the urgent care earlier, you were expecting to be in and out. But they had referred you to the ER after your injury had proved to be more severe.

"This isn't how I was expecting my Friday night to go," You laughed nervously.

"I bet." Robby laughed, helping ease your nerves, "What'd you do? This is a pretty severe break." He commented.

"Was trying to put a light bulb in, fell down the ladder." You explained, wincing when he pressed into your foot.

"Sorry." He winced, "Well, my prognosis is it's definitely broken. Not enough to need surgery, but you'll be here for a few hours."

"For real?" Your eyes widened.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." He smiled sadly, "I know you hate hospitals, but it's protocol."

You tilted your head to the side. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything." He responded quickly, his eyes never leaving your face. The intensity in his eyes made you look away.

He could read you like a book; it was something you had learned early on. Every little thing you did, the faces you made, your movements, when you spoke, your tone.

"Can I get you anything while you wait?" He asked, looking down at the file in his hand, trying to find a distraction.

"I could go for some apple juice?" You admitted shyly.

"I should've known." He chuckled, grabbing the curtain again and leaving the room.

-

"All right, Mrs. Y/L/N, you're all ready to go." The nurse, whom you learned was named Princess, smiled at you. After waiting hours, someone bandaged up your leg (In a pink cast) you were given a pair of crutches.

It took another hour for your release papers to finally be given to you, and another half hour to finally be given the all clear.

"You're not kidding? I'm allowed to go home?" You were almost afraid she was gonna say no.

"I'm serious." She smiled again. "How are you getting home?"

"I'll probably just call an Uber or something." You shrugged, slipping your jacket on.

"We can call you a taxi, if you prefer." Princess offered.

"Are you sure? I don't want to bother anymore."

"No worries," She shook her head, opening the curtain and letting you exit first before making her way back over to the nurse's station and grabbing the phone.

You waited around, taking in the sights around you. Everything seemed hectic, but it seemed to be running on controlled chaos. Or maybe that's just how they wanted it to seem to patients.

"What are you still doing here?" Robby asked, approaching you, his bag slung over his shoulder as he stopped next to you.

"Was gonna call an Uber, but they offered to call a taxi for me." You explained, smiling over to Princess, who gave you a thumbs up, then set the phone back on the receiver.

"I could give you a ride." Robby offered. You quickly turned to look at him. "What?"

"No." You stated.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, no. Do you want to hear it in another language?" You joked, rolling your eyes.

"Don't waste your money on a taxi, I can give you a ride." He offered with a shrug.

"I'm good, thanks though." You brushed him off, making your way out to the front. of the hospital, the best you could with your new crutches.

"Y/N, I'm offering, come on." He was pleading with you at this point as he followed you out.

"Why?" You raised a brow, "You do this with your other patients?"

"Just the ones who break their legs putting lightbulbs in." He joked.

You stared at him, pursing your lips and weighing your options. After this hospital bill you were about to get, you knew things were going to be tight, and you knew that he was just being nice.

But another part of you wanted to ignore him, forget this ever happened, and go on with your life like you hadn't run into him at all.

Against your better judgment, "Fine."

-

Weeks later, Robby was still checking in on you. You wanted him to leave you alone; you had told him that on numerous occasions, but Robby, being Robby, he couldn't do that.

Being a healer was in his bones, and he couldn't, in good conscious, leave you to fend for yourself.

Every Friday morning, there would be a knock on your door, and on your doorstep, there would be a small to-go cup of your favorite tea and a blueberry bagel with cream cheese, your favorite.

There wasn't a note, but you knew who it was from. Of course you did, who else would remember you liked raspberry tea and blueberry bagels?

On Monday night, he would come over and drop off a few containers of food he had made. He brushed it off as "meal prepping", but you knew it was a lie. He barely had enough time in the day to find something to eat, let alone plan his meals.

There was a knock on your door, and you checked the time. "Right on time." You muttered, hobbling over to the front door.

You made your way over and opened the door. Before you could greet him, your cat Pepper greeted him. Snuggling his legs and weaving between his legs, purring when Robby bent down and scratched his ears.

Traitor, you thought in your head. Robby finally stood to his full height and looked at you, "You know, you don't have to keep doing this, right?" It had been well over a month now.

"I know." He nodded, moving around you and into your kitchen, grabbing silverware and a plate like he owned the place, "I want to. I have the time."

"No, you don't." You crossed your arms.

"Okay, well, I enjoy doing it." He shrugged, taking the containers of food out of the bag he had brought.

"No, you don't." You repeated, "You hate cooking."

"No, I don't." He stopped, raising a brow at you.

"Yes, you do, Robby." You rolled your eyes, "You could literally burn water, how that's possible if still a mystery."

"Okay, fine. I hate cooking, I don't have time to cook, anything else to add?" He asked, crossing his arms and pausing his plating of the food.

"No, I think that sounds about right." You smiled.

"Are you gonna sit there a taunt me? Or are you gonna eat?" He rolled his eyes at you, pushing a plate to the opposite side of the island, closer to where you were standing.

"I'll eat, I guess." You made your way over to the seat, carefully getting onto the stool and grabbing the fork. As you ate, Robby watched you. He ate too, but he watched you, examining your every movement.

He smiled. You ate. Life was good.

-

You and Robby were... something.

It had happened a long time ago, before all the stress and all the long nights, all the sleep deprivation, and long before the bags under his eyes became permanent.

It was the early days of medical school. Sleep was still something he could still get every night, and you were someone he could come home to and vent to about his hard day.

You heard him before you saw him. The walls of the apartment you called home were thin, and the hallway from the stairs to your apartment wasn't very long. He couldn't even put his key in the lock before you were ripping the door open and pulling him in for a hug.

It took him a few seconds to comprehend what was happening, but when his brain caught up with his arms, he wrapped his arms around you and exhaled a deep sigh of relief, one he hadn't known he had been holding in.

"How was your day?" You managed to ask, pulling away just to look him in the eyes. He simply shook his head, hugging you again.

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other's arms in the entryway of your small apartment, neither of you saying anything, just basking in each other's presence.

You eventually pulled away, and Robby made his way into the bedroom, changing into more comfortable clothes while you warmed up a plate of dinner for him. He made his way back out, his shoulders hunched and a look on his face that had you raising a brow.

"What's wrong?" You asked, putting the plate in front of him.

"We need to talk." The tone of his voice made your heart stop, and you stood up a little straighter.

You gulped, "About what?"

He couldn't even look you in the eyes as he began speaking, "I think we should break up." You could already feel tears forming behind your eyes as you waited anxiously for him to continue.

"I just-I think you deserve someone better, someone who can make you happier. I can't, I know I can't, and I know I'm not. I'm barely here, I know I'm barely going to be here if I keep going down the road I'm going down. You deserve someone better." He finally looked you in the eyes.

You could see the exhaustion in his eyes, and you could see that it went deeper than just his eyes. You could finally see it in his body. How you didn't notice it before was another story.

"Why are you saying this?" You finally asked.

"I can't make you happy, Y/N." He stated, tears in his own eyes.

"I can't say anything that'll change your mind?" You asked, swallowing harshly again when he shook his head. You nodded, "I'll grab some stuff, find somewhere else to stay tonight."

"Where are you gonna go?" He asked, suddenly aware of how late it was.

"That's not your problem anymore." You stated.

This was not how you expected your night to go.

-

You were twiddling your thumbs, trying not to think about the fact that you were in a hospital again. Although this time, you were there for a happier reason.

The pink cast on your leg was finally coming off, and while you had enjoyed it, you were excited to be able to shower without a bag over your leg and walk normally and not have to hobble.

"Mrs. Y/L/N," A woman you didn't recognize, walked into your room, "I am Dr. King."

"Nice to meet you." You smiled, shaking her hand.

"I'll be the one to remove your cast." She grabbed a pair of gloves. "I also heard you liked apple juice." You raised a brow, "Dr. Robby let it slip. I'll be sure to get you some."

"Thank you." You nodded, fiddling with your fingers again. She noticed that.

"So, how do you and Dr. Robby know each other?" She asked, breaking the silence as she slipped a pair of protective glasses on.

"Oh..." You blew out a breath, "We have some history, you could say." You nodded, not wanting to disclose too much.

"I understand." She nodded. She looked like she was thinking hard. "Have you always lived in Pittsburgh?"

You smiled. She was trying to distract you, "Moved here for school, loved it too much to leave." You answered.

"What do you do for work, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I work in real estate." You responded, "So if you ever need to sell a house or buy one, let me know." You winked.

"I'll let you know." She smiled.

After many distractions and a few bottles of apple juice, the cast was finally off, and a whole talk on safety from Dr. King, you were on your way home. Once again, you were signing more release papers and waiting for a taxi.

"Look at you. Back on two feet." Robby joked, making his way over to you again, his bag slung over his shoulder. It felt very familiar.

"Couldn't be happier." You nodded, handing the clipboard back to the nurse behind the desk and gathering your stuff up.

"You taking another taxi?" He straightened up, gripping the strap of his backpack.

"You know it." You nodded, turning on your heel and weaving through the people, making your way to the exit.

You finally made it outside, taking a deep breath and closing your eyes. You didn't have to open them to know Robby had followed you and was standing right next to you.

"Can I take you out?" He blurted out.

"Out where?" Your eyes opened, and you stared at him.

"Lunch? Dinner? Brunch?" He suggested with a shrug.

"You asking me out, Robinavitch?" You raised a brow.

"I am." He nodded.

"Right." You nodded, laughing and looking away. "Oh, you were serious." You stopped laughing.

"I was." He nodded again.

