watchtowerlibrary

[watchtowerlibrary]

Back again

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. an unexpected visitor breaks into your house after having spent years locked away. unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome.

warnings. age gap (pope 39, reader late 20s), breaking and entering, gun mentioned but not used, reader and pope have a son together, cody family mention, pope is awkward af but literally when is he not, reader does not stand on business and misses pope, pope in general, let me know if there's anything else.

notes. I genuinely struggled so hard with this, but it's finally out. I love the show though and am so glad shawn is getting his flowers with how popular the pitt became. if this flops, idk how much i'll regularly write for pope but if something pops into my head or if i get more requests i'll see what i can do! as always thank you so much and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 2800+

It was past midnight.

The waves outside crashed gently against the cliffs, the ocean reflecting slivers of moonlight. Your bathroom—marble floors, soft golden lighting, wide windows overlooking the water—was quiet except for the hum of your favorite playlist and the low hiss of the shower shutting off.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, tucking it at your chest as you padded across the warm floors. Steam clung to the mirrors, fogged your reflection. You barely glanced at it. Just another night, just another routine. Lip balm, face serum, silk robe. Everything in its place. Controlled. Safe.

Until the lights flickered.

You froze. Turned slowly. Then the hallway sensor triggered—that soft click you weren’t supposed to hear from this side of the house.

Your stomach dropped.

This was a gated home. Security on every window and door. Patrols after dark. You lived here because no one was supposed to get in.

But someone had.

You grabbed the drawer under the sink. Your fingers skimmed the handle of the pistol you never thought you’d need to use again. Heart racing, you crept to the open door of the bathroom, back pressed to the wall, breath locked in your chest.

Then you heard it. Slow, steady footsteps on the hardwood. Not rushing. Not clumsy.

Deliberate.

And then he appeared.

You nearly dropped the gun.

“Jesus—”

“Hey,” Pope said quietly, stepping into the golden glow of the bathroom like he belonged there. Like this was his house. His ocean view. His night.

You stared at him—dripping water, towel barely hanging on, heart pounding so loud you couldn’t think. He looked the same and not the same. Bigger. Leaner. That same raw, unreadable face. Eyes locked on you like they hadn’t looked at anything else in three damn years.

“How—how the fuck did you get in?” you finally breathed, voice shaky but sharp.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked around. The bathroom. The house behind you. You.

“Security’s good,” he murmured. “But I’m better.”

Your fingers tightened on the handle of the pistol.

“Put it down,” he said softly. “If I wanted to hurt you… I wouldn’t be standing here talking.”

You hesitated. Then set it on the counter with a hard clack.

“You broke into my house.”

“I needed to see you.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

He took a step closer. You didn’t move, but your breath caught. Everything about him still made your skin burn—fear, fury, and something dangerously close to longing.

“I got out,” he said. “And you weren’t at our old house. Smurf told me you moved. Gave me pictures. Told me you were doing good.”

“Pictures?” Your voice broke. “She gave you pictures?”

“Of him too.”

Your heart clenched.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly. “Didn’t come to take anything. I just… I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out here, and I didn’t know if you were okay.”

You stared at him, the towel still wrapped tight around you, pulse thrumming through every inch of your body. The man who once held you like the world might end. The father of your child. The ghost that haunted every night you told yourself you were over him.

“I should call the cops.”

He nodded. “You should.”

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And the silence between you burned.

You still didn’t move.

Pope stood just inside your bathroom, jaw tight, chest rising slow like every breath burned. His eyes swept over the space—over you—like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like maybe he’d dreamed this place a hundred times in a concrete cell and wasn’t sure yet if this was another one.

“Where is he?”

Your chest tightened. “He’s here, in his room.”

His brow twitched. “Here?”

You nodded, heart pounding. “Down the hall. Asleep.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

You crossed your arms. “Didn’t see the point in running. Not when I already knew you would find us.” That landed. He looked away, jaw flexing, like he hated how easily he could’ve shown up if he’d tried.

“I figured you’d leave,” he said after a moment. “Take Danny. Disappear.”

You held his stare. “I thought about it. But… he’s got your last name. And I wasn’t gonna lie about that.”

Pope’s eyes flicked toward the hallway—like he could see through the walls. Like the kid he hadn’t seen in three years was just around the corner, breathing softly in his bed.

“Is he okay?” His voice cracked just a little. “I mean… is he good?”

You nodded slowly. “He’s wild. Sweet. Always asking questions. He’s obsessed with dinosaurs. He thinks mac and cheese is gourmet.”

A ghost of a smile touched Pope’s mouth, then faded fast.

“He’s four now?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Does he… does he know about me?”

You swallowed hard. “Only what I told him. That his dad had to go away for a while. But that he loves him.”

Pope stared at the ground for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought about him every damn day.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust yourself to.

“Can I see him?” he asked, voice rough. “Just for a second. I won’t wake him, I swear.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve thrown him out right then and there.

But you couldn’t.

“Be quiet,” you whispered.

He followed you out of the bathroom. Every step down the hall felt heavy, soaked in everything unsaid. You stopped at the second door on the right—blue paint chipped from tiny hands slamming it too hard, a crooked dinosaur sticker stuck near the bottom.

You eased it open.

There he was—Danny. Small and soft and curled up in a tangle of blankets, one hand clutching a stuffed T-Rex, the other flopped above his head like he’d passed out mid-adventure. A dim night light lit up the corner, casting shadows over his round cheeks and dark lashes.

You felt Pope stop behind you.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel what was radiating off him like heat.

Grief. Wonder. Love. Guilt.

He stepped just close enough to see better—just close enough that his hand brushed the doorframe.

“I missed all of it,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah. You did.”

He stared a little longer, eyes full of something thick and breaking. Then he backed away, slowly.

“Thank you,” he said, voice shaking.

You didn’t reply. Just quietly shut the door behind you.

And for a long, fragile moment, neither of you said anything.

Eventually you had taken him downstairs, after getting dressed. You moved around your kitchen slowly, barefoot on cold tile, the silence stretching between you as the fridge door hummed and the rain ticked against the windows. You grabbed two glasses just… needing something to do with your hands.

Andrew stood near the counter, watching you with that unreadable look he always had—like he was half in the room, half stuck in his own head. 

Staring. Always Staring. 

“I drove by our old place the other day,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It was gone. Sold, actually.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah. Smurf sold it while I was inside, probably after you moved.”

You blinked. “She really sold it? That was your house.”

He shrugged, something bitter flashing in his eyes. “Technically it was Smurf’s. Always was. She held the deed. Didn’t want to ‘waste’ it on me rotting in prison after you left too.”

Your stomach twisted. “Jesus…”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, like it didn’t matter. “Wasn’t much to come back to anyway.”

You leaned against the island, glass in hand. “I thought you’d still be staying there. Honestly, I figured I’d see you lurking in the backyard one day.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you wanted me anywhere near you.”

You gave a small, tired smirk. “Depends on the day.”

He didn’t laugh, but you saw the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. Still, he wouldn’t sit. Wouldn’t touch the water. Like he didn’t trust himself to get comfortable.

You let the silence hang a beat longer, then asked gently, “You been staying with your family?”

“Yes and no, mainly staying at a motel,” he said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “They don’t want you in the house?

“Pretty much.”

“And Smurf?”

He paused, eyes flicking toward the window. “She called it. Gave me some cash, some kid’s been staying in my room. You remember J?”

You swallowed. “Barely, but that sounds like your mom.”

He glanced at you. “You still see her?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. Holidays, mostly. She sends gifts. Makes a show of being ‘Grandma Smurf.’” You exhaled, slow and careful. “It’s… complicated.”

“I bet,” he murmured.

You met his eyes. “I don’t hate her. For his sake, or yours, I let her in. But I don’t trust her.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Another pause. Then softly, “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“In Oceanside?”

He nodded once.

You let your fingers trail the edge of the counter. “Thought about leaving. But this is where he was born. Where we held him for the first time. I didn’t want to erase that just because it hurt.”

Pope looked at you like you’d cracked something in him wide open.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your name,” he said.

“I didn’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted him to remember where he came from. Even if he didn’t know all the details.”

Pope swallowed hard, his voice a low rasp. “I don’t deserve that.”

You shrugged. “It wasn’t about you.”

He looked down at the floor, then back at you, and for a second, it felt like time folded in on itself. Like you were young again, still stupid in love with the broken, furious man no one else could understand.

But you weren’t that girl anymore.

And he wasn’t that guy.

Still… your voice came soft, like it always did with him.

“You should stay. I’ll set out some blankets for the guest room.”

Pope didn’t move. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You gave a tired smile. “Then don’t, Andrew.”

It didn’t take long for you to set him up, and go back to your own room. Sleep didn’t come easy after that conversation, and knowing that Andrew was in the house at your own volition didn’t do anything to ease the worry building in your chest. You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up—just that the light leaking through your curtains was soft and gray-blue, the kind that came before sunrise on cloudy mornings. Your pillow was warm. Your body was tired. But something pulled you from sleep. Some shift in the air.

Something was different.

You blinked your eyes open and sat up slowly, the ache in your chest blooming before your thoughts caught up. You glanced at the empty space in your bed. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—faintly—voices.

You slipped out of bed barefoot once again, heart ticking fast for reasons you didn’t want to name. The air in the hallway was cool against your skin. You padded toward the stairs, one hand on the railing, every step measured like your body remembered how to be careful in moments like this.

The TV was on.

You crept down, slow and quiet, and paused just before the last step.

And there they were.

Danny curled up on the couch, wrapped in his blue fluffy blanket, head resting against a pillow like he’d done it a hundred times before. And next to him, hunched with his elbows on his knees, was Pope. Quiet, still, eyes trained on the screen—but not really watching.

He looked like he’d been sitting there for hours.

The TV played some old cartoon—one of those early-morning classics with soft colors and slower dialogue. Danny was focused, small smile tugging at his lips. Pope looked like he couldn’t breathe without permission.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Not until Danny mumbled something—“That guy’s mean,”—and Pope gave a little grunt of agreement.

Then his eyes lifted, soft hazel meeting yours.

His whole body tensed like he was about to explain himself, apologize, vanish into the walls. But you didn’t say anything. You just stood there, hand on the railing, heart breaking in slow motion.

“He couldn’t sleep,” Pope said softly. “Said he had a bad dream.”

You nodded, trying to find your voice. “He gets those sometimes.”

“I was coming down to make coffee. He was already up.”

“And you turned on cartoons?” you asked, almost smiling.

Pope looked down, a little sheepish. “Figured it was better than silence.”

You stepped off the last stair, legs slow, body unsure.

Danny caught sight of you and beamed. “He knows all of my shows!.”