"Why?' You asked curiously.

"Why not?" He shrugged.

You stared at him, pursing your lips and crossing your arms, examining him, "If I say yes, I get to pick the place." You stated.

"Deal." He nodded.

"And I can drive myself home."

"We'll see about that." He made a face of disagreement.

"And lastly, I pay for myself."

"Absolutely not." He shook his head firmly.

You smiled, "You've got yourself a deal."

-

One date turned into two turned into four, and next thing you knew, you were seeing Robby more and more often. Things weren't official, but things were good, and that was that.

You were also scared.

You still hadn't talked about that night, the night that he had decided seemingly in five minutes that he wanted to end things. It wasn't something you liked to think about, but it was also something you needed answers for.

A knock on your door shook you from your thoughts. You got up slowly and unlocked the door. "Hey! I got your favorite." Robby smiled, holding up the bag. He leaned down and kissed your cheek before moving past you and into your kitchen.

You followed him, your movements slow, which he caught onto, "You okay?" He raised a brow at you.

"Can we talk?" He stopped, his hands freezing what they were doing, and his pulse quickening so fast and loud he could hear it in his ears.

"Of course." He nodded, wiping his hands on the towel on your oven, giving you his full attention, "What about?"

"That night." Was all you said, and he understood.

"Yeah." He nodded, "We can talk about it." He had been waiting for this moment.

He didn't want to bring it up. After all, he was the one who did the breaking up. So, he waited for you to bring it up. But just because he had been waiting, didn't mean he wanted it to happen.

It wasn't a moment he was proud of, nor was it a moment he enjoyed thinking about.

"I have so many questions, questions I've had for years that never got answered." You closed your eyes, running a hand down your face.

"I understand." He nodded again. In that moment, he didn't know what to say or how to say it.

"You broke up with me, you remember that?" You were angry now. His short answers were pissing you off, and his lack of emotion was making you mad.

"I do." He nodded, his eyes filling with tears.

"You said because you wanted me to be happier, and you knew you weren't making me happy." You repeated the very same words he had told you on that fateful night, words you had repeated in your head for years, words that were so ingrained in your brain, you could see them when you closed your eyes.

"I know." He nodded yet again, dropping his head shamefully.

"Well, you were wrong." You swallowed hard, "You're such a smart man, you're the smartest person I've ever known, yet you're so stupid!" He looked up at that, "You made me happy, you make me happy."

"You being back in my life these past few months has made me so unbelievably happy, the happiest I've been in years. Don't you see that? I don't need someone else, Michael, I need you." His eyes filled with tears as he took in what you were saying.

"I'm so angry at you, you know that? You left me because you-you thought you knew what was right. But you didn't. You didn't even ask me, come to me with your problems. That's what you're supposed to do. Come to me and talk to me. We could've talked it out, and we wouldn't be here, starting over." There were now tears streaming down both of your faces.

"I didn't need to be happier or to have someone else, I just wanted you. I wanted to have that life with you, and I didn't care if it meant losing. I just wanted to be with you." His feet finally started moving, and he walked over to you, hesitantly holding out his arms, wanting so badly to go in for a hug.

"I thought I was doing the right thing." He said, "I thought I knew what was best. You were successful, you were doing so good in school, and I was just some kid who didn't know what he was doing. Dreamed of being a doctor, but barely passed by. I thought you needed better." He admitted shamefully.

"I know now that I was wrong. I've spent so many years knowing I was wrong. Spent so much time thinking about you, thinking about how things could've been different. But I can't go back now. I can try my damndest to do better now, if you'll let me."

Instead of responding, you wrapped your arms around him, catching him by surprise. He let out a shaky breath as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you there. He didn't plan on letting go anytime soon. Neither did you.

You weren't done talking about it, but for now, things were good. You had no idea what was going to happen next, but you did know Robby wasn't letting go anytime soon.

One thing you did know was that this was not how you expected life to go.

-

tagging some friends: @kolsmikaelson @writingsforfandoms-multi @2manytabsopen @literaryslapshot @itsjuliak5

add yourself to my taglist!

[oldermenfucker]

Candles | M. Robinavitch

summary: it’s your husband’s birthday, you and your daughter take it upon yourself to make it as special as possible for him especially knowing he hates celebrating today.

Warnings: fluff, girl dad!Robby, lots of kisses and sweetness, a bit of angst, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 985

an: it’s Noah’s birthday and I just wanted to make something special for our one and only dr robby and his girls!!!

“Shh, Mommy! You’ll wake him up!”

  Robby hears the voice from out of the room, followed by lots of giggles and hushed laughter. He sits up, resting his back against the headboard as he rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms, sighing as he listens to the rustling in the house.

  With a groan, he stands up from the bed, stretching his back, hearing a few joints popping. He is getting old, he knows it, and what makes it worse is that today is his birthday. 

  He dreads his birthday; from weeks before to the day itself. He hates the idea of getting old too fast, he despises the fact that he has chained the two people he loves the most to him, and his biological clock nearing its stop. He’ll be long dead before he sees his daughter getting married, and it upsets him beyond belief.

  He walks out of the room, finding you and his daughter whisking what he assumes is a cake batter, talking with a hushed tone as you guide her through the process slowly.

  “Morning.”

  “No!” Your daughter screams, her head whipping towards him, big brown eyes wide in surprise, “Nooooo! You’re not supposed to be up, Daddy!”

  “Easy, easy—“

  You try to catch her before she trips over the edge of the chair she is on, but she jumps down and bolts towards Robby, small hands pushing on his belly as hard as she can.

  “Why not, princess—“

  “No! Go back to bed, go go gooooo!” She whines, nearly bursting into tears as she grabs Robby’s hand and pulls him to the bedroom, “It’s your day, we wanted to surprise you, but now it’s all ruined!”

  “It’s not, I promise. C’mere, lemme look at you,” Robby picks her up, cradling her face in his large hand, forcing her to look at him, “It’s not ruined, I still don’t know what you wanna do, okay? I’m gonna go back to bed and close the door, that sounds good?”

  “But now you know…” she pouts, her eyes tearing up slightly, and the sight breaks Robby’s heart. He coos gently, kissing her forehead and hugging her little body tightly.

  “No, I don’t know, princess,” he walks back to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with her cuddled up against his chest, “Go and help mommy, yeah? I’m gonna get under the blanket. I promise I don’t know what you want to do.”

  “Pinky promise?” She holds her pinky up, blinking her doe eyes at him with a glint of hope in them. He beams at her, kissing her little nose before hooking his own finger around her.

  “Pinky promise.”

  “Yay! Now go to bed!” She giggles and pushes him down, wiggling her way down until her feet touch the ground and she runs outside, leaving him chuckling to himself.

  He pulls the cover over his body, resting his back on the mattress as he waits for his girls to come and get him. He doesn’t know how long it will take, but his eyes get drowsy and he falls asleep.

  “Wake up, Daddy.”

  He groans, wrapping his arms around the tiny body and crawling up his chest, flipping her over until she is giggling and screaming under him. Robby nuzzles his face against her cheek, rubbing her beard over her soft skin, making her laugh wholeheartedly.

  “Daddy! Stop!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he pulls back a bit, looking down at his daughter’s beautiful toothy smile, “What are you up to, princess?”

  “Happy birthday!” She leans up to kiss his cheek, his nose, then back to his cheek until he lets out a belly laugh, and she hides her face in her hands in embarrassment.

  “Princess,” he chuckles, gently sitting up pulling her to his lap, and taking away her hands, “Thank you, sweetest girl.”

  “Look! Look!” She points at you, walking inside the room with a large cake in hand, lots of candles on top of the cream that he is sure his daughter’s put on, “Surprise!”

  “Ahhh, thank you so much!” He kisses her cheek, nearly melting on the spot when she wraps her arms around his neck and smashes her cheek against his, “Hey, Love.”

  “Happy birthday, my love,” you sit next to them on the bed, leaning forward to peck his lips, smiling when you find your daughter, shyly grinning at the two of you, “It was all her work.”

  “Really? Wow, what a talented daughter I have!” He kisses her forehead, smiling back when she grins up at him, nodding in agreement.

  “Mommy helped! But blow your candles, Daddy! Please, please!” 

  “Alright, alright,” he chuckles, blushing when you hold the cake up, winking at him when he looks at you before he looks back at his daughter, “Wanna blow them with me?”

  “Yes!” 

  “Ready? One, two, three— yay!” You laugh when they both blow the candles, watching as your daughter claps her hands and then wraps her arms around Robby’s neck again, pressing hard kisses on his bearded cheek.

  “Happy birthday, daddy! I love you!”

  “I love you, too, my sweet beautiful girl,” Robby’s eyes sting with tears as he looks at his daughter’s radiating smile, “I love you so much.”

  “Happy birthday, Michael,” you cup his cheek, kissing his forehead gently before he turns his head to you, pulling your lips for a slow peck, “Thank you for everything you do for us. I love you.”

  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers, closing his eyes when you reach and wipe his tears with your thumb, “Thank you for making me the happiest man on earth.”

  “Thank you for not giving up on me,” you say and put the cake on the nightstand, crawling next to both of them on the bed to hug them at the same time, “Thank you for giving me a family I’ve always dreamed of.”

[equallyshaw]

the space between us | dr robby x reader.

im gonng break yalls heart with this one...enjoy xx

this may or may not recieve a second part lol

warnings: miscarriage. word count: 4.0k

Robby walked into the cabin—one that had been in his family for years—for the first time in months. This used to be the place you two sought refuge in. But lately, it seemed to be one thing after another with Robby. breaking your heart.