“Oh yeah?” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s impressive.”

“He doesn’t know the guy with the stick though.”

Pope gave a small, amused grunt. “I got nothing.”

Danny nodded. “It’s okay.”

You stood behind the couch for a second, arms crossed gently over your chest, watching the two of them. The way Danny had unconsciously scooted closer. The way Pope hadn’t moved a muscle, like shifting might shatter the moment.

You circled around and sat on the arm of the couch, your eyes on your son.

“You okay, baby?”

Danny nodded, rubbing his eye. “I’m not tired.”

“You want breakfast?”

“Not yet,” He leaned against the pillow. “I wanna finish this!”

“Okay bossy pants,” You glanced over at Pope. He was looking at Danny like he was still trying to believe he was real. That this whole thing wasn’t some dream he’d conjured behind a motel curtain.

You lowered your voice.

“How long’ve you been sitting here?”

“A while,” Pope admitted. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You watched him a second, heart twisting in your chest. He looked more human now. Less like a ghost from your past, but still haunted.

He flicked his eyes toward you, voice quieter. “He’s good. You did good.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then you nodded. “Thanks.”

The cartoon kept playing. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—Like the past three years had never happened. 

The cartoon kept playing in the background. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—like the past three years had never happened.

You sat in the quiet for a while, watching Danny’s eyelids droop again, little body finally giving in to sleep. His fingers still clutched the edge of his blanket, leaning into Pope, knowing nothing about personal space. 

Andrew hadn’t moved, barely even breathed, like one wrong shift might wake him or make you change your mind.

You turned your eyes to him, quiet. “So… are you planning on coming back?”

He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes tired and soft and full of something that made your chest ache.

“Only if you want me to.”

Your fingers tightened where they rested on the couch cushion. You wanted to say yes. God, part of you wanted to say it too quickly. But the rest—the part that remembered the weight of his family, the danger they lived in, the years you spent trying to keep Danny far away from it all—held you back.

“I don’t know if I can let you back into his life like nothing happened,” you said quietly. “Not after everything. Not if there’s even a chance they’ll pull you under again.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Pope said. No hesitation. Just that low, steady conviction that used to scare you when it was aimed at other people, one you didn’t know if you could believe. “They don’t get to have that power anymore. Not over me, not over you, and not over him.”

You looked at him for a long moment. And whatever was in his face—grit, sorrow, a promise he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud—felt real.

“I want to believe you,” you whispered. “But I need more than words this time.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll give you more.”

Your eyes fell to Danny, his lashes long against his cheeks, chest rising and falling in soft little breaths.

“You scared me last night,” you said. “But not because I thought you’d hurt us, just… well—I’m sure you get it”

“I do,” Pope murmured. “I get it.”

Another long, aching silence stretched between you. Then he shifted slightly, brushing Danny’s blanket up over his shoulder with a gentleness that shattered something inside you.

“I don’t want to blow this,” he said, eyes still on his son. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

You breathed in slow. Let it out slower.

“Okay,” you said. “Then stay for breakfast.”

Pope looked at you, the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Just… don’t make a habit of breaking into my house.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “No promises.”

But the tension had cracked. The ice was melting, slowly. And somewhere in the quiet, cautious hope started to grow. The cartoon shifted to the next episode. The sun crept higher, lighting up the kitchen in soft gold.

And this time, it felt like maybe you wouldn’t be facing the morning alone.

mercvry-glow 2025

[watchtowerlibrary]

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

I feel seen by Jack 😅 Get itchy and overwhelmed by the big crowds. Good to know I wouldn't be at Pitt-Fest 😬

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression. “…Is that—?” “Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.” He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

Oh God the PRESSURE 😏

“She should see Jack,” she whispered. “No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.” He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers. “You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

🥹 Oh my God

Stop making this hurt

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

summary. jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

warnings. pitt fest incident, guns/shootings, hospital setting, blood and gore, reader gets hurt, death (not reader), medical inaccuracies and not show accurate but i tried my best, jack and robby are stressed af, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. finally my first pitt fest fic, hopefully this is angsty enough for ya'll and pleases all of my anons who asked for this! I love all of you, thank you for almost 300 followers and as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3600+

You knew it was a long shot trying to convince Jack to come with you to Pitt-Fest.

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

And as much as you loved your husband, you weren’t going to fight him on this one.

“Go have fun,” he’d told you that morning, standing in the doorway in his usual worn t-shirt and sweats, a coffee mug in one hand and the other wrapped around your waist. “Text me when you get there. And text me again when you leave. And maybe don’t lose your phone this time?”

You’d rolled your eyes, kissed him once, then twice — and promised to behave.

Truly, it was better for him to spend his one of his days off actually resting, not galavanting around the venue with you and your friends, half-drunk on overpriced cider and yelling about pierogi trucks.

So you let yourself enjoy it. The chaos, the music, the warm breeze coming off the river. You danced with your friends in the middle of the concert to some college band playing covers too fast. You tasted six different kinds of barbecue and took a picture with a guy dressed like a giant bottle of Heinz ketchup. And every couple hours, your phone buzzed with a little check-in from Jack — usually short, always a little dry since he wasn’t a big texter.

JACKY [1:14 PM] You hydrated today or just vibes?

JACKY [3:06 PM] Hope the pierogi truck is worth the foot traffic.

JACKY [4:11 PM] Home if you need me. 

You were smiling at that last one about to respond around 5pm, standing in line for boozy lemon slushies with Emma and a few others, when it happened.

At first, it was just a sound — one that didn’t register immediately. A sharp crack in the distance. Then another. Then screaming.

The crowd surged before your brain caught up. Someone dropped their drink. Someone else shoved you sideways. Your phone slipped out of your hand and hit the pavement.

“Is that—” Emma started to say, eyes wide.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Run.”

You didn’t know where the shots had come from. You didn’t stop to look. You just moved — through the panicked chaos, toward the edge of the crowd, ducking behind a food truck with a group of strangers just as another round cracked the air like lightning.

Your chest was tight. Ears ringing. People were yelling. Crying. Calling for help. And your phone—your phone was still on the street.

Jack.

You couldn’t call him.

But he’d know. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

And however a mile away, as police scanners lit up and trauma alerts pinged on hospital radios, Jack was already on his feet — keys in hand, work boots half tied—and heart racing faster than he’d felt since he returned to US soil.

He didn’t wait for a callback. Didn’t care that he wasn’t on the schedule. He grabbed his badge and his trauma bag and was in the truck before the next dispatcher finished her second sentence.

Because something had happened at Pitt-Fest.

And you were there.

It really sounded like a firecracker at first — maybe someone messing around near the alley that ran behind the Pitt-Fest booths. But then came the second, then the third. Screaming followed.

You turned your head just in time to see another wave of people running. And then—

“EMMA!!”

She was beside you one second, and the next, she was down.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just dropped to your knees, catching her head before it hit the pavement, your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hey, hey—Em—look at me,” you said, your voice louder than you realized. “Where were you hit?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, blood already soaking through her shirt and fingers.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “Okay. Okay, pressure. Emmy, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You barely noticed the searing pain until your legs buckled and you were on your side. A sharp, ripping sensation tore through your ribs like glass.

Shot. 

You had been shot too.

Someone was shouting. A vendor nearby had flipped a table and was screaming for people to duck. A stranger—a kid, maybe barely twenty not much younger than you—ran toward you both through the chaos, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? I have a truck—”

“Help us—please!” you said, trying to sit up, trying not to black out. “I’m a doctor—ER. Trauma. She needs a hospital now.”

He nodded, panicked, glancing at the blood now pooling on the concrete. “We’re like five blocks from PTMC—I’ll drive!”

You helped haul Emma up with shaking arms, biting back a cry when your chest screamed in protest. She groaned as you dragged her toward the curb, her weight nearly toppling you.

The kid had his pickup pulled up half on the sidewalk within seconds.

“Put her in the bed!” you ordered. “It’ll be faster to lift her in!”

Someone else joined—another panicked bystande —helping you hoist Emma into the truck bed as gently and as quickly as possible. You climbed in after her, teeth gritted, your once cute outfit sticky with blood.

“Go!” you screamed as the tailgate slammed shut behind you.

The engine roared and the truck peeled off, tires screeching. You barely held on, your legs braced against the wheel well, one arm clamped across Emma’s wound, the other pressing against your own side to slow the bleeding.

“You’re okay,” you told her, voice tight, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “Emma, you’re gonna make it. You’re not fucking dying at Pitt-Fest! I won’t let you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and you cursed under your breath, checking her pulse. 

Thready. Too fast.

You knew you had minutes. Maybe less.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Jack was at the Pitt. On shift or not, he was always there when it mattered.

He had no idea you were on your way. Or that you were bleeding out in the back of a stranger’s truck, racing through downtown Pittsburgh.

But if you made it… if you could just hold on a little longer…

You’d see him again.

The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart with every pothole it hit on Carson Street. The shocks weren’t built for this kind of weight or speed, and the stranger behind the wheel didn’t care. He’d barely said a word since he’d skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos. Now, you could barely hold your head up.

Emma was curled in on herself across from you, clutching the side of the truck bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her glitter jacket was soaked through—Msot of it hers, some of it not—and her ponytail had come loose, curls hanging limp against her face.

You turned your head toward her, everything in you aching.

“Em,” you rasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Emma, look at me.”

She did, finally. Her lip was split, her eyes glassy. She was holding her side with one hand, the other shaking where it pressed against her stomach. Blood oozed through her fingers.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know.” You reached out, hand slick and trembling. You were starting to feel lightheaded, the pain in your side sharp and spreading, warm and wet and endless. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. We’re almost there.”

She nodded—but then her gaze dropped to your side, and her eyes widened. “Babe… you're—”

“Don’t look at me.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe, Em. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. The blood loss was getting worse. Your top was drenched. The bullet had torn low, near your hip, and every bump in the road sent fresh agony lancing through your whole body. You tried to apply pressure but your arm wouldn’t stop shaking.

The guy driving honked again, swerving around a city bus. Ahead, PTMC’s trauma bay came into view, the red trauma flags flapping against the gray building. Almost there. Almost safe.

Then Emma made a sound that shattered you.

It was small. Wet. A choking breath followed by nothing.

You lurched forward, dragging yourself toward her with everything you had left. 

“Emma—Emmy. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Her head lolled. Her eyes were still open, just barely. “I’m really cold,” she whispered.

“No, baby. No, you’re not.” You gathered her into your lap, tried to shield her with what strength you had left. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

The truck hit the curb at full speed, rocking the bed. The brakes screamed as it slid sideways, stopping half a second before it would’ve crashed into the wall of the trauma bay. And then hands—at least half a dozen of them—were yanking open the tailgate.

Chaos.

“Two critical GSWs in the back—Jesus, they’re both going out!”

“She’s losing consciousness!”

“Someone help me get her—”

“She’s coding!”

You heard all of it like you were underwater. You were vaguely aware of someone pulling Emma from your limp arms. Someone else catching you as your head dropped back, limp, blood seeping down your spine.

A nurse’s voice rang out as she tried to open your airway.

“Who is she—anyone got a name?!”

No one answered.

Inside the trauma bay, Jack was elbow-deep in yet another chest wound, barking orders, adrenaline humming through his veins. He didn’t hear the commotion at the ambulance bay over the noise of suction and a flatline monitor. Didn’t look up when the bay doors slammed open again.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t know that somewhere down the hall, two trauma rooms were opening side by side—one for your best friend who wouldn’t make it, and one for you, his wife, who just might.

Not yet.

But he would.

He always did.

Now rushing inside to the hub, “Her BP’s eighty systolic and dropping—she’s hemorrhaging fast.”

“Pulse is thready. Pupils sluggish.”

“Get Dr. Robby in here, now!”

The trauma bay was already spinning into motion when Michael stepped through the sliding doors, hand dragging down over his messy brown hair. He was halfway into his  new trauma gown as he crossed the room.

“What’ve we got?”

“GSW to the lower abdomen. Entry left, possible exit—can’t tell through the bleeding. She was brought in non-EMS, unknown downtime.”

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression.

“…Is that—?”

“Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

“Alright. Let’s move. I need two large-bore IVs, type and cross, four units O-neg hanging yesterday, and someone page trauma surgery—now.”

A nurse slid a face shield over his head as he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Pressure dressing’s soaked through.”

“She’s crashing, Dr. Robby.”

Michael leaned in over your body, catching the faintest movement of your chest. He knew your voice, your laugh, the way you snapped off one-liners at Jack and him in the hall. And right now, none of that mattered. You were just another patient bleeding out on his table. And he was going to keep you alive.

“Hang another liter. Let’s get a FAST scan going—we need to find that bleed.”

A tech slid gel across your abdomen. The screen flared to life, the grainy black-and-white image revealing what they were dreading.

“She’s bleeding into her abdomen,” someone said.

“No kidding,” Robby muttered. Then louder: “Alright. We don’t have time. Prep her straight for the OR. I want her there five minutes ago.”

He pressed down on the wound with both hands, hard. Princess to his left winced.

“She should seee Jack,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.”

He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers.

“You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered once, lips barely parted. A sound escaped, too soft to decipher as Mikey leaned closer. 

Not as a doctor now, but as a close friend. 

“What was that?”

Your mouth twitched. “Tell… Jack…”

But then your body jolted under his hands—heart monitor screaming into v-fib.

“Code!” someone shouted.

“Start compressions!” Robinavitch was already moving, calling for paddles. “One of you get Abbot!”

“But he’s still in Pink—”

“I don’t care if he’s in surgery or nott,” he snapped. “Tell him it’s his wife. Tell him she’s coding.”

Across the hospital floor, Jack looked up—something in his chest going cold before he even knew why.

The Pink Zone was chaos, and Red was a shit show. 

Jack had blood smeared to his elbows and the kind of tension in his jaw that only came from running full tilt on no sleep. His short, curls—streaked at the temples with silver—were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and quick, were laser-focused on the wound in front of him.

“Clamp—now,” he barked, voice low and lethal.

The security guard on the table had been fine for the minute, eventually turning critical. Shrapnel to the chest. He’d already coded once in triage. Jack had cracked him open right there on the gurney, and there was no room in his world for anything else.

Until—

“Dr. Abbot!”

He didn’t look up. “Hold pressure!.”

“Jack!”

That voice. Too familiar.

He finally looked.

One of the new night shift  interns stood just inside the trauma bay doors, Jacob’s own scrubs stained and his expression wrecked. And he never looked wrecked.

Jack straightened, adrenaline still coursing, brow furrowed. “What?”

Jacob’s mouth opened—but nothing came out at first. He took a breath. Another. Then:

“She’s here. Your wife.”

The words didn’t land right at first. Jack blinked, frowning, like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“She what?”

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Came in the fourth or fifth wave from Pitt-Fest,” the young man said, voice tight. “They stabilized her. She was hypotensive on arrival. Tachy. Someone named Emma was with her—they were in the back of a civilian truck.”

The name Emma barely registered.

Jack’s pulse went sideways.

“She coded once—Robby sent her to the OR.”

“No,” Jack said, too fast, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t even—she said she’d text me when—she wasn’t—”

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too loud. His fingers curled into fists, shaking beneath his gloves.

“Dr. Abbot,” Someone said, stepping closer. “She’s still alive. They got her back. But you can’t leave right now. We need you here.”

Jack didn’t move.

“She asked for you,” Jacobs added quietly.

That broke something open.

Jack’s hazel eyes—usually unreadable—flashed wide. For half a second, pure panic. He turned, looking toward the hall that led to the elevators, toward OR.

But he couldn’t go. He knew it. The man on the table in front of him was dying.

And his wife… his wife was being cut open upstairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut once, breathing like it physically hurt. When he opened them, they were steely again. Grounded by sheer force of will.

“Tell Robinavitch to get me when she’s out,” Jack said. His voice was barely steady. “And tell him if she crashes again—he calls me. Immediately.”

“I will,” Jacob promised.

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned back to his patient like his spine was made of iron. Like his heart wasn’t bleeding under his ribs.

But his hands trembled—just once—before they found the scalpel again.

And he didn’t say another word about it, because what was there to say you could be gone before he even got to see you. 

Eventually the world returned in fragments.

A slow, stuttering beep. The soft rustle of hospital sheets. The sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Everything hurt—but not sharply. Not like it had. Now it was dull and heavy, like your body was made of stone, barely yours.

You blinked against the overhead light. It took effort. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand.

A shape moved beside you.

Jack.

He was hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight. His short, silvery curls were flattened on one side, sticking up in the back like he hadn’t moved in hours. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor, red-rimmed, dark and distant.

Your heart monitor ticked just a little faster. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, already at your side.

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hi.”

Jack let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and reached for your hand. His touch was careful, reverent. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“Me too,” you rasped.

He gave you a sip of water, helping steady the cup as you drank. When you pulled back, your throat still felt raw—but the words came anyway.

“Emma?”

Jack’s face changed.

The crack in his expression wasn’t obvious, but you’d seen it before—on the battlefiel, in different red zone code blues, in the quiet moments after a loss. He didn’t answer right away.

You already knew.

“…She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “They couldn’t even try. She was gone in the truck.”

Your breath hitched.

“She was getting married,” you whispered, tears already brimming. “She was twenty-eight, Jack...”

“I know.”

“She was going to try out for th-that promotion. She just bought her wedding dress last week—she wanted to show you, and—and she was finally gonna ask David to move in with—”

Jack didn’t try to stop your rambling grief. He just leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he said again, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “She died in my arms...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he murmured, guilt and grief bleeding into his voice. “I was a couple zones over. We were shoulder to shoulder with victims. I didn’t know until after they took you up to surge.”

You blinked fast. “Were you there when I came in?”

“Robby got you stable. Barely. Everyone just said it was bad. Said  one of ours went down.” His voice caught. 

“Jack.”

“I couldn’t go up,” he whispered. “They were still bringing bodies in. And you were already in surgery. I had to keep working.”

Your vision blurred again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you’re the one that got shot.” His hazel eyes were fierce now, even through the exhaustion. “You did everything you could. You kept Emma safe as long as you could. And you lived. That’s all that matters right now.”

You didn’t feel like it should be enough. Not with her gone, and the fate of the rest of your friends unknown. But the way Jack looked at you—like the entire world had stopped spinning until your heart started beating again—it made the pain settle differently.

He reached up and brushed your hair back, his touch gentle. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Since the first shots rang out at Pitt-Fest, you let yourself feel the weight of everything that had happened. 

Your fingers twitched under his, slow and aching, but deliberate. Jack noticed immediately, shifting to cradle your hand in both of his, as if he could anchor you there by touch alone.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Thank you for staying with me…”

Jack’s eyes closed, lashes trembling. His head bowed as his grip on your hand tightened, pulling it gently to his chest.

“I’d stay a thousand times,” he murmured. “I’d go through hell a thousand times if it meant getting you back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest—because you believed him. There was no part of Jack Abbot that ever did anything halfway, least of all when it came to you.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “In that truck. I-I knew Emma  was gone and—I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything hurt. I didn’t know if you’d even know…”

Jack leaned forward again, resting his forehead against your hands, breathing you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I know now,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve got you.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the way his body trembled just slightly with the force of holding himself together.

“I kept thinking—‘he’s gonna be mad,’” you whispered. “Because I went without you. Because I didn’t duck fast enough. Because I let one of the girls get hit.”

“Stop,” he said, voice firm but thick with emotion. “You don’t need to carry that. Not even for a second.”

You nodded faintly, tears sliding into your hair. “She died, Jack. Emma died. And I couldn’t save her.”

He stayed quiet for a beat, then moved to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, like he could pour every unspoken word straight into your skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll carry that with you. Every single day.” The monitors continued their slow, steady rhythm. Jack stayed at your bedside like he’d never leave it again.

Outside, the world kept spinning—grief, news headlines, recovery, chaos—but inside that quiet room, wrapped in his presence, you finally let yourself rest. Because you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And you knew, in the deepest part of yourself, that Jack would keep holding on enough for the both of you—because that’s the type of man he was. 

mercury-glow 2025

[watchtowerlibrary]

Across the hall, you didn’t see Jack. But he was seeing everything. You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral vision—him, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.

And over there we got Jack as Mr. Subtle 😅

Lingering near the nurse’s station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.

This is me just watching out for my favourites in the background 😅

He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the world’s saddest cup of caffeine.

🤣 Oh my God!

Jack finally looked up. Right at you. “I liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.”

Why did I know he would try shit like that? 🤣 I expected some along the lines of "See you later at home, sweetheart."

You raised a brow. “You never let me finish the boxes.” Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “Maybe I liked the distraction.” The room went quiet again.

😏👀Oooohh why do I love the banter - intense eye contact included? That's some tension...

all that gleams (18+)

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn't seem to appreciate all of the attention you're getting.

warnings. this is 18+ so mdni, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough/jealousy sex, half plot/half porn, sex in the work place, hospital setting, age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s to early 30s), reader gets hit on by men who are not jack, non-consensual touching (patient grabs reader), reader has hair, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. where the fuck do I even begin? uhhhh- so many people asked for a sequel to all that glitters and I never thought I'd actually do it but here we are! I absolutely live for their dynamic, and they're softcore rich which is truly the dream. I'm actually really proud of this, especially bc this is my second time writing any form of smut! as always any and all feedback is appreciated and please enjoy!

wc. 4700+

all that glitters

There wasn’t a person in your life who hadn’t told you getting married so young was a mistake. A newly minted nurse with a shiny new degree, a big diamond ring, and a big house in the nicest part of town—people loved to talk. And they did, especially behind your back.