He found you now, for the first time in a month, wrapped in one of the wool blankets. Your feet were curled beneath you, a book pressed against your chest. Your tortoise-shell glasses sagged off your nose. You looked peaceful. Calm. Collected. So unlike the last time he'd seen you—back in Pittsburgh. You’d had one of the worst fights in your history together. After the shooting at PittFest, he’d grown distant—more so than usual. With that distance came your frustration, rising quickly. But you'd vowed never to end up like your parents—letting everything fester until it all dissolved into silence and divorce. You wouldn’t let that happen.

Robby set his weekend bag down softly beside the couch. As quietly as he could, he plucked the book from your chest and slipped the bookmark back in. He slid your glasses off, then the blanket, placing them gently beside you. Then, slowly, he picked you up—hoping not to disturb you.

But you were never the deepest sleeper. Especially not since that night a month ago.

You groaned, your body sensing the shift in gravity. Your brows furrowed as your eyes fluttered open. A neck. Your face was nestled into someone’s neck. It only took two seconds to recognize the familiar scent of your husband—green apple, musk, and cedarwood. The smell wrapped around you like a memory.

Robby felt the shift in your body and knew you were awake, but still said nothing as he walked the two of you up the creaky wooden stairs. You groaned again, shifting slightly, and that made you huff.

He brought you into the bedroom that looked like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie. Honestly, the whole damn house did. He pulled back the comforter and set you down gently, tucking you in. You sighed, curling toward him and clutching the pillow. Robby lingered for a moment, watching you, torn between leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and walking away. He chose the latter, turning off the lamp and quietly shutting the door behind him.

Once closed, he sighed, leaning his head against the antique wood.

Why the hell was he here? Why were you? Why had he let it go so long?

He cursed himself. He should have come out here the moment he realized where you'd gone. He should’ve listened to Dana. He should’ve been honest. But most of all, he should’ve asked you what was really going on.

Because he knew. You were hiding something.

—

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed. You sighed, knowing Robby must’ve taken one of the guest rooms.

Stretching slightly, the all-too-familiar wave of nausea hit. Stress. Trauma. Guilt. Each morning, it returned like clockwork.

You dreaded sleep, because it meant waking up to nightmares. You dreaded mornings, because it meant facing the truth.

Your eyes squeezed shut as your mind drifted to that night.

November 15th.

It was 2 a.m. when you jolted awake. Your body felt... off. Then you felt it: warm liquid, too much, coming from where it shouldn’t be. Your heart pounded as your body moved on instinct. You pulled on your robe, slippers, grabbed your phone, your keys. You couldn't think. You couldn’t let yourself think.

You drove yourself to UPMC Mercy, unable to call Robby. You couldn’t look him in the eye—not to say you were pregnant, not to say you had known for two months, and not to say you were losing the only viable pregnancy in your six-year marriage.

The emergency room was almost empty, thank God. You waddled up to the desk, told them, "I'm having a miscarriage." They moved quickly. A doctor confirmed it shortly after. A woman. Gentle. Understanding. She sat with you, grieved with you, offered her hand and her comfort. She had been through it too.

"Do you want to call your husband?" she asked softly.

You shook your head. "He’s working," you whispered.

Instead, you called your sister. She came quickly, held you as you sobbed, brought you home. Robby had a double shift that night, anyway.

You cried for hours, screaming at the ceiling, begging the universe to explain what you did wrong. You stared at your wedding ring and wondered: Would it still be worth it to him—after this? Would you still be?

—

Present day.

You shot up from the bed and darted into the marble-tiled bathroom. The sound of the toilet seat clanging echoed through the house. You threw up—painful, bowlfuls of bile. Robby, who hadn’t slept, was on his feet in seconds. He pulled back your hair as you heaved.

Twenty seconds. Then it was over. You sagged to the floor, groaning.

He handed you some toilet paper, and you wiped your face in silence before flushing. Then you lowered yourself onto the cool tile floor, cheek pressed against it, your arms instinctively cradling your stomach.

Robby stood frozen. Alarmed. Confused. Horrified. What the hell was happening?

Then it hit him. You must be pregnant.

But the night before, he hadn’t felt a change in your weight. No bump. No signs. Nothing in the cabin that hinted at it.

He started to spiral.

“Stop overthinking,” you mumbled, voice shaky, eyes still closed.

He kneeled beside you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. One eye opened—just a sliver—but enough to stop him. He froze, then backed off.

You checked the time: 7:58 a.m. Shit. You had work.

The nausea lingered, but you dragged yourself to your feet. Robby watched silently, helplessly. He couldn’t find an answer. Couldn’t figure out what this was—beyond pregnancy. But even that didn’t add up.

You shut the bathroom door without a word—like he hadn’t once known every inch of you. Like he hadn’t once been allowed in.

With a sigh, he headed downstairs to make coffee.

You dressed in quiet haste—pulling on a long-sleeve sweater, leggings, and wool socks. January in Pittsburgh was merciless, more so out here in the woods. You shot off a quick text to your boss, apologizing for running late. They waved it off.

You rushed down the stairs, claw clip half-done, and ducked into your office. Robby heard the familiar clatter of the door shutting, signaling another wall between you.

He sat with the coffee, staring at it.

Running through the last six months. Then the last three. Then that fight. He couldn’t make sense of it.

Your reaction. The screaming. It wasn’t like you.

Not toward him.

After ten years, he knew you. He knew every tell, every quirk. He knew when you were lying. Knew when something was off.

And right now? Everything was off.

__

Pitt Fest. He remembered the way you clung to him when he finally came home. You were overwhelmed by the fact that Robby hadn’t messaged you—nothing at all. He’d gone radio silent, which was understandable... but it still terrified you.

For whatever reason, your mind convinced itself that he’d changed his mind that morning—while you were fast asleep—and had gone to Pitt Fest with Jake instead.

That’s why they hadn’t responded. That’s why he hadn’t texted.

You held onto him like you couldn’t bear the idea of letting go, and you hated when he had to leave the next day.

Guilt seeped into Robby now, as he remembered.

It dawned on him—his distance had caused a fracture in your marriage. A fracture that was growing. And it absolutely killed him.

He was pulled from his thoughts when he heard your voice floating up from the first floor, your laugh contagious as you greeted the new hire with warmth and charm.

A small smile tugged at his lips. Warmth fluttered in his chest.

God, how could he be so dumb?

How did he miss the signs?

His distance hadn’t just affected your relationship—it had changed you. And now, it felt like a knife twisting in his chest, over and over again.

—

Rob had kept himself busy all day, giving you the quiet you needed as you worked through meetings, phone calls, and emails.

When the clock on your screen finally turned to 5:00 p.m., you stretched, arms over your head, relieved to be done for the day. You thought about how Rob had been in the house all day, yet you’d barely noticed. He’d kept to himself—projects, cleaning, fixing things. Almost like he wasn’t there at all.

You picked up your Yeti, your used coffee cup, and your glasses, then stepped into the hallway, adjusting the runner rug before heading into the kitchen.

You were surprised to see Rob at the stove. He never cooked. Not that he was bad at it—you just always gravitated toward it first.

He sensed your presence and turned slightly, offering a small, soft smile before turning back to the stir fry he was making.

You swallowed nervously, walking toward the sink across from him. You stepped sideways, filling your Yeti with ice and water, trying to ignore the heaviness between you.

Rob said nothing—just waited silently, his posture saying he was willing to wait forever if it meant you might speak.

When you didn’t, he turned again, voice quiet. “Dinner should be ready in about five.”

You nodded, lowering your Yeti.

But as you glanced toward the stove, you felt it—again.

It rushed through you like a tidal wave, all over again.

You set your thermos down with a loud clunk and bolted down the hall toward the powder room.

Dropping to your knees, you heaved again. It always came when you weren’t focused on anything else—like your body was waiting to remind you. To force you to remember.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as the flashbacks began. The guilt. The anger. The heartbreak.

Why? Why was the universe so cruel?

You didn’t hear Robby’s footsteps, didn’t realize he was there until he was beside you, pulling your hair gently out of your face again. And this time, you let him.

His quiet kindness wrapped around you like a blanket.

Even in sickness and in health, you thought.

You sniffled as the nausea ebbed. Gripping your temples, you sobbed—hard.

Rob watched you fall apart, and pulled you into his chest.

You melted into his arms as he wrapped them around you.

The familiar weight of him, the way his chest felt like home—it steadied you, just a little.

Robby’s heart shattered. The way your body responded to everything that had happened—the pain, the trauma—it broke him.

And he hadn’t been there.

"I’ve got you—it’s okay," he whispered, over and over.

But it didn’t help.

You shook your head and pushed yourself off of him.

You couldn’t let yourself get pulled back in. Not again. Not only to end up worse.

He softly said your name.

Like saying it too loudly might break you. Might break both of you.

You shook your head and stood up.

In silence, you turned to the mirror, cupped your hand under the faucet, rinsed your mouth, and spit.

Without a word, you walked out and back into the kitchen.

You made your way to the butler pantry, eyes scanning the wine bottles until one caught your attention.

You grabbed it—and turned to see Rob standing in the doorway.

"Can you please?" you asked, your voice cracking.

So small. So tired.

You looked up into his eyes—full of concern, full of questions.

"Please. Move. Michael," you said again, this time with sharpness.

You never used his first name.

Not even when you were angry. You always used your shared last name.

But never Michael.

He stared, realization slowly washing over him.

You were hurting deeper than he thought.

“What’s going on?” he asked gently, your name falling from his lips like nothing had changed.

You shook your head. "I don’t want to talk about it."

"Why?" he asked, hands now on his hips.

You sighed, rolled your eyes. “Because I don’t want to fight.”

"I don’t want to go through what happened last time. Not again." Your voice darkened.

Rob stepped back, startled.

Your tone. Your stance. Your fire. It wasn’t like you.

"Please, honey, talk to me." He pleaded.

But you just shook your head.

If you told him the truth, you were convinced he’d leave you. No hesitation. No second thought.

He stepped aside and let you pass.

He watched you walk by, his chest aching.

“If you—if you won’t open up to me,” he said, your name laced with pain, “I... I have no choice but to leave. To go home. I can’t talk to a brick wall. I can’t keep begging—”

"Brick wall?" you interrupted, low and dangerous.

When he didn’t answer, your voice rose. “Brick wall?!”

Anger and disbelief danced across your face.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t even fucking start.”

You turned away, opening the cabinet to grab a wine glass.

Robby watched your shaking hands, your trembling lips. The crease of your brow. The silent words mumbled under your breath. The way your whole body quivered.

You groaned as the bottle refused to open, pressing it to your chest with a whimper of frustration.

Robby stepped forward and gently took it from your hands.

“No! Give it back!” you demanded, reaching—but he held it out of reach.

“Not until you talk to me.”

You growled. “Incredible.”

His brow lifted, teasing.

“I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. To. You.”

Still, he didn’t budge.

“If you must know—call my sister.” You said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t everything.

His brows furrowed, but before he could ask, you turned away.

He called after you, but you kept walking.

If he wasn’t going to let you drink, you were going to sleep.

He grabbed your arm, gently but firmly, and you froze.

He said your name again, softly.

“I don’t want to talk to your sister. I want to talk to you. I want you.”

You sighed, pinched the bridge of your nose. Bit the inside of your cheek. Ran your hands through your hair.

Tears burned in your eyes.

This is what you wanted, right?

You wanted him to fight. To beg. To try.

Robby saw something shift in you—a deep pain cutting through your features.

Robby sensed, then saw, deep pain wash over your features. Your forehead creased in thought.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen this way," you began, your eyes closing momentarily. You reopened them and met Robby’s gaze. "This—none of this was supposed to happen, if it’d worked out," you whispered softly, barely audible. If Robby hadn’t been paying close attention, he wouldn’t have heard.

"It was never supposed to be like this," you repeated, a tear slipping down your face. Robby immediately, without hesitation, wiped it away, but like clockwork, he pulled his hand back.

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself.

"I don’t want to talk to a brick wall, Michael. I want you to respond to me, to hear me out. Listen to me. And—and actually try to change, to work on things, to attempt to make things better. Because if you don’t—" you paused, your voice trembling, "I can’t be the one to stay. I can’t keep trying to keep you together when at times, it seems like you don’t want to be. You seem to want to let whatever happened pull you under and break you apart." You paused, gauging his reaction. All he gave was a stoic response.

But inside, your words were beginning to hit something.

"You allowed me to leave, Michael. You didn’t even come after me! You went a month in silence! How do you think that makes me feel as a wife?" You screamed at him, just like you had the night you two fought.

But this time, you weren’t concerned with the end response. If he walked out, that would be the last time he walked out of your life.

You shook your head, pointing to your chest. "You didn’t fight. You haven’t fought in months. You haven’t even tried a little bit to fix our marriage. I—I cannot be in a loveless marriage, one that doesn’t have communication. I will not be a doormat and allow you to walk in and out of my life as you please. I love myself too much," you confessed, adamant, filled with anger.

Robby stood there, taken aback. But he knew there was more still buried deep below the surface. He looked down at the wooden floor beneath you, shaking his head, emotions threatening to creep up. His mind flashed back to the aftermath of Pittfest. He clasped his eyes shut, trying to shake that image.

"It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Wasn’t supposed to happen," he began, eyes closed, emotion thick in his throat.

"This wasn’t supposed to happen, babe," he said, reopening his eyes and meeting your gaze.

"But you let it," you replied without hesitation. He deserved that.

"I know I blocked you out after Pittfest. I know I pushed you away, keeping you in the dark and going silent. You didn’t deserve that. Not for one minute," he confessed, biting the inside of his cheek.

"That’s something I’ll have to live with. You weren’t the only one traumatized that day, and you didn’t deserve how I acted afterward. I’m sorry for that. Truly, deeply. I am," he said, and you hated the way your heart broke for him. For both of you.

"But you shouldn’t have left that morning," he added quickly, and you cocked your head to the side. What the hell is he on now?

"Why? Why did you yell at me the way you did? Why did you scream at me, as if you were trying to break me?" he questioned, and you tore your gaze away from him.

With just a shake of your head, you replied, "I don’t want to talk about it," before walking past him and back into the kitchen. You made your way to the kitchen island, which steadied you just a bit.

"You wanted to break me. Why?" Robby asked from the doorway.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the ceiling, a dark chuckle escaping your lips. It quickly turned into sobs.

Robby, without hesitation, made his way over and pulled you into his arms. And once again, you melted into them.

You melted into what you considered to be home.

"I wanted you to hurt the way I was hurting," you began between sobs.

His eyebrows furrowed at your words, but you continued, "I wanted you to feel a bit of what I was feeling inside. The pain and turmoil."

You hated the way you treated him, how you took your pain out on him. Even with how he acted before, it still hurt. You weren’t that type of person. Robby knew that, of course.

"It was so much more than what was going on between us. So much more," you began, but paused. Fear crept in. Your gut was on high alert. If you told him, he’d leave.

Robby stilled, waiting on pins and needles for what would come next.

With a soft whimper, you confessed, "I had a miscarriage." The months-long secret finally off your chest, and with it, your knees gave out.

Robby didn’t have a chance to process the words before you were falling, and he went right with you.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen," you said through broken sobs.

"When?" Robby asked softly, lifting your chin to speak, searching your eyes for any clue.

"November," you stated. One month ago.

His heart broke. You had carried that alone all this time.

"When? How? What happened?" More questions flooded his mind.

"Softly," you began, "You were working a double on the 15th. I was sleeping, and at 2 a.m., I woke up." You continued, as if it was nothing spectacular. "I woke up and felt the blood, and I knew. I didn’t need a doctor’s confirmation. I was two months along. I went to the ER," you said, but he cut you off.

"But I would have seen you," he said, confused.

Why hadn’t he seen you? Why hadn’t anyone notified him?

You sighed heavily, "I didn’t go to PTMH. I—I went to UPMC Mercy." You sobbed into his chest, and he watched from above, stunned.

You had chosen a different hospital. You chose a complete stranger over Jack or anyone at Pitt.

His face shifted from confusion to realization, and a soft, subtle understanding washed over him. He didn’t know what to say or how to say what he wanted properly.

"Why didn’t you come see us? See me?" he asked, as if it wasn’t understood.

You sniffled, "Because I couldn’t bear to look up and see your disappointed gaze. I couldn’t put myself through another heartbreak that evening. I couldn’t put myself through more disappointment," you confessed, the weight of your words hitting him.

"You didn’t trust me enough to respond in any other way? You believed I would have been disappointed?" he questioned, looking down at you. You nodded.

"I was terrified to look you in the eye and tell you that our first viable fetus had failed. I was already a failure to myself, and I couldn’t be one to you. I couldn’t handle it. That was it," you explained, trying to make him understand. It wasn’t that you didn’t want Jack or anyone else to care for you, it was that the look on your husband’s face would have been too much.

"I was only two months along, Michael. For the first time in our marriage, I had fallen pregnant. And all I wanted to do was keep them safe and healthy, and I couldn’t even do that. I’ve failed you, and I’ve failed myself," you said shakily.

Robby lifted your chin once more. "No. You are not a disappointment. You weren’t then, and you most certainly aren’t now." He tried so hard to get you to believe those words.

It all made sense now. The fight. The silence. The walking on eggshells. And most importantly, the vomiting now.

He couldn’t imagine the pain, guilt, and trauma your body had gone through. That killed him. Absolutely wrecked him.

"You have never been a disappointment, my love," he said, searching your eyes.

"We can always try again. We can find another doctor. We can adopt. We can—" you cut him off with a shake of your head.

"I’m exhausted from trying. I’m exhausted from getting opinions, Michael. I—I think I’m done," you paused as you sobbed.

You’d never said those words out loud before, but they’d been in your mind.

Your husband held you close, trying to comfort you and silence your cries. He so desperately wished he could take away your pain, your anger, your disappointment, your guilt—all of it.

"I’m so sorry," you choked, and Robby shook his head.

"No," he spoke softly. "Don’t be sorry. I could never be upset over this." He cried.

"This isn’t and will never be your fault," he comforted.

You felt lighter with the words spoken, the emotions finally released. Robby held you for another hour, and by the time he heard soft snores beneath him, he smiled softly.

He slowly picked you up, just like the night before, and carried you upstairs. He set you down on the cream-colored bed, pulled the comforter over you, and turned off the light on the nightstand. Before he could turn around, you reached out and grabbed his hand.

Without opening your eyes, you spoke: "Stay."

And Robby did.

He’d never need to be told twice.

He pulled you in, as if his life depended on it. He pulled you in, as if he’d never get the opportunity again.

You snuggled into his chest, your eyes fluttering closed.

Robby gazed down at you, through the moonlight peeking through.

"I love you," you whispered, filled with hope.

Robby smiled, as if this was the second best day of his life—outside of your wedding day.