“Too fast,” they said

“Too young.”

 “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”

But they didn’t know Jack.

He’d been your constant through it all. Through the twelve-hour shifts, the night terrors you both had but didn’t always talk about, the tangled mess of silky bed sheets and plain coffee mornings. He never missed a beat, not with you. He always made sure the front door was locked, that you didn’t forget to eat, that you never had to face a bad day completely alone.

Jack Abbot was your storm and shelter all at once.

Still, some days it felt like you were speaking two different languages. You’d grown up with champagne brunches, sorority sisters, and an Ivy League education on Daddy’s dime. Jack grew up fast though—boots on the ground, blood on his hands, and scars no one could see unless he let them. 

His world had edges, and darkness only he could understand. 

Yours had comfy throw pillows and a walk-in closet.

Falling for each other had been a whirlwind, but staying in love… that took work. 

Especially now.

Lately, every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. He was short with you. Distant. And maybe you were a little more sensitive than usual—he always said you felt deeply, cared too much. Maybe you did miss the way he used to look at you, touch you, talk to you like you were the only person in the room.

Now? Now he was somewhere else—lost in his head, behind some wall you couldn’t climb no matter how hard you tried.

And you still tried.

 You showed up to work, same time as him, hair curled, and lip gloss on as usual. Your scrubs were still fitted just right, your badge reel sparkled, and your sneakers matched your pastel compression socks of the day. You were tired, overworked, and emotionally frayed—but damn it, you still tried, for yourself, for him, and most certainly for your patients .

He didn’t even say “Hi,” when you checked in.

Just a curt nod, eyes already scanning a trauma sheet.

Fine. You had a job to do anyway.

The ER was chaotic, as usual. You floated between rooms, upbeat as always, soft-voiced with your patients, making the new interns laugh with your sparkly pens and habit of humming softly under your breath.

That’s when he showed up.

Leo, tall, handsome in a sun-kissed, ex-lifeguard in the Baywatch kind of way, and new. The latest temp nurse from another hospital, and definitely not shy.

“You always this put-together at 7 p.m.?” he said, grinning as he helped you restock the IV cart.

You glanced up from your clipboard, smiling just enough. “Only when there’s new employees to impress.”

He laughed, nudging your elbow. “Well, consider me thoroughly impressed.”

Across the hall, you didn’t see Jack. But he was seeing everything.

You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral vision—him, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.

You didn’t react. Just went back to scanning meds, asking Leo if he needed help finding anything on his first night. You were being polite. Friendly. Maybe a little intentionally oblivious—but only because it felt good to be noticed by anyone today.

Jack didn’t say a word.

But every time you turned around, he was there. Close. Watching.

He didn’t like it. You could feel it.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt something that wasn’t just disappointment.

You felt giddy.

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But if he was suddenly remembering the woman he married? The one who lit up a room? The one who still wore t-shirts to bed and nothing else, even when he acted like he didn’t care?

Good.

Let him remember.

The next few hours passed in a blur of motion and monitors—IVs, trauma alerts, vitals to chart and families to console. You stayed busy, focused, but not so focused you didn’t notice the way Jack kept drifting into your orbit.

Not close enough to talk.

Just… there.

Lingering near the nurse’s station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.

There had been so much to do between learning about coworkers drama, taking care of patients, and dealing with incoming traumas that you’d been on your feet for almost seven hours straight before getting any sort of break.

Still not having found the right time to touch the overnight oats in your lunchbox.

Typical.

You finally ducked into the break room around 2:30 a.m., practically vibrating from a bit too much caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Your sneakers squeaked on the tile as you opened your lunch tote, pulling out your jar with a satisfied “Aha”. You gave it a little shake and popped the lid, the faint scent of almond butter and cinnamon curling into the air.

Leo was already in there, lounging in the corner with a Coke Zero and half a sandwich he didn’t seem particularly interested in eating.

“That looks suspiciously healthy,” he said, eyeing your jar like it confused him.

You grinned. “It’s delicious. Cinnamon, chia seeds, oat milk, with a little bit of honey and almond butter. You should try it sometime—maybe it will lower your blood pressure.”

Leo let out a low whistle. “Oof. She’s cute and judgmental.”

You wiggled your spoon at him. “I’m not judgmental. I’m just stating a fact,”

“Same difference,”

You laughed, shaking your head as you settled on the couch. Your big water tumbler clinked softly on the table as you set it down. Leo glanced at it.

“Okay, real talk. How many cups do you own?”

“Oh at least ten,” you said proudly. “And yes, they all match my scrubs and socks.”

He chuckled. “Of course they do.”

You were in the middle of telling him about your latest homemade electrolyte concoction—something with sea salt, lemon, and maple syrup—when the door creaked open.

Jack stepped inside, silent as ever. No one noticed at first, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar pull.

You looked up and smiled, just a little.

He didn’t smile back.

He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the world’s saddest cup of caffeine.

“You good?” you asked, casually, spoon still dangling from your mouth.

Jack shrugged. “Fine.”

Leo gave him a nod. “Rough night, man?”

“Same as every night,” Jack said coolly.

There was a pause.

You went back to your oats.

Leo leaned over slightly, stage-whispering, “Is it true you color-code your vitamins?”

You lit up. “Oh my god, yes! You have to! It’s so satisfying.”

Jack let out a breath—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything.

Just something.

Leo turned to him. “She’s kind of a fairy, huh? Healthy, pretty, and scary organized.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just stirred his coffee with the kind of force that made the spoon clink too loudly against the mug.

“I mean, who even makes time for meal prep on night shift?” Leo kept going, still playful, still oblivious. “She comes in glowing while I’m running on vending machine Pop-Tarts and anxiety.”

You grinned again. “You say that like Pop-Tarts are bad.”

Jack finally looked up. Right at you.

“I liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.”

Your breath caught a little—not because it was mean. But because it sounded like a memory.

You raised a brow. “You never let me finish the boxes.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move.

“Maybe I liked the distraction.”

The room went quiet again.

Leo cleared his throat and stood. “Okay, I’m gonna grab another Coke. You two want anything?”

“No,” Jack said, a little too quickly.

You shook your head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When Leo left, the silence stretched.

You scooped another spoonful of oats, pretending not to feel the weight of Jack’s stare.

“You didn’t answer my text,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Which one?”

“The one about locking the side door this morning.”

“Oh.” You smiled faintly. “Sorry, I was halfway through meal prepping for us and my mom called... You know how she gets.”

Jack nodded, jaw tight. “You’re supposed to text me back.”

You raised a brow again, but this time softer. “Jack. It was about a door.”

“It was about you being safe.”

That landed somewhere in your chest.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just set your spoon down and leaned back into the couch.

“I was fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”

Jack didn’t reply. But he reached for your cup, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip (not using the straw) like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared. “That has lemon in it.”

He grimaced. “Tastes like a scented candle.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But the corners of his mouth twitched—just a little.

He set your water with a quiet thud, the lid clicking into place like it was holding something back for him, too.

You tilted your head, watching him in that way you always did when you were trying to read what was going on behind those stormy, hazel eyes. “You're drinking lemon water,” you said, voice lilting. “Should I be worried?”

Jack didn’t look at you. “I was thirsty.”

You smiled. “And yet the entire fridge full of bottled water didn’t do it for you?”

He shrugged.

“Grumpy,” you said under your breath, just loud enough.

His eyes finally flicked to yours. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m tired.”

“You always say that when you’re being grumpy.”

Jack gave you a slow look—flat, dry, and just a little amused. “You finished?”

“Not even close,” you said sweetly, your elbow propped on the arm of the couch. “You’re cranky, you’re overcaffeinated, and you get weirdly possessive whenever someone’s nice to me.”

That got his attention.

“I’m not possessive,” he said.

You smirked. “Jack, you nearly snapped Leo’s neck when he said I had good handwriting.”

“That’s not what he said, and you know that.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Okay, fine. ‘Prettiest charting I’ve ever seen,’ and he winked. So what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

You stood, stretching your arms overhead in a way that made your scrub top ride up just a little. His eyes tracked the motion like muscle memory.

You stepped closer, toes nearly brushing his boots. “I like that you care about this,” you said, softer now. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time all night.

“You drive me crazy, kid.” he muttered.

You beamed. “So you are jealous.”

Jack sighed through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders like an exhale he’d been holding in too long. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long.

“I know you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I just… sometimes I forget the rest of the world doesn’t always know it.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a painful way. In a finally, you’re here with me again kind of way.

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “Well, they do. But if you ever forget again, I’ll tattoo your name on my ass”

That earned you a snort—low and surprised.

“I’m serious,” you teased, squeezing his fingers. “Right across my cheeks. Property of Jack Abbot. Think it’d go with my Bikinis when I start tanning again?”

His lips twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Mm. And you’re stuck with me.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, as he dipped down for a soft kiss,  “Wouldn’t change it.”

And there it was.

The part of him no one else got to see—the softness under all that armor he put up. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this chaotic, blood-slicked hospital worth holding onto.

Before you could say anything else, the overhead crackled to life:

“Trauma en route. ETA four minutes. MVA, two patients. GSW secondary.”

Jack’s head lifted, all instinct now. You were already moving toward the door when his hand caught yours.

He didn’t pull, didn’t squeeze—just held.

“Be careful,” he said.

You leaned in again, kissing his cheek, quick and certain. “Always.”

Then the moment passed, and the hallway swallowed you both—he leading, you following, hearts synced in the rhythm of the ER. But his hand brushed yours again as you walked.

The trauma had come in hard and fast—twisted metal, broken glass, and enough blood to soak through your shoes. Jack had been in the thick of it, barking orders, steady hands moving like muscle memory while you worked across from him, suctioning, suturing, stabilizing. For a while, there was no room for anything else. No talking. No teasing. Just the two of you, back in sync, locked in the rhythm you knew so well. It was easy to forget the cracks when the adrenaline kicked in.

But by 4:15 a.m., the ER had slowed to a lull.

The kind that was never quiet, but at least breathable.

You’d just finished helping a resident clean up trauma one when they wheeled in another patient—mid-40s, minor head lac, walking wounded and very, very drunk.

You smiled politely, grabbing a suture kit.

“Alright, sir. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Can you sit still for me?”

He gave you a once-over that made your skin crawl. “Sure thing, sweetheart. For you, I’ll be real good.”