"And I love you more," he kissed you with passion and adoration, as if he’d never, ever get enough of it.

sooooo, that happened. hope you enjoyed if you survived! please comment, like and reblog if you did -- the support would be amazing xx

[sweeethearts]

was colouring after dinner for fun, since i was starting to get a little bored from scrolling through all my streaming services and not wanting to watch anything but the pitt season 2!!! and the more i colour the page, the more i think about doing this cute little hobby in front of robby.

he came home, found you on the kitchen table with alcohol markers scattered around you and an adorable animal spread in front of you. you acknowledge his arrival with a smile, and a giggle when he gives a slight tease on your choice of entertainment. he leaves you be, smiling at the way your lip catches between your teeth in concentration. when he comes back, fresh out the shower, he notices you’re three leaves away from finishing. so he comes around and sneaks his head around to your cheek. one hand on the chair and the other resting on your hip.

“gonna stop now, sweetheart? been colouring for a couple hours now. keep inhaling those alcohol fumes,” he mutters sweetly into your ear. admiring your ability to neatly stay within the lines and experiment with colour blending. noticing the little highlights and the shadows and god it makes him love you more?

“mhm”

“back’s gonna get stiff…” he kisses your cheek again. “gonna need to stretch you out”

you smile, giggle even at his knowing choice of words. “stretch me out, huh?”

know its his turn to share a “mhm”

he scoops you up from the chair, like you dont weigh a thing. you squeal, able to put the cap on the marker in your hand before it hits the book.

“robby! my masterpiece!”

he shares a chuckle, carrying you to the bed and hes so quick to shed you of your shirt. of your pyjama pants and little striped cotton panties with the cute lace trim and small bow at the top.

quick to lap at you for what seems like hours. stretch you out with his digits and cock. let your back arch and lips puff and whines melt into the warmth of his body against yours.

and it isnt until you both catch your breaths for the night, bodies tangled with each other, that you notice a marker sticking out of your pants pocket on the floor. the good pink! the prettiest pink you own.

so you lean down to grab it, situate yourself onto robby’s lap, his big hands instinctively going to your hips, squeezing as you take off the cap.

he doesn’t speak, just watches you with soft eyes and a loving smile plastered on his lips. feels the way the cold tip of the marker curves around his chest, right below his collarbone. a heart there. a bow here.

all pretty and pink!

all so you.

on him.

your own little mark. your own little touch. and even if it doesn’t rub off in time for tomorrow’s shift, robby doesn’t really care. knows he’ll carry around your little doodle for the day with honour. and maybe when he comes home, you’ll do it again. somewhere else.

everywhere.

[spookypeachpitt13]

Your first weekend away with Robby….

Everyone wonders why you’re limping on Monday….

[er1nne]

rules for requesting & reading

hi angels ~

please read below for important rules before you request / keep reading my works here on my page.

i) Do not copy my works and repost then on ANY site, including tumblr. Or, translate then into any language and repost them. It’s

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iii) I am at the liberty to accept or deny request sent to my ask box with my discretion. Long asks that are far too detailed will be skipped.

iv) I write for just about anyone, but I am open to others too. I write mostly anything except extremely themes like non-con, incest, etc. I write SFW and NSFW (getting into write smut hehe), fluff, angst (even though it's my least favorite genre) etc.

people i currently write for :

drew starkey and all of his portrayals

tom blyth and all of his portrayals

noah wyle and all of his portrayals

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all requests will have the following tag :

𓆩 er1nee writes! 𓆪 & 𓆩 works! 𓆪 : all works including oneshots, moodboards, drabbles + blurbs, head canons, and series masterlists could be found under this tag

𓆩 angel answers! 𓆪 : answering your asks!

𓆩 angel numbers! 𓆪 : just a mix of everything here — late-night thoughts, updates, announcements, photo dumps, video clips, edits, etc.

[movies-to-add-to-your-tbw]

Title: Enough

Rating: PG-13

Director: Michael Apted

Cast: Jennifer Lopez, Billy Campbell, Juliette Lewis, Dan Futterman, Fred Ward, Bill Cobbs, Jeff Kober, Bruce A. Young, Tessa Allen, Christopher Maher, Janet Carroll, Noah Wyle, Bruce French, Dan Martin, Brent Sexton, Sandra Nelson, Lynne Marie Stewart

Release year: 2002

Genres: drama, thriller

Blurb: Working-class waitress Slim thought she was entering a life of domestic bliss when she married Mitch, the man of her dreams. After the arrival of their first child, however, her picture-perfect life is shattered when she discovers Mitch's hidden possessive dark side, a controlling and abusive alter-ego that can turn trust, love, and tranquillity into terror. Terrified for her child's safety, Slim flees with her daughter. Relentless in his pursuit and enlisting the aid of lethal henchmen, Mitch continually stalks the prey that was once his family.

[jackrrabbot]

https://www.tumblr.com/jackrrabbot/787426022818709504/thinking-about-noah-wyle-in-that-interview-where?source=share

OH. MY. GOD. WHAT INTERVIEW?!?!?!?!?! I NEED.

i’m actually not sure! i just saw a little blurb from noah randomly bringing it up in this post haha

[welcometomy20s]

January 10th, 2021

Action Button Review

Review

Tim Rogers reminds me of Hank Green. They are about the same age, they look about the same age which is a combination of young and old that feel eternal. They also have the same length of experience in writing in online spaces, interest in Japanese media, and apparently have Crohn’s disease? In summary, he might be the closest equivalent to Dave Green that exists in the real world. Well, I guess Dave Green is not apt, as Dave Green is not special in a way, while Tim Rogers is special, but his speciality comes from his failures rather than his counterparts' success.

Tim Rogers is a hypothetical Green brother who did not decide to publish that book. He’s a hypothetical Green brother who went to Japan instead of Alabama or Florida. Whose project crashed and burned rather than a surprise success. He’s forged in fire while the Green brothers are eroded by water. Both are wonderful people, but with a different ground of intensity and differing wealth of wisdom.

I encountered this series because I found a twitter post about a six hour review of Tokimeki Memorial, and a white middle-aged man talking about a dating sim for six hours with laudatory blurbs would always pique my interest, but since I didn’t know the guy, I went ahead and looked if he made other videos, and found he has four other review that were all about three hours or more. Now I knew that I had to watch all the reviews to prepare myself for this six hour review of Tokimeki Memorial.

Now, I wasn’t a stranger to three hour reviews of video games. I watched Joseph Anderson, Raycevick, Whitelight, matthewmatosis, and Noah Gervais-Caldwell. In fact, in the comments below Action Button Reviews, many people talked about a comparison to Noah Gervais-Caldwell (and Brian David Gilbert) and that was quite funny since I actually watched a recent Noah Gervais-Caldwell video.

His first two reviews were perfunctory, him opening himself up and trying out new things and polishing his review style, as he went through the Final Fantasy VII remake and The Last of Us. While I watched The Last of Us, I distinctly remembered and contrasted Noah’s The Last of Us Part 2 review with Tim Roger’s The Last of Us review. I liked Tim Roger’s defense of interactive movies (although he denies it!) contrasted with more cynical but ultimately positive connotation in Noah’s review. And Noah’s thesis pairs nicely with Tim’s observation that Ellie was the main protagonist all along. That fact makes Part 2 much more understandable, even the bad parts.

When I finished watch his first two reviews, I went ahead and also watched several of Tim’s videos on Kotaku, which were slightly shorter, the longest being just over an hour, which is a review of the best games in 1994, and does contain a short segment about Tokimeki Memorial, which his six hour review was my destination. To put in context, Tokimeki Memorial was #3. #1 was Earthbound, #2 was Final Fantasy VI, and #4 was Super Metroid. And I just watched a playthrough of Super Metroid basically on a whim, because it’s a monumental and a great game to play and watch.

And while the segment of the games that I knew to be great and monumental in my absorption of knowing video games was deeply personal and rightly claimed its stake that it deserved its spot, his segment of Tokimeki Memorial never got there. It was almost as if he was deliberately hiding behind something. In the end of 1994 review, Tim pitched an idea about a three hour Earthbound review, which probably was Tim’s idea of floating a departure from Kotaku, which would happen two months later, and I wonder if he was trying to deliberately throw a curveball by making a video of Tokimeki Memorial instead of the promised Earthbound review. This may be a far leap, I admit.

I went back and watched the video about Doom. It was much better in quality and in darkness. I was reminded of Film Crit Hulk’s writing of The World’s End and James Bond, another very long essay that was deeply personal and chapter for easier consumption. Few commenters noticed that Tim Rogers was just doing a dramatic reading of his written reviews on Kotaku and Action Button dot net, and how they liked that approach, and I found myself liking that approach as well. You might believe a video review needs more than just reading an essay out loud, but just the act of reading an essay out loud in the correct intonation and inflection adds ton to experience. And Tim Rogers sounds like he has decades worth of experience to present a dramatic reading of his essay very effectively, much like Hank Green.

I continued scaling the mountain to my goal. I went through his review of Pac-Man and was delighted by his reading of Namco games, and was impressed by the opening sequence, and just generally enjoyed it. I was getting excited to set a day aside and let the six hour review of Tokimeki Memorial watch over me and reduce me to dust.

And it sure did. That six hours was a harrowing experience. What Tim Rogers is best at is telling a story, and so to go through a let’s play was a wish I never made, fulfilled. In the end, I was left with nothing and everything. It was like finishing a really good book.

I wanted to watch it again, then again I never wanted to watch it again. It was almost a traumatic experience. Tim talked about there being endless variation of love, and the love Tim Rogers went through was not the fluffy yet melancholic one that I craved, but one akin to a devotion of an eldritch god. Love made in justification for one’s efforts in attending and maintaining a relationship. A love stronger than most kinds of love, but most draining and taxing as well. Tim Roger’s synopsis of Tennis Monster reminded me of Asking for It by Louise O’Neill, which is also about empathizing a quite hateable character because we kind of have to. Apparently one person knows the full plot because Tim Rogers rambled on about it as he was couch surfing in his house, and unbelieve as it usually is, I fully trust that the commenter is telling the truth.

I was like a heroin addict, who really wanted a different hit, like talking to friends or hiking, my mother wanted me to go hiking with her, and I didn’t because, after the pandemic started, all I wanted to be was inside. Outside felt diseased. The air outside felt contaminated to me, hard to breathe. I was stuck in this place.

Tim Rogers is an exceptional figure. He seems to be a movie protagonist, he reminds me of The Librarian, played by Noah Wyle. Tim has eidetic memory, as he has access every single autobiographical memory formed, but not other types of memory. We know that those types of memory are different because of people like Tim and people who are opposite of Tim, someone who has no memories of autobiographical memory but otherwise fine. These people tend to have very few emotions and have a hard time deciding things. Lack of emotions is correlated with difficulty in decision making.

So Tim is the opposite of that, Tim is full of emotions, complex emotions and he can make decisions and carry it out in a snap. He would be good at school, and he was, but he would be too focused on his grandeur to be under some authority, which is how he became who he was. His anti-authoritarian nature rings throughout his reviews, highlight the general Generation X vibe that Tim exudes but also the modern socialistic movement of Generation Z, which adds to this odd mix of old and new.

Not only does Tim have eidetic memory and intense work ethic that he never seems to move away from, therefore making a three hour video masterpiece at a clip that seems unbelievable for a seasoned viewer, he also has exceptional skills in fast math and language, he seems to be at least familiar with dozens of languages, and of course Tim’s experience is bounded by his decade of living in Japan.

I think this is why Tim naturally gravitates towards video games. When Tim says ‘welcome to video games’ there’s a natural supposition that Tim Rogers is the protagonist of video games, and I think he is. Tim wants to be in video games, because he needs to be in video games, instead of some almighty god cruelly deciding to plop him into a real life. He should be an video game adaptation of The Librarian and go on world-spanning adventure and romance impossibly beautiful girls instead of toiling the grime of what real life portends to. His life is dramatic, but impossibly mundane as well. It’s a simulacrum of a movie or a video game, which is pretty cool on its own.

But of course Tim Rogers isn’t the only part of Action Button Reviews. In the ensuing five videos, Tim Rogers tries to do something. Video games are a wide net. There is so much to video games, something like Gone Home and Geometry Dash are included alongside Wolfenstein The New Colossus and Farmville. What makes a video game? Actually, the more interesting question is, why do we have the term ‘video games’? Why do we put all of this mess into a single category, as if there is some throughline.

Tim Rogers starts to do that. Tim Rogers boldly states that things like Doom and Tokimeki Memorial are intimately connected to each other. And that all video games are in conversation with each other, through deep and complex meta-narratives. Tim Rogers is a cartographer, trying to map out how video games are made whole.

I’ve always strived to be that kind of a cartographer, to showcase the weave of reality, of connecting two seemingly unconnected parts, and showing to a profound implication both existing, instead of one or the other. If you don’t know, I have been trying to write something out of my current obsession with Virtual YouTubers, and mostly Hololive, and while I think I stumbled upon the six hour video review of Tokimeki Memorial outside of my interest in virtual YouTubers, this video, as I expected in the back of my head, gave me plenty of thoughts about Hololive. Its rumination of cyberpunk and idol culture is so directly connected with the peculiarities of Hololive that I was quite astounded.

From the very beginning, I wonder how Tim Rogers thinks about Hololive, especially after he has done that six hour review. I’m sure he will have a lot of interesting thoughts about the prospect. I want to get in contact with him, maybe work under him. But then I don’t want to hang out with him. I want to be near him as he talks to a crowd at a party, but I don’t feel safe to be near him when there’s less than ten people nearby. I think below ten, I would be swept in some danger that I won’t be prepared for.

Tim Rogers and Action Button Review is a fascinating review series and if you have the time, I suggest you should take the journey. It’s well worth it, just to get a different perspective on video games and the world around it.

[equallyshaw]

saviors & healers- Robby x oc social worker! part one: the healer. - part two. - part three.

ꫂ ၴႅslow enemies-ish to friends to possible lovers(?) trope- lol ꫂ age gap! ꫂ ၴႅၴ dr langdon certified hater. ꫂ ၴႅၴ warnings: swear count. panic attacks. violence. ꫂ ၴႅၴ word count: 4.9k. masterlist:

Dr. Nina Wojicki was practically burning holes through Dr. Robby’s skull. No—scratch that. She was.

The tension in the Pitt was thick enough to scalpel, and it had been since the second she stepped foot inside. Her presence always stirred the air, but today it was sharper. Louder. Angrier.

And the number one name on her helllist—as the rest of the Pitt liked to call it—was Dr. Robby.

She never called him that, though. No, she made a point to call him Michael, every time, no matter how many times he corrected her. It wasn’t petty. It was strategic.

Her stubbornness had long become legendary in the Pitt—equal parts intriguing and exhausting. And today, Michael could feel it in his bones.

Fresh from the University of Chicago with a PhD in Social Work and newly thirty, Nina had wasted no time making the ER her personal battlefield. Charm when needed, daggers when not. She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to do the damn job—and she was damn good at it.

Michael knew that. Maybe a little too well.

Currently, she was scrolling through the system at the nurses’ station, eyes narrowing at the patient logs. Her tongue clicked once. Then again. Then a third time, sharper now.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Of course he didn’t log him.”

Across the room, Michael didn’t need to look up. He heard the click. Felt the shift. He knew she was coming.

He braced himself.

Langdon, ever the observant one, caught the look in Michael’s eyes and turned just in time to see the ash-brunette stomping their way. Her hands were buried in the pockets of her coat, fingers twitching around a bundle of Flair pens.

Bad sign.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Wojicki,” Langdon greeted, arms folded and eyes dancing. “To what do we owe this… delightful appearance?”

She shot him a look, then turned to Michael without skipping a beat. “Your incompetent doctor here didn’t log in the psych patient from this morning.”

Michael didn’t flinch, eyes still on the chart in front of him. He was already preparing for the storm. “Oh no,” he said dryly. “The horror.”

Nina’s jaw tightened. Langdon chuckled.

“Don’t even start, Jumpy,” she warned, pointing a finger at him.

He smirked. “Relax, Miss Fidgety. What earth-shattering crime did I commit this time?”

She cocked an eyebrow, sarcasm sharpened like a scalpel. “You didn’t enter the 8 a.m. patient’s info. The one I evaluated. I don’t have access to his file, and now I can’t input my follow-up diagnosis.”

Langdon stepped in. “He’s not your patient, Nina.”

“Excuse me?” Her fire ignited. “He has schizophrenia, Franky. That makes him my patient.”

“It’s not confirmed schizophrenia. It’s a symptom cluster. We don’t slap labels on one visit.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffed. “You wouldn’t have paged me if you didn’t suspect it was psychological and not physical.”

“I didn’t make that call,” Langdon snapped. His eyes flicked to Michael.

Michael still hadn’t looked up.

But he was listening. Every word. Every heartbeat.

Nina pivoted again, now arms crossed. “Wanna speak up, Dr. Michael?” she asked, each word sugarcoated in attitude.

Finally, he shut the file with a satisfying snap and walked past Langdon, slapping the chart into his chest. “Follow me,” he muttered, not sparing either of them a glance.

Nina narrowed her eyes, growling under her breath as she stalked after him.

“So it was you,” she hissed. “You made the call. You looped me in.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He knew she’d follow. He always knew.

They reached the on-call room. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

She shut it behind her with a loud click.

“You gonna keep ignoring me, or are we going to have a grown-up conversation?” Nina asked, arms still crossed.

Michael turned, finally facing her. His shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“You stormed into the Pitt like a damn hurricane, Nina. You wanna talk about grown-up behavior?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I just let bad patient documentation slide? Want me to play nice while someone falls through the cracks?”

His jaw twitched. “No. But you could try not lighting the place on fire every time you find a mistake.”

She stepped closer. “Maybe if people around here actually did their jobs, I wouldn’t have to play fire marshal.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was tired. Honest. “You always this intense, or do I just bring out your best?”

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the way he said it. Not mocking. Not amused. Just… low. Real.

“You bring out something, that’s for sure,” she muttered. Her voice wavered. Just enough for him to catch it.

They stood there—too long. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was dense. Like grief. Like something was about to be said and neither wanted to be the one to break it.

He took a step closer. So did she.

Close enough now that he could see the slight tremble in her fingertips. The crease between her brows. The way her breath hitched before she spoke.

“I paged you because I trust your gut,” he said finally. “Not because I needed a lecture.”

Her breath caught halfway in her throat. “Then next time, say that. Don’t leave me out in the Pitt to fight with Frank like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not the problem,” he said—quiet. Fast. Like it had been waiting to leave his mouth. “You’re just the only one brave enough to yell about it.”

That silenced her.

He studied her—every flicker of emotion she tried to smother.

“You act like everyone hates you here.”

“They don’t have to like me,” she muttered.

“No. But I think some of us do,” he said—and added, almost too quiet to hear—“a little too much.”

Her eyes darted to his.

The air cracked.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not even a touch. But his hand brushed the door handle like he needed to remind himself where the line was.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

Finally, he spoke. Voice hoarse. “You should probably go document your follow-up. We’ll talk again—just… maybe not in front of the whole ER next time.”

Her lips twitched, somewhere between a smirk and a challenge. “Sure. If you grow a spine and back me up next time.”