You kept it professional. “Thank you.”

But the longer you worked, the bolder he got.

“You married?” he slurred.

You didn’t answer.

“Bet your husband’s not half as pretty as you.”

You offered a tight smile. “Try to stay still. This part stings a little.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You ever date older guys? I got a boat, you know.”

You glanced around the bay, but the resident was long gone, charting somewhere out of earshot.

“I’m flattered, really, but I already have a boat,” you said lightly, finishing the last stitch. “And you’re gonna feel real silly about this in the morning.”

He grinned, crooked and gross. “Not if you give me your number.”

And then he reached out—his hands brushing your hips in a way that was not accidental.

You stepped back instantly, heart thudding.

“That’s enough sir,” you said sharply, your voice still steady, still calm—but colder now. “I’m going to step out for a minute, since I’ve finished. Someone else will check on you soon.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

You slipped into the furthest supply closet you could easily find and leaned against the shelves, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a sprint. Your hands were shaking—more with anger than fear—but still. It clung to your skin.

The door creaked open a minute later.

“Hey.”

Jack.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, gaze scanning your face. “One of the other nurses said he got grabby.”

You looked up at him, throat tight. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer that right away. Just moved closer and touched your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he needed to ground himself.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded. “Just… gross. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

His jaw flexed. “It shouldn’t be happening at all.”

You leaned into his hand. “It’s okay. I handled it.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

You looked up at him. “Jack—”

He stepped closer, and suddenly his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid and steady. His hands found your waist, rough fingers curling around your hips.

“I should be the only one touching you,” he said, voice low.

“We’ll get written up…”

“I don’t care.”

But Jack wasn’t hearing logic right now. He was standing there like he could still smell every guy you had met tonight on you, like the air hadn’t cleared yet.

“Hey.” You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “We don’t have to do this here…”

His hands squeezed your waist. “You’re mine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t flirt like that with anyone else, right?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Flirt like what?”

“Like you did with that prick.”

You frowned a abit. “I was being nice. He asked if I wanted  something from the vending machine- he asked you too and you looked at him like he offered me lingerie.”

Jack didn’t budge. His grip didn’t loosen.

You tried again. Softer this time.

“I steal your clothes. I come home to you. I wear the ring you bought me, and I’m your wife. I chose you.”

His eyes searched yours—tired, and heavy, with a mix of something else.

You rose on your toes, placing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m yours, Jack.”

And then his arms were around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe it. Your heart thudded in your chest, a beat behind your breath. You looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted.

You didn’t hear him lock the door.

You felt it.

That soft, decisive click behind you—like a promise.

“Did you just lock the door?”

Jack’s answer was a look—slow, hot, and so heavy it pinned you in place. He stepped with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t spontaneous. No, he’d decided the second he saw you walk into the closet room, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged, tensions high. 

The second all these guys started paying attention to you tonight. 

Jack hadn’t liked that.

He tried to be quiet about it, like always. Quiet the way a storm is—only right before it breaks.

He stopped just barely inches from you, hand coming up to trace a line along your jaw. His fingers were thick, rough, warm, familiar. His touch didn’t ask permission. It remembered.

“You keep smiling like that,” he said low, his voice a gravel-coated whisper, “and I’ll have to fuck the memory of it out of you.”

Your breath caught—somewhere between outrage and arousal. “Jack—”

But you didn’t get the rest out.

He kissed you.

Not sweet. Not careful.

Claiming.

His hands tangled in your hair, dragging you into him like it was instinct, like your mouth had always belonged to his. You melted into him, your body curving against his like you were built for this—built for him. His hips pressed forward, pinning you to the wall of the storage closet, and your head thudded back softly against the cool plaster as his lips slid down to your throat, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“Locked the door for a reason,” he murmured, tongue flicking against the skin where your pulse fluttered. “Tired of pretending I didn’t want you every second we’re here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping his shirt like lifelines. “You’re sooo jealous.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes devouring. “Damn right I’m jealous.”

His hand slid under your scrub top, skimming up your ribs, palm flat, hot and possessive. “You’re mine—I can’t fucking stand it when they look at you like you’re not.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, breathless, lips grazing his.

His answer was a growl.

Jack spun you, quick and controlled, pressing you front-first against the shelves. Supplies rattled, somewhere above you—gloves, gauze, sterile wraps—but it was the sound of his breath at your neck that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His hands roamed—under your shirt to your tits, over the waistband of your scrub pants, every inch of bare skin he found earning a new kind of heat.

“You wanna be flirted with?” he whispered, voice dragging down your spine. “Fine. But I get to remind you who makes you cum”

You gasped as his mouth met the base of your neck, teeth grazing, tongue following. “Jack…”

“You knew,” he said again, almost reverent now. 

And god help you, you did.

Because you’d walked in here to take a second, needing this—needing him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you come apart so effortlessly, but this claiming. This reminder. That under all the stress, the silence, the long nights and missed moments—the fire still burned. Hot. Unrelenting.

His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waist of your scrub pants, and you pressed back against him without thinking, needing more, needing everything.

“You’re mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing your shoulder, low and slow. “Say it.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “I’m yours, Jack. Always.”

And that was all it took.

He kept you facing the shelves, a hand coming down to your hips to steady you as he continued to feel you up with the other. “Yeah? You gonna be my good girl, sweetheart?” 

The whimper you let out was pathetic. A low pitched sound that came from the back of your throat, as Jack started to flood your senses. He gave your ass a quick, hard, smack. Hand going back to rub over the spot, as it snapped you out of your daze. “I asked you a question, baby.” 

You nodded, desperately. Already whoozy from the assault on your sense that your husband brought on. “Mhm! Jack-”

He shushed you, gently pushing down your scrub pants, “Gotta make this quick and quiet, or they’ll all know what a bad girl you’ve been.” 

Reaching back, you straightend up leaning into his burning touch, wanting him closer than he already was. You could feel how hard he was beneath his cargos, half chubbed as he ground his hips into your panty-clad ass. 

You would’ve felt embarressed if this hadn’t felt so right. 

Clothes barely off, lazily grinding against your husband in a closet like you’re back in some college frat house at UPenn. 

Jack doesn’t waste anymore time though, hastily shoving your panties down, rough fingers making quick work of finding your swollen clit. The tight circles he does against you, make you feel dizzy—legs already beginning to shake, as if you haven’t been working for ten hours already. 

Your moans are muffled by your arm as you lean further into the shelves, but press your hips back toward Jack. Your resolve slowly slipping, as he dips a finger in your wet heat. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” he groans out softly, continuing as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. 

Then he just pulls away.

Not entirely, still so close that you’ve basically become one. It’s enough for you to whine at the loss of contact, pushing back into him hoping he’ll start again. 

“Why’d you stop?” Jack can practically hear the pout in your voice. The breathy little lilt of displeasure showing in your tone. 

“Sorry, baby. We only have time for one thing, and I’d much rather make you cum on my cock.” He kisses the back of your neck, gentle and loving as ever as he reaches down to free himself from his scrub pants. 

He’s aching, he’s so hard. 

He takes a few deep breaths before haphazrdly stroking himself. Fisting his cock in his meaty hand, already slick after playing with your wet little cunt. 

Jack wasn’t going to make love to you. 

He was going to fuck you like you needed it. 

Lining himself up, Jack pushed in with a solid thrust of his sturdy hips. You just about collapsed into the shelves, already feeling so full of Jack as he started a steady rhythm. It was overwhelming, one of his hands tight against your hips as he used it to guide you into his thrusts, the other snaked over your mouth to muffle your breathy moans because the hallway was just beyond the locked closet door.

“Shit- you’re so fucking tight, baby.” you cleched against him as he drove himself further into you, trying to angle himself to hit the spot that would have you seeing stars in no time. 

Your walls hugged him tight, leaving him a mess as he watched himself slip in and out of you in a trance like state. 

“Fuck Jack-” you start mewling, hips pushing and grinding to meet his thrusts. “Ah- ah, you’re so deep.” 

He mumbles something incoherent against your shoulder, both of his hands moving to your hips and ass to get more leverage to fuck you nice and hard. 

You can tell you’re making a mess of yourself, panties clearly ruined with how you’re leaking down your thighs and his cock. Each thrust is a new shockwave of pleasure you don’t expect, but Jack doesn’t let up and you don’t want him to. 

“Too m-much,” his cock throbs, hard and heavy inside you as he stills for just a second. 

“Yeah? It’s too much for you, Sweetheart?” It’s almost mocking as he draws it out into longer deeper strokes—the ones that make it hard to breathe, the air escaping your lungs faster than you can take the chance to gasp for air. 

“You’re just so big,” you whimper out, trying to keep yourself from collapsing back against him as your legs start to feel like jello. 

Jack gives you a light scoff, “Good thing you’re being a good girl, and takin’ me so well, huh?” He keeps the pace steady, if not a bit quicker. Switching up the tempo to keep you on your toes and eager for him. 

“Mhm!” You can feel your orgasm building, that all too familiar pressure in your lower tummy bubbling over. “Fuck- fuck I’m gonna cum-”

It’s like a switch flips in his brain, kicking him into high gear as he spins you around to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he lifts one of your legs around his waist. 

“Yeah, pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?” He asks you through a sloppy kiss, one that smears what’s left of your lip gloss. 

You feel like you’re about to implode, too tense and too loose all at once. Your hands find purchase on his clothed chest and the curls at the base of his neck, as he continues his loving assault on your body and senses. Jack is everywhere, and you’d never want it to be different. 

He watches as you finally let go, shivering your way through your orgasm as you cum on his thick cock. Your breath catches as he kisses you slowly, working his cock in and out of your gushing pussy still chasing his own release. 

“Fuck- you ruin me baby,” He groans into your kiss swollen lips, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before burying himself as deep as possible. His own breathing shallow as he spills his load deep into your cunt, right where it belongs. 

Blinking slowly, you return to your body. Jack looks down at you, capturing your lips in one last sweet kiss as he gently pulls out of you. Your body shudders at the now empty feeling, “You with me, Baby?”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gentle and loving as you just stare at him a little dazed. You manage a soft hum, and he begins the process of putting you back together for the public. 

You cringed a bit as he helped you pull the pants of your scrubs back up, at least they were dark… right? You’d change into your backups as soon as you found the courge to leave the storage room. Then there was your hair which Jack lovingly braided as quickly as he could, before fixing himself the best he could

“Everyone’s totally gonna know… Ugh…”  you leaned your head against his chest, sighing at the thought of John or Ellis questioning where you two were for the past 15 minutes. 

“You look fine, besides who cares?” He questioned, “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the same story from other departments,” 

“Yeah but this is us,” you gave him a deadpan expression, as he reached behind you so that he could grab your stethoscope and badge reel from one of the many shelves behind you. 