He let out a dry laugh. “Deal.”

But as she brushed past him—shoulder to shoulder—neither of them said what they were really thinking.

__

Dr. Nina had just gotten in for the early evening and overnight shift, which she dreaded. But at least there was an upside: Dr. Abbot; who quite honestly felt like her dad in some ways.

Was her father a doctor? No, he was a lawyer. Was her dad a fisher? Also, no. Was he kind, empathetic, but also had a sarcastic side? Yes and yes. Was he also grey haired? Triple yes.

She hadn’t turned on her pinger when her phone rang at her desk, just as she sat down. Her nostrils flared as her mouth clenched, and she picked up the phone.

“Yes?” she spat a little too quickly—and quickly felt guilt seep into her abdomen.

Dr. Robby on the other side was taken back for a moment before speaking, “Dr. Nina? We need you down in the Pitt for a moment—”

She cut him off. “Dr. Michael, I can’t come down at this moment. Is Dr. Alfaro there? Or Dr. Murphy?” she questioned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

She thought of the other social workers who could’ve just arrived or were already there.

She heard Dr. Michael sigh. “Well, yes, but—”

She cut him off again. “I can’t come down, Dr. Robinavitch. You need to find someone else.”

She stated his full name, promptly ending the conversation.

Dr. Michael stood there for a brief few seconds before nodding. “Of course, Dr. Wojicki,” he declared before hanging up.

He stood with his hand finally retreating from the corded phone, his eyebrows crinkled. He didn’t think she’d ever called him by his last name besides the first day they met.

Even though that attitude was a regular occurrence, it was never first thing when she got here.

She slapped the phone back into the receiver and stared up at the ceiling, leaning back in her chair.

God, she hated it when this happened. And she cursed herself for not staying on top of herself.

After moving here from Chicago—five months ago now—she’d definitely let her health and wellbeing fall to the back burner.

Now, it was beginning to take a toll.

She thought she’d be okay moving to a new city. But no. She’d been wrong.

Again.

__

Twenty-five minutes later, there was a knock at Nina’s office door.

She froze.

Held her breath. Slowed it. Willed her pulse to calm as she silently begged whoever it was to just go away.

“I know you’re in there, Dr. Wojicki.”

Damn.

She recognized the voice immediately—familiar and frustratingly warm. Dr. Michael Robby.

With a loud, dramatic sigh, she pushed herself up from her chair and made her way to the door, dragging her feet more than she’d admit.

When she opened it, Michael stood there, eyes scanning her the way only someone trained in observation—and maybe something a little more personal—could.

She looked like hell. Pale, drawn, and tense. Purple bags hollowed out her under-eyes, and her pupils were blown, uneasy. She stood there in front of him, arms crossed too tightly and confidence nowhere in sight.

Very unlike her.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately.

She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that my line?”

He chuckled, and somehow it echoed in her chest—warm, unexpected. Her spine tingled. Her cheeks flushed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard you say that before. Not to me, and definitely not in the Pitt,” he teased, leaning against the frame like he had all day.

Nina exhaled and rubbed the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut. Michael’s gaze flicked downward, catching the faint bruises along her hands—half hidden, half colored by her naturally cool-toned skin.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Nina?” he asked again, this time softer.

Her eyes opened slowly, sharp and guarded. “Peachy,” she muttered before closing the door in his face.

She didn’t slam it. But she made sure he heard the click of the lock.

Michael stood there for a beat, replaying what he saw, what he sensed, and—more than anything—what he believed.

Then he walked away.

Inside, Nina sagged against the front of her desk like someone had pulled the plug. A sob broke through before she could stop it, followed by another, and another, until silent tears carved rivers down her face.

Her body was exhausted. Her mind—shattered. And emotionally? She was drowning. Dried out and waterlogged all at once.

Sleep was a fantasy. Functioning was becoming one too. And if something didn’t give soon, she would break.

No. She was breaking.

She laid a trembling hand flat against her chest, trying to still the panicked beat beneath. It felt like her heart was either going to burst or give out entirely—and she wasn’t sure which terrified her more.

She was running on fumes. And even those were poisoned with depression, anxiety, unresolved trauma—emotions she had battled her whole life, but now, without medication or support, they were winning.

She’d thought the move would bring her peace. A new city. A new chapter. A reset.

But it hadn’t.

It amplified everything.

And somewhere along the way, she’d started to feel abandoned, even though no one had technically left her. She had chosen this. Chosen alone.

But it still stung like rejection.

She felt unloved. Unlovable. Like no one would care if she just… disappeared.

Head tilted back, eyes locked on the dimmed ceiling light, she whispered into the silence—not really expecting an answer:

Why me?

What did I do to deserve this?

How could someone so empathetic, so hardworking, someone who tried so damn hard to care for everyone else… be left to carry this much?

Her only answer was the weight in her chest.

And the silence. Always, the silence.

__

6:42 AM; the next morning.

She had exactly 18 minutes left before she could leave this hellhole—also known as the Pitt. She’d been stuck down here with Dr. Abbott for the better part of her shift, dealing with one psychological patient after another as they rolled in throughout the night. Dr. Nina was now checking in on her last patient of the shift, and immediately, she sensed something was off. Call it spidey senses, call it intuition—whatever it was, the energy of the room shifted, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

"Good morning, Mr. Callahan—what brings you in today?" she asked as she approached the computer next to his bed. He didn’t respond, only stared at her. She offered a soft smile. "It’s early, I know. That’s alright."

She was about to speak again when his file loaded, but before she could, he snapped.

"You! You’re the one who fucking poisoned me!" His voice screamed out, and Nina froze.

Me?

She’d never met this man in her life.

"I understand that you’re agitated, and the meds should be working soon, but I don’t think we’ve ever met before. Have you been here—"

He cut her off, suddenly lunging off the bed, his movements frantic. In an instant, he knocked her back into the wall, the sharp edge of a scalpel gleaming in his hand. His IV tore from his arm, blood spilling out and splattering all over her. Nina’s gaze locked onto the scalpel, and her body tensed. Fear crawled down her spine as his face came dangerously close to hers. She turned her head, trying to escape his proximity, but he screamed in her ear.

"You’re going to regret ever giving me meds, Matilda! I’m gonna fucking kill you!" His words were full of rage, and before she could react, the scalpel pressed to her throat.

He didn’t get far before he was suddenly yanked backward. Dr. Abbott, appearing from nowhere, put himself between Nina and the patient. He glared at the man, fury flashing in his eyes. "Don't you move another step," Abbott warned, his voice low but deadly. "I will gladly lose my license today if that means you don't touch her."

Nina coughed, the blood from her neck trickling down her skin. Her eyes dilated, her body still locked in fight-or-flight mode. But underneath it all, she felt like a little girl again, alone and helpless—berated by her parents with no one to protect her.

As soon as Dr. Abbott saw that the patient was restrained by other nurses, he turned back toward Nina. His concern grew when he realized she was nowhere to be found. He looked down.

She was curled into a ball on the floor, her body rocking back and forth, her head hitting the wall behind her with each movement. Uncontrollable tears streamed down her grey-blue eyes, her heart sinking as if it had fallen straight through her chest. She was in a daze, unsure if what had just happened was real or just a hallucination. Was she so dissociated that her mind had fabricated the whole thing?

Dr. Abbott kneeled in front of her, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. "Nina," he said softly, his voice full of concern.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and she flinched, pulling away. "Don’t touch me," she hissed, her voice shaky.

"Nina, please, let me help—"

She shook her head violently, standing up in a rush. Her eyes were wide with terror as she scanned the room, desperate to escape the suffocating walls closing in around her.

Before Dr. Abbott could say another word, she bolted. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she ran past the nurse's station, where the Pitt crew was just arriving for their shift. They watched her, confused, as she sprinted toward the stairwell. Dr. Michael had just arrived for the day and caught a fleeting glimpse of her ash-brown hair disappearing into the stairwell in mere seconds.

Nina didn’t stop to think. She just ran. She ran up six flights of stairs, her breath growing shallow, her vision clouded by the rush of blood and panic. All that could be heard were the heavy, ragged sobs and shallow breaths as she pushed herself onward.

When she reached the sixth floor, she staggered out of the stairwell. She was met with curious eyes, but they quickly dropped to the blood soaking through her white coat—her neck still bleeding from where the scalpel had grazed her skin. Fuck. She would need a new one. She groaned inwardly.

"Dr. Nina—" Kiara began, but before she could say anything else, Nina bolted past her, heading straight for her office.

She slammed the door behind her, too frantic to lock it. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for somewhere to hide. Her gaze fell on the wooden desk in front of her. She yanked out the chair and collapsed beneath it, curling up into a ball, pressing herself against the solid wood.

Her sobs grew louder as she rocked back and forth, trying to calm herself, but finding no relief. She felt completely undone, trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

No one would help her. No one would ask if she's ok.

Yet. She didn't want anyone to. She didn't want to seem like a problem. A child.

__

It was a mere few minutes later, Robby going into saving mode, when she heard a soft knock on the door, followed by the gentle click of it opening. Footsteps padded softly into the room, and she immediately froze, her body tensing with unease.

Who was it?

"Dr. Nina?" came the familiar voice of Dr. Michael.

A sob escaped her before she could stop it, and she quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. His eyes darted to the desk—he knew. He knew she was under there. Quietly, he shut the door behind him, walked around the desk, and pulled out the chair.

He looked down at the fragile woman who suddenly felt like a scared child. She couldn’t meet his gaze, too afraid he’d be angry with her—for being a burden, a problem, a mess. She curled deeper into herself, although there was no more space left to retreat.

He knelt down, gently setting the supplies Dana had brought him: gauze, saline solution, stitches, bandages.

"Did that really just happen?" she whispered, the question stopping Robby in his tracks.

"Did they really just attack me?" she asked again, her voice barely audible. She wasn’t even sure her mind was telling the truth—it had lied to her before.

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

She finally lifted her head, and what he saw confirmed his worst suspicion.

“Did that patient really attack me? Did he really hurt me?” Her voice cracked. She didn’t feel it—her neck, her shoulder, her head. There was no pain.

She was simply numb.

“I think you may be concussed,” Robby said, studying her face. Her pupils were dilated. Her skin was pale—though, with her, that was always the case. Then he saw the cut on her neck, and the blood staining her white coat and black work clothes.

“May I check you? I want to rule out a concussion, Nina.”

Something about the way he said her name—soft, careful—made her heart ache. She nodded, inching just out from under the desk. He checked her eyes with a small light, guiding her vision with his finger. No concussion. Good.

He motioned toward her neck. She sighed and tilted her head.

“It’s beginning to clot. That’s good,” he said, cleaning the area with gauze and saline. Next, he examined the bruises already forming around her neck. She nodded, allowing him to lift her shirt slightly to peek at her shoulders.

Gods, she bruised so easily.

“Already bruised?” she teased weakly.

He glanced at her, then back at the dark marks. A small chuckle slipped out as he reached for a bandage.

“Something tells me you’re not surprised?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, with this ghostly complexion? I bruise if the wind breathes on me too hard.”

After securing the bandage, his gaze fell to her hands, marked with smaller bruises.

“May I ask why your hands are bruised, then?” he asked gently.

She immediately tucked them behind her.

“No, no. We’re not doing that,” he said softly, reaching for them again. She didn’t resist as he brought them forward.

She wouldn’t lie—she felt lightheaded. And she couldn’t deny that her breathing faltered slightly when his hands wrapped around hers.

Another confirmation, he thought.

“Is there anyone at home, Nina, who—”

She shook her head quickly. “No. No, It’s just me.”

He nodded, carefully checking her fingers. No breaks. No sprains. Just bruises.

“May I ask why you show up with more bruises every time I see you?” he asked again, voice soft but sincere.

She met his eyes, didn’t pull away. Her hands were still in his, even though he didn’t need to hold them anymore.

She cleared her throat. “My hands… are kind of my go-to when I get really stressed. Or angry.”

She looked down at them. “They’re my personal fidget spinner. I flex them, pull at them, hit them against things just to... feel something. To make my mind shut up for once. I don't know.”

She stopped, realizing what she had just confessed.

His chest tightened.

“Are you taking anything, Nina? Or speaking to someone?”

She shook her head. “Well—not anymore. I used to. Back at the hospital before I moved, I had weekly sessions, meds... but since the move, it’s all taken a backseat and—”

“We have to change that, Dr. Nina,” he said, gently rubbing his thumb across hers. The smallest gesture, yet it made her feel... safe.

“I—I don’t know, Dr. Mic—”

“Robby,” he corrected gently. “Call me Robby.”

She looked up, her grey-blue eyes locking onto his warm brown ones. There were laugh lines around his eyes, but in this moment, they just made him look kind. Steady.

“Robby,” she said, almost tasting the unfamiliar softness of it. “I just... I don’t want to be a burden.”

“An inconvenience?” he asked knowingly. “No. Nina, we as doctors can only do our best when we’re taking care of everything behind the scenes. Our mental and emotional health? Non-negotiable. We can't ignore it. Not in this field.”

She nodded.

“Let’s talk to Kiara. I’m sure she can help,” he offered.

Before she could respond, a knock broke the moment. Both turned their heads toward the door.

Robby quickly pulled back, standing up and tidying the used supplies. Dr. Abbott walked in as Nina stood, straightening her clothes—and that’s when she saw it.

The blood.

Her stomach turned.

Without hesitation, Robby held the trash can out in front of her. A reflex. She threw up. Abbott glanced between the two of them—he knew he’d just walked in on something private. You could feel it in the air.

When she finally stopped, Robby handed her gauze to wipe her mouth.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Abbott cleared his throat. Nina turned to him, nervously.

“Hi.”

“I brought you some clean scrubs so you don’t have to drive home in those,” he said kindly. “Just wanted to check on you, kid.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Abbott.”

Robby took that as his cue to leave. As he reached the door, she called after him.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby,” she said warmly.

He met her eyes and smiled before stepping out.

When she turned back around, Abbott was already settled in her chair.

“SO. How can I help you, Mr. Abbott?” she teased, and he chuckled as she sat down.

__

The next morning, she was back.

Sharing a shift with Robby and the rest of the Pitt crew. Anxiety had followed her all night and clung to her as she walked in. Would he pretend nothing happened? Would everything go back to normal? She stepped into her office and saw a letter on her desk—no, two. And next to them, a Dunkin Donuts vanilla latte. She opened the first letter, from Kiara. It promised privacy. Off-the-books sessions. No insurance. The line made her laugh softly.

Then, her eyes landed on the other envelope—pure chicken scratch. Robby. The letter was full of warmth, empathy, and gentle wit. He offered himself as a mentor, a sounding board, or even a brick wall for her sarcasm, should she need one. But most of all, the letter offered friendship. A knock sounded. Robby’s head popped in. “Hi,” she said, slightly flustered. She sat back in her chair as he entered, shutting the door behind him without looking away. She looked rested. For once.

“What do I owe this pleasure?” she teased, sipping the latte. He smiled at the floor, then sat in the chair across from her. “Morning, Nina. How was the rest of your day yesterday?” She smirked. “You know I abhor small talk, Dr. Robby,” she teased. “But wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckled lightly.

“Abbott got me some medical-grade melatonin before I left yesterday. Told me to take three and call it a night once I got home. My cat was very concerned when she woke me up screaming, because I forgot to give her her lunch,” she mused, sipping her coffee.

“A cat?” His eyebrow flicked up, curiosity growing.

“Yes, a kitty. You’d know that if you stopped trying to small talk me every day,” she hummed. “But yeah, I have a six-year-old tabby named Kilo, which—yes—you can already guess why he’s named that. I just say it’s Australian when people ask.”

Robby smiled. “Well, good to know there’s more to you than that wall you keep up,” he said warmly.

She tilted her cup toward him. “Glad to hear some not-so-rude humor from you today, Dr. Nina,” he added boldly.

Her mouth popped open in surprise. “You asshole,” she muttered—but she knew exactly what he meant. She had been a bitch the past few months, after missing her medication refill.

“Dr. Kiara already called UChicago, got your meds refilled—they’re sitting in your desk drawer,” he explained.

She sighed. “I’m gonna kill you all. Starting with Franky downstairs,” she chuckled.

“Oh, wait now, I need him in the clinic today. Maybe after our shift ends,” he replied, sipping his coffee.

“I guess I can hold off,” she playfully sighed.

The two of them sat in a comfortable quiet for a moment, studying one another.

“I don’t want you—or Kiara, or Abbott—to think I’m some kind of weak child who can’t handle this job,” she said gently.

Robby shifted in his seat. She continued, voice steady but low.

“I don’t want you to think I’m incapable of doing good work. My fuel and passion are what keep me going. The reasons behind what I do—they’re at the forefront of my work, every single day.”

He nodded slowly. “We’ve all got our reasons in this profession.”

“Well…” She hesitated. “My childhood wasn’t exactly the greatest. I think I spent more time alone in my room than anywhere else, scared of which parent was going to scream at me next. The only time I felt seen by my family was when I was on my deathbed—figuratively speaking.”

She stared out the window, her features softer than usual. Vulnerable.

“The reason I am who I am—and why I do this work—is because I became the person I longed for as a child. The one I begged for. Screamed for. Until I lost my voice,” she said quietly. “Even then, no one came. No one helped. No one saved me.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands.

“So when I get the chance to save someone else—or just be there for them—it heals me. Little by little. Heals me without me needing to beg for assistance or worry if someone’s going to care. So I don’t have to ask for help or make someone worry about me.”

Robby watched the guilt start creeping back into her eyes. She was bracing herself for rejection.

But he leaned forward instead, his voice warm.

“Well… thank you, Nina. For opening up to me. I want you to never feel like you’re a burden—because you’re not. Your reasons, your passion for this work—it’s admirable. You haven’t let your trauma, your insecurities, or even your setbacks hold you back. I’m incredibly glad to have you here.”

He held her gaze. Those words and his gaze, held something a bit more.

“And I want you to know—everyone else, even when you’re a complete bitch—”

She giggled, softly. A smile crept up on his face.

“—to everyone. Especially me. We’re grateful you’re here. Today and every day. You’re a damn good doctor, Nina. And you’re irreplaceable.”

She felt something warm and unfamiliar creep up her chest—but all she could manage was a nod.

“Thank you, Robby. I appreciate that,” she murmured.

He nodded and stood. “Now meet us downstairs when you’re sure you won’t tear Franky’s head off.”

She giggled again, just a little.

“Tell Franky to put me in the system,” she quipped.

He nodded. “Will do.”

She smiled a little wider, a little brighter than she had in weeks.

Robby left with a heart full—and a smile that didn’t leave his face the rest of the day.

Nina looked back down at the letter Robby had written, her eyes lingering on the number scribbled at the bottom.

But they flitted back to the line just above it—the one that struck her the most:

You don’t have to carry the weight of others or feel like you’re a burden. First, it’s not your weight to carry. And second, you will never be a burden—to the hospital, to the crew, and especially not to me.

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