He gave you a nonchalant shrug, and one last kiss on the forehead. “You ready to go get ‘em tiger?”

“You’re so dead whe we get home, it’s not even funny Jack Abbot!” 

“We still have about two more hours, so I think I’m safe, Princess.” 

mercvry-glow 2025

[watchtowerlibrary]

hello!! i have an angsty request >:3

in the past dr robby and reader were in a relationship but as life changed they decided to separate. reason why reader broke it off with robby was because she was getting sicker and she didn’t want to burden him years later reader comes into the er in bad shape (chronicle ill) he never knew she was this sick until years after they drifted apart and maybe some fluff at the end

babes you know i LIVE FOR THE ANGST <33

warnings: depictions of chronic illness wc: 1.9k

The ER was buzzing—monitors beeping, the sharp scent of antiseptic hanging in the air, footsteps echoing against linoleum. Robby barely noticed any of it.

He’d just finished dealing with a combative overdose in Bay 5 when Dana called out to him, holding a chart.

"Room Three," she said, a little too gently. "Chronic case. Looks like heart failure. She's not doing great."

He grabbed the clipboard without a second thought. Then stopped cold.

Your name stared up at him in clean block letters.

And his world tipped sideways.

It was as though someone had sucker-punched the air out of his lungs. Four years. Four years of wondering. Of half-written texts. Unanswered calls. A full voicemail inbox, all of them from him. Of dreaming about your laugh and waking up angry in tears. Frustrated at himself. At you. Four years of pretending he didn’t still check your name in the hospital system every once in a while.

And now—now you were here.

Collapsed lungs. Oxygen saturation low. Congestive Heart Failure. Decompensated.

You were dying, and you hadn’t said a word.

The curtain around your bed was drawn, but he pushed through without knocking, hands trembling.

And there you were.

Pale. Eyes sunken. Lips tinged gray-blue despite the oxygen mask over your mouth. You were bundled in hospital blankets, shivering slightly, your hand lax around the call button.

Your eyes opened slowly, drawn by the sound of footsteps.

You saw him—and blinked, like you weren’t sure if he was real.

A choked sigh. You pulled off the mask just enough to speak. "Hey, stranger."

It wrecked him. The rasp in your voice. The half-smile you offered like this was just a casual run-in, like you weren’t hooked up to machines that were keeping you alive. 

He moved closer, too fast. "What the hell, Y/N?"

"Nice to see you too," you murmured, voice dry.

"Don’t," he said sharply, chart forgotten in his hand.

You looked away. "I didn’t plan to be here, Michael."

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before kneeling beside the bed. "Heart failure? You’re in advanced decomp. Jesus—why didn’t you fucking tell me? Why didn’t you call?"

You didn’t answer.

"You left," he said, voice quieter now but still shaking. 

He held your hand instantly, cradling it like it was instinct. His hands felt the same—warm, steady, familiar. Like no time had passed at all.

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "I didn’t want you to watch me fall apart."

He blinked. "You think I wouldn’t have stayed?"

"I know you would have," you whispered. "That’s what scared me. You would’ve put everything on hold. Your fellowship. Your life. Your chance to be more than just a caretaker for someone who—" You broke off, breath catching. "Someone who was only going to get worse."

Robby’s other hand came to rest on your arm—warm, solid, familiar. Your body leaned toward the touch before your mind could argue.

"You think I wouldn’t choose you? You really think I wouldn’t have wanted to walk through this with you?"

Tears stung your eyes. "It wasn’t fair to ask."

"You didn’t ask. You just left." His voice cracked at the end.

A long silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid.

He squeezed your hand tighter. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, grounding you.

"I never stopped loving you," he said quietly.

Your fingers curled around his. You felt like hell, like your body was a failing house, caving in on itself—but his touch reminded you that some parts of you still worked. Still remembered.

"I’m sorry," you whispered. "For not telling you. For walking away before you had the chance to make that choice."

Robby leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours. "I’m making it now," he breathed.

Your eyelids feel heavy, and suddenly you're back in that cramped apartment with the peeling tile and the humming radiator—the place you used to call home.

It had been raining that night. Heavy and loud against the windows. You remember how the lamplight painted long shadows across the floor, how your suitcase sat half-zipped by the door.

You remember the way Robby looked at you when he walked in from his shift—wet scrubs, messy hair, exhaustion hanging from his shoulders.

But the second he saw your face, he knew.

"You’re leaving," he said.

You nodded. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t beg. He just stood there, breathing too quietly, like even that hurt.

"I thought we were okay," he said after a minute. "Are we not okay?"

You tried to smile, but it cracked at the edges. "I’ve been… having more episodes. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. My cardiologist says it’s progressing faster than they expected."

Robby blinked. "Okay. Then we fight it. We adjust the meds. We—"

"No," you said, cutting him off too fast. "You adjust. You take care of me. You cancel your interviews, you stay up all night researching when you should be out living your life. And then one day when you wake up next to someone who can’t even walk up a hill without needing to sit down? What then, Michael? I’m not doing that to you."

His expression twisted. "So instead, you choose to leave me? Without giving me a choice?"

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. "I’m trying to give you a future. One that doesn’t revolve around watching me wither away in front of you."

"I don’t want a future without you."

You shook your head. "That’s what I couldn’t live with."

He crossed the room, grabbed your wrist—gentle, but desperate. "You don’t get to make this decision for both of us."

You leaned in, let your forehead rest against his. Memorized the warmth of his breath, the way his fingers trembled where they held you.

"I love you," you said. "But I need you to remember me like this. Young and alive. Not dying in a hospital bed."

"No."

"Michael—"

"No," he said again, voice cracking. "God, please. Don’t do this."

His voice broke and kept breaking. He sank down to his knees like his body couldn't hold the grief. Tears spilled fast, falling unchecked down his cheeks, and he reached for you—arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed against your stomach. A sob tore out of him, raw and guttural.

"Stay," he whispered. Then louder, more desperate: "Please—please, let me stay. Let me help you. I’ll do anything, Y/N. I’ll give you everything I have. Just don’t walk away from me. Please."

You fell with him, threading your shaking fingers into his hair, holding him close. He felt like a storm in your arms—chaotic, trembling, terrified.

"I know you would," you whispered, breaking. "That’s the problem."

You closed your eyes, voice barely audible. "You’d give everything for me. And it kills me. Because I love you too much to let you."

You kissed him one last time—slow, aching, full of everything you couldn’t say. His hand slipped into your hair, holding you like he could stop the unraveling.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes were red, lips parted like he still couldn’t believe you were really leaving. You rested your hand on his cheek for a second longer—just one more breath, one more heartbeat—before stepping back.

Neither of you spoke.

You picked up your bag. Turned toward the door. Didn’t look back.

—

Later, when the oxygen helped and your vitals stabilized and they moved you upstairs, you didn’t expect him to stay.

But hours passed.

And he did.

You opened your eyes sometime after 3 a.m. to find him sitting in the chair next to your bed, fingers still laced with yours.

You were the first to speak. "You’re not on shift anymore."

"Doesn’t matter."

"You could’ve gone home. Slept in your own bed."

He glanced at you, then looked back down at your joined hands. "I think I’ve spent enough nights in the wrong bed."

Your breath caught.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he said, cutting you off, voice softer now. "This isn’t about having to do anything." He moved closer and brushed a kiss against your forehead, lingering. "This is about not losing you again."

You turned your face away, voice breaking. "Don’t say things like that."

"Why not?" he asked. "You think I don’t mean them?"

"I know you do," you said quietly. "And that’s what terrifies me."

His brow furrowed. "Y/N—"

"I don’t deserve this," you said, barely louder than a whisper. "I don’t deserve you. I lied to you. I pushed you away. I chose to disappear. And you’re still here, willing to throw everything away just to sit beside me while I—" You cut yourself off, tears welling. "I don’t want you wasting your life loving someone who might not even have much of one left."

Robby cupped your face in both hands, gently, like you might shatter if he held too tightly. "I’m not wasting anything. You’re the one thing I’ve ever been sure about."

You couldn’t stop the tears this time. "I don’t want to be your burden."

He leaned closer until his forehead pressed against yours. "You’re not. You never were and you never will be. Let me be here. Please."

His thumb brushed away a tear. "Let me love you."

You gave in then. Let yourself fall forward, into his arms. He wrapped himself around you instantly, warm and steady, holding you like you were something sacred. Your body fit against his like muscle memory, like no time had passed.

He smelled the same. That subtle mix of soap, sweat, and something inherently him—clean and grounding. Your nose pressed into the crook of his neck, and it hit you like a wave.

And you felt the same to him. Fragile, yes, but still familiar. Still his.

His arms tightened around you, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking the back of your head. You buried your face in his shoulder, clung to his shirt, and let yourself cry.

He didn’t try to stop it.

Didn’t let go.

And when the tears slowed, and you felt his lips press gently against your temple, you breathed in the quiet between you. His scent. His presence. His promise.

"I missed you," you whispered.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he murmured. "Not for a second."

You pulled back just far enough to look at him—really look. He looked tired, yes, but soft around the edges now. Open. Hopeful.

You touched his cheek. "Okay," you sniffled. "You can stay."

The way he smiled at you then—soft and disbelieving—felt like sunlight after a long winter.

He kissed your knuckles. Then your brow. Then the tip of your nose.

Then, slower, more reverent—he kissed your cheek. The corner of your mouth. And finally, your lips. It was soft, tentative, but steady. Like he needed you to feel it. Like he’d been holding it in for years.

You melted into it, a shaky laugh breaking through your tears.

"We’ll take it one breath at a time," he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, forehead resting against his. For a while, you just breathed together—quiet and close. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against the back of your hand.

"Tell me when you’re tired," he murmured.

"I’m always tired," you whispered, a soft smile tugging at the edge of your mouth.

"I’ll be tired with you."

He shifted, carefully, until he was half-tucked into the bed beside you, mindful of your lines and monitors. You leaned into him, head on his chest, and let his heartbeat calm your own.

"I love you," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt.

His hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling tight. "And I love you—more than anything."

You smiled against him, small and real. "Even now?"

"Always."

And in that quiet hospital room, tangled together and half-lit by morning, you let those words hold you—finally, fully—with nothing left to hide and everything to bare.

[watchtowerlibrary]

aaahh hi hello! :)

first thing, i just wanted to say how much i love the way you write for jack and robby. you capture their personalities so well! reading your works are an absolute treat. <3

second, would it be possible to request something for robby? he finds out that his wife was in a really bad accident on her way to work, so she's rushed to the hospital and admitted to their icu?

tysm, and keep up the amazing work!

And You Came Back to Me

content/warning : Serious car accident, medical trauma, cardiac arrest, emergency resuscitation, hospitalization/ICU setting, emotional distress, PTSD symptoms, brief combat/military reference, grief response, partner fear, sibling care, recovery from near-death experience. Heavy emotional themes including flashbacks, guilt, and the fragility of healing.

word count : 3,791

a/n ; Wrote this as an exploration of what happens in the quiet after chaos—the weight of routine, the people who stay, and the small ways grief and love show up at once.

He should’ve kissed you longer.

That’s the first thing that slams through Robby’s chest when the officer says your name.

Not doctor. Not sir. Just: “Mr. Robinavitch, your wife’s been in a serious accident.”

It doesn’t register—not fully. Not until the next words hit him like shrapnel:

“She was unconscious at the scene. EMS is transporting her to Allegheny General now.”

And suddenly, time snaps backward—throws him hard against the wall of the morning. Back to the kitchen. To the quiet hum of NPR on the radio. To the faint smell of burnt toast from the toaster—because you always forget about it halfway through brushing your teeth. He’s told you a hundred times to stop using the “max crisp” setting. You always say, “It’s faster.”

Back to the sound of your heels on the tile as you rushed in—already dressed, hair still damp and twisted into that messy bun you always called “professional enough.”

“Shit,” you muttered, digging through your purse. “I’m running late. Can you zip me up?”

He should’ve stopped what he was doing.

Should’ve set down the mug. Turned fully toward you. Looked at you the way he used to—like you were something he still couldn’t quite believe was real.

But he was distracted. Reading the news. Checking an overnight lab update. Half-listening to McKay complain in the group chat about last night’s board decision.

So instead, he reached out automatically. Took hold of the zipper. Pulled it up the back of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before.

A quiet, familiar ritual.

“Thanks, babe,” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a soft smile.

He leaned in, kissed the back of your neck, right where your hair curled against your skin.

“You look beautiful,” he said. Distracted. Sincere, but distracted.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You laughed and turned away to grab your keys.

He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, whispered something dumb and tender and marriage-soft like Don’t go to work. Stay home. Let’s be irresponsible. Should’ve asked about the dream you mumbled in your sleep. Should’ve paid attention when you said, “I might take the highway if traffic’s clear—I’m too late for the long route.”

You hated the highway. Said it made you feel like one wrong move could ruin everything. Said the backroads felt safer—winding, tree-lined, steady. He teased you for it. Called you dramatic. But he always agreed.

Take the long way. What’s ten more minutes if it means peace of mind?

And this morning—God—he hadn’t even thought to remind you.

“You driving in or Ubering?” he asked, eyes still on his phone.

“Driving. Highway if I have to. Don’t yell.”

“Just… text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

You smiled.

He didn’t look up.

You walked out the door.

Now a stranger is telling him you were rear-ended at 70 miles per hour, spun into a guardrail, crushed on the driver’s side. That EMS pulled you from the wreckage with the jaws of life. That you weren’t responsive. That you lost a lot of blood.

That they’re bringing you in.

To him.

To his ER. His trauma bay. His staff.

And you might not survive the trip.

He should’ve kissed you longer.

He should’ve kissed you like it was the last time.

Because maybe—it was.

He drops the phone in the stairwell.

He’s moving before his mind catches up—down the steps, through the ER corridor, and straight into the trauma bay. The doors slam open so hard they shake on their hinges.

“Where is she?” His voice breaks as it rips out of his throat.

Dana’s the first to reach him. She’s just stepped off the elevator—chart in one hand, coffee in the other.

“She just came in,” she says immediately. “Langdon’s leading. Mateo is on the vent. Santos and Javadi are in the room—”

“Where is she?”

The way he says it this time—it’s not procedural. It’s not about who’s on what. It’s you. There’s a tremor in his voice now, something raw enough to cut through Dana’s usual calm.

She steps in his path.

“Robby,” she says gently—too gently. She never uses that voice. Not with him.

“She coded in the rig.”

He flinches like she slapped him. The hallway tilts.

“They got her back,” Dana rushes to add, because the look in his eyes unravels something in her. “But it’s bad. She’s not—she’s not conscious.”

He doesn’t stop to respond.

Robby just shrugs off Dana’s hand and barrels toward Trauma One, like his body’s moving on instinct—like it never forgot how to find you.

And then he sees you.

You’re nearly lost in the swarm of bodies around you, but he’d know you anywhere—even battered and broken, even with your hair soaked through and clinging to your face in tangled strands. One of your feet is bare. Your dress—that dress, the blue one you joked made you look like a lawyer even though you worked in nonprofit, the one he remembers zipping up hours ago—has been sliced clean down the center. Blood saturates the fabric, blooming across it like ink in water, until there’s barely any blue left at all.

Mateo is squeezing the ambu bag. Javadi’s covered in sweat, glove smeared in something dark. Langdon is barking orders like his throat is full of glass.

Robby freezes in the doorway.

Langdon doesn’t even look at him. Just shouts, “Get him out of here!”

Dana’s behind him again. This time, she doesn’t touch him. Just steps into his line of vision and holds it.

“You know better. Let them work.”

“That’s my wife. That’s Jack’s sister.”

Santos’ voice breaks—just barely. “She’s got internal bleeding. If we can’t stabilize her, we’re opening the chest.”

And there it is.

Robby’s hand slams against the doorframe. He backs away without realizing he’s doing it.

He ends up in Observation 2.

He doesn’t remember walking there. Doesn’t know how long he stands in the dark before someone—maybe Perlah—sets a bottle of water beside him. He doesn’t touch it.

He’s never felt like this before. Like the air is too thick. Like he’s breathing cement.

Jack shows up ten minutes later. Not in scrubs—he’s in a weather-beaten field jacket and dark jeans, the kind of outfit that’s survived its fair share of long nights. There’s rain slicking his shoulders, water dripping from the cuffs like he didn’t bother with an umbrella. Or didn’t care.

“They told me,” Jack says, low.

Robby doesn’t move.

“I came as soon as—”

“She took the fucking highway.”

Jack is quiet.

“She never takes the highway. I—I always tell her to take 51. She hates the on-ramps. Says they make her feel like she’s gonna die. She said it, Jack. She said it.”

Jack nods, slowly, but his posture is all wrong—too still, too rigid. Like he’s holding something in. His jaw is locked, eyes fixed somewhere over Robby’s shoulder like if he looks at him directly, he’ll break.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice rough and frayed. “She told me that too. Said the on-ramps made her feel like the road would disappear underneath her. When we were kids, she’d make me walk the long way to school just to avoid the underpass near 18th. Three extra blocks. Every morning.”

He exhales, sharp and uneven. “She’d hold my sleeve like she thought the wind might carry her off if she let go.”

The pause that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—tight with every year Jack spent being the big brother. Every time he covered for you. Every scraped knee, every school project, every time he stood between you and the door while your parents screamed.

Robby sinks down against the wall. His voice is hollow. “She asked me to zip up her dress this morning.” He swallows hard. “I didn’t even look at her. Not really. I was reading emails. I kissed her neck and said, ‘Text me when you get there.’”

Jack doesn’t answer. Doesn’t offer reassurance or statistics or hope. He just lowers himself to the floor beside Robby, head bowed like he’s praying to no one in particular.

“You love her,” he says, and there’s no bitterness in it. Just something steady. “You take care of her in a way I never could. You know how to make her feel safe when it’s quiet. How to be soft when she won’t ask for it. I’ve spent my whole life guarding her from the world, and now…”

He trails off, staring at the floor.

“You’re the part of her world I trust the most.”

Robby closes his eyes. His shoulders shake, once.

“I don’t know how to be okay if she doesn’t wake up.”

Jack reaches out, sets a hand firm and grounding on Robby’s shoulder—steady, like he’s done for you a hundred times before.

“Then it’s a good thing you won’t have to be,” Jack says. “Because she’s too damn stubborn to leave either of us.”

And for the first time since the call, Robby lets himself breathe.

The updates come like clockwork.

“She’s holding.”

“We’ve got the bleeding under control.”

“She’s going up to the ICU now. Sedated. Ventilated.”

Robby follows the bed upstairs like a shadow. No one stops him. Not even Langdon, who looks like he’s aged ten years in a single shift.

They set you up in 312A.

You’re pale. Still. Your wedding ring sits in a plastic cup on the tray beside your bed.

He takes your hand.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You don’t move.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to your arm. His voice catches.

“Baby, please. Please come back.”

And then—he talks.

About the cat—how she followed you to the door that morning, meowing like she knew something was wrong. How you paused, scooped her up, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “Hold down the fort, okay? Back before dinner.” Then blew her a kiss like you always did, keys already in hand.

About the coffee mug still sitting in the sink. The one with the chipped handle and the faded red lettering from that anniversary trip to Vermont—the kind of mug that never matched anything else but somehow became your favorite. You used it every morning, even when there were clean ones on the shelf. He used to tease you for it. Then he stopped.

About the basket of laundry half-folded on the couch. A pair of your socks tucked inside one of his. Your blouse still soft from the dryer, draped across the armrest like you might come back and finish putting things away. Like you’d walk in and complain that he always left the fitted sheets for you to deal with.

About the dress you pulled from the closet the night before—how you held it up in the mirror and said, “If this still fits, maybe I’ll wear it next weekend. The red one. You like this one.” And how he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like you’d already won the room.

It’s those things.

The little ones.

The ones that never get written down or photographed.

The pieces of a life you don’t realize you’re building until everything goes quiet.

“You can’t leave me yet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I haven’t seen you hold our kid yet. I haven’t told you enough times that you saved my life just by saying yes.”

Day Two

He doesn’t sleep.

Javadi comes by. Says nothing. Just looks through the glass and nods. Collins leaves coffee on the table without a word.

He doesn’t leave your side.

Jack shows up again late that night. Sits with him in the dark.

Neither of them speak. Not until Robby, voice shredded and barely audible, says, “I can’t lose her, Jack.”

Jack just nods. “You won’t.”

“I always figured I’d go first,” Jack says quietly, like the words slipped past his guard. “She’s always been the brave one. Ran toward things I would've flinched from. I was the one who hung back—scanned the exits, counted the risks.”

His jaw clenches. He stares at the floor like he’s trying to make sense of it all from the grain of the tile.

“But when I saw her in that trauma bay…” His voice falters, and he has to force the next words out. “Even in combat, I never felt fear like that. Never felt that kind of helpless.”

Robby doesn’t speak at first. Just sits with it, like the silence might soften the blow.

Then, quietly:

“She told me once she felt safest when she was with the two of us. Like the world couldn’t touch her.”

Jack exhales, slow and uneven. His eyes drift toward the bed—toward where you lie, still and silent beneath the tangle of wires and monitors. Still unmoving. Still too quiet.

Like if he looks long enough, maybe something in you will stir. Maybe you’ll meet his gaze and say his name like it means something.

“She better wake up,” he murmurs. “Because she still owes me twenty bucks. And I’m not letting her off the hook just because she got hit by a truck.”

Day Three.

The room is still. Quiet in a way that feels deliberate—like the air itself is holding its breath. Pale morning light creeps in through the ICU blinds, catching on the sharp corners of machines and the softer curve of your shoulder beneath the hospital blanket. Everything hums: the ventilator, the heart monitor, the sound of plastic tubing shifting slightly when you exhale.

Jack arrives before sunrise.

He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t knock. Just moves through the doorway like someone crossing into sacred ground. He sets a cup of black coffee on the counter for Robby—no cream, two sugars, just the way you always made it for him—and then takes the same spot by the wall he’s stood in every day since you were brought in.

Robby hasn’t slept. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes ringed with exhaustion. His hand hasn’t left yours all night.

They don’t talk for a while. Don’t need to. Jack watches you breathe. Robby counts each rise and fall of your chest like he’s tethered to it.

The moment happens quietly.

Just after nine.

Your fingers twitch. Small. Involuntary, maybe—but real.

Robby jolts forward. “Jack.”

Jack is at his side in an instant, already reaching, already watching. “Do it again,” he whispers, knuckles white where they grip the bed rail. “C’mon, kid. Come back to us.”

And then you do.

Your hand tightens around Robby’s. Weak. Barely there. But deliberate.

Robby exhales like he’s been underwater for days. A strangled sound escapes him—half sob, half stunned relief—and he bows his head to your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Jack grips the back of Robby’s chair with one hand, the other dragging down his face. His mouth is tight. His eyes wet. But his voice, when it comes, is steady in the way only older brothers can manage.

“She’s fighting.”

The nurses rush in. Langdon appears within minutes. Orders are called out. Sedation is reduced. The ventilator settings are dialed down. But Robby doesn’t move—not from your side, not from your hand.

The change is slow. But it’s there.

Color returning to your cheeks. Lashes twitching. A soft wrinkle between your brows like you’re dreaming, or hurting, or both.

When your eyes finally open, it’s dusk.

They’re glassy. Unfocused.

But they find him.

“Hey, baby.” His voice cracks. “You with me?”

You can’t speak. Not yet. But your eyes do the work.

Then—your fingers tighten in his again.

Jack moves to your side, each step careful. Measured. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t trust his voice not to crack the quiet wide open.

And for a second, something flickers across your face. Recognition. A tear.

It rolls down your cheek and Robby catches it with a shaking hand.

He kisses your fingers. Your knuckles. Your wrist.

“You came back to me.”

Jack looks at you, jaw tight, throat working. Then he mutters, almost to himself, “Damn right she did.”

He doesn’t say more.

He doesn’t have to.

You’re awake.

And they’re both there.

That’s everything.

Three Weeks Later.

The apartment smells like lavender and laundry detergent. Your favorite blanket is folded over the back of the couch, and someone—probably Jack—restocked the kitchen with your exact tea and oatmeal brand, like muscle memory. There are flowers on the table, half-wilted, and a stack of unopened get-well cards beside them that you haven’t yet had the energy to read.

You’re home. And you’re alive.

But nothing feels normal yet.

You’re thinner than you were. Your ribs ache when you turn too fast, and your hands shake when you try to open pill bottles. But you walk. You breathe on your own. You wake up in your own bed next to Robby instead of tangled in ICU tubing.

And Robby—Robby hasn’t let you out of his sight.

He tries to be subtle. Tries to hover without hovering. You catch the way his hand twitches when you lean down to pick something up. The way he stays awake two hours after you’ve fallen asleep, just to make sure your breathing stays steady.

“I’m not going to break,” you tell him one morning, finding him standing in the hallway just outside the bathroom door.

He doesn’t smile. Just steps forward and cups your cheek like it’s second nature—like his hand was always meant to rest there.

“You did,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges. “You almost died. And I stood there and watched it happen.”

His thumb brushes against your skin, gentle. Reverent.

“So yeah,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’m sorry, but I’m gonna be careful with you for a while. You don’t get to scare me like that and expect me to walk away unchanged.”

You don’t argue. Just press your forehead to his and breathe with him.

Jack visits like clockwork. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. He always calls ahead, even though you stopped asking him to. He comes with practical things—groceries, multivitamins, takeout from that one Thai place you craved when nothing else would stay down.

He never makes a scene of it. Just moves through your kitchen like it’s routine. Like you didn’t code in the back of an ambulance while he was somewhere else—driving home, bone-tired and still smelling like antiseptic, unaware that your heart had stopped without him there to catch it.

He acts like nothing’s changed. Like you didn’t almost leave him without warning. But the way he watches you when you walk across the room says everything.

“You gonna let me in, or am I just supposed to enjoy the doorframe?” he jokes the first time you’re strong enough to answer it yourself.

“You gonna keep looking at me like I’ve got a ticking clock strapped to my chest?” you fire back.

Jack shrugs. Steps inside. Kisses the top of your head. “You’re still annoying. Good. I was worried.”

That night, you all end up in the living room—curled into Robby’s side on the couch, a blanket tucked around your legs, while Jack settles into the armchair nearby. His prosthetic leans against the side of the chair, balanced carefully where he left it, like it belongs there.

He sits back, one socked foot up, the other leg stretched out and relaxed. Comfortable in a way he rarely lets himself be.

The TV plays some half-watched game on mute, casting flickering light across the room, but no one’s really paying attention. The silence between you feels lived-in, not awkward. Familiar. But still edged with something tender. Like you’re all waiting to exhale at the same time.

The kind of night that feels quiet on purpose.

The kind that says: We’re still here.

“I think I scared you both more than I scared myself,” you murmur, eyes still on the screen.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jack says, voice low. Honest. Not sharp, not teasing—just stripped down. Like it costs him something to say it out loud.

Robby’s grip around your waist tightens almost instinctively, like he can still feel the echo of that moment—the call, the drive, the trauma bay. His fingers curl against your side, anchoring himself to something warm and alive.

“You don’t get to do that again,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ever.”

You turn your head then, eyes flicking between them—one sitting too still, the other holding on too tightly. And for the first time all day, you let yourself feel the full shape of what almost happened. What almost broke you.

“I didn’t say this earlier,” Jack says, softer now, voice rough around the edges. “But I meant it. Back at the hospital. You have him. You’re not doing this alone.”

You don’t look at him right away. Just nod, slow, like the words are settling into a place they hadn’t quite reached before. Your eyes sting, but you don’t blink them away.

“I know I’m not,” you murmur.

And you do.

Even on the days it’s hard to feel it.

Healing isn’t linear. Some days you get through without tears, almost like nothing ever happened. Other days, it hits you sideways—over coffee, in the shower, folding laundry—and you’re crying without knowing why.

You haven’t driven yet. Not because you can’t—because you don’t want to.

And everyone understands that.

Robby never asks. He just grabs the keys and opens your door first. Jack doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease—he just takes the driver’s seat without question when it’s his turn.

Even Dana understood. One Saturday, she showed up with oversized sunglasses and a tote bag full of snacks, knocked twice, and said, “Girls’ day. Non-negotiable. Collins is already in the car.”

And sure enough, Collins was in the passenger seat, sipping an iced tea and pretending not to be amused. Dana took the wheel, flipped the radio to something from the nineties, and announced you were starting with pedicures and ending with overpriced appetizers—“and maybe a shoe sale if we’re feeling emotional.”

But tonight, the air is still. Your body is tired, but not heavy. There’s a blanket over your legs, the low hum of the dishwasher in the next room, and two people who never let go—even when you tried to disappear.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t brace for the fall.

[watchtowerlibrary]

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

Dude, you couldn't hide anything from this man.

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.” “Jack.” “I know what I’m doing.”

"Everything is under control" 😅

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?” Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

This guy could write a book about her 😂😂

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

part two of he begins to notice (read this first!)

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

[watchtowerlibrary]

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

The way he just silently watches 👀

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

🫠 That's one way to do it.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

Just imagining that sounded so hilarious 😂😂😂

“You want me to walk you?” You nodded. “Yeah. I do.” He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

Awwwww 🤗

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

I love those kinds of friendships - when you just know.

“Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

Oh my God 🥹 That gets me right there.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

This is my idea of a distraction before something nerve-wracking.

Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

[watchtowerlibrary]

“Woah, woah, you got cheated on?” Ellis had somehow, despite having a usually recognisable gait, snuck up on you, her brows furrowed in concern and anger.

The way these news are going to burn like wildfire 😅🔥

“He was a plastic surgeon at Presby.” You explained, wincing as the words left your mouth. “I caught him with one of his med students last night.”

Sounds very illegal. She should've called HR on them 😅🤣

Abbot tracked you across the room with his gaze, not unusual, but you knew he wasn’t going to let what he’d seen at the front desk go easily.

I love how he always does this - with his silent, watchful gaze.

It had taken him less than an hour to realise why Abbot liked you so much. You were incredible at your job, even better with the patients, and the moment an urgent trauma had crossed the doors of the ambulance bay, you transformed. Warmth had quickly been traded for brutal efficiency. Your every move was clean, smooth, practiced to perfection.

Why does she feel more like an approachable Abbot? 😅😂

“Let me take you back to my place.” He begged, brushing a quick kiss against your cheek. “I’ll wash your clothes, walk you back to work in the morning.”

Oooooh, what a proposition 😏

Lead The Way

pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Senior Resident!Reader

wordcount: 3.3k

warnings: mentions of cheating, age gap (late 20s and late 40s), brief mention of human trafficking (suspected in a patient)

synopsis: after over a year of pining over Robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. Robby (after putting up with a snippy reader) comes to the rescue

masterlist

!! not proofread so apologies for any mistakes !!

5:34 am

An hour on the treadmill this morning and the loudest, grittiest metal playlist you could find had done nothing to burn away the pure vitriol coursing through your veins.

Eight months of your life now wasted with one of the stupidest men on earth just so you could find him screwing a med student in your apartment. It hadn’t even been the act of catching them that had hurt the most, no, it was the fact that you hadn’t had a chance to break-up with the asshole before he’d screwed you over.

Embarrassment and rage were working double time to keep the fire burning in your chest even as you stepped through the doors of the ED. Your home, your sanctuary, now tainted by your thoughts about the fact that you’d been cheated on by a plastic surgeon.

Dana knew something had happened the moment she’d spotted you walking through the waiting room, back a day early from holiday and almost an hour before your shift, had you even been working, would’ve started.

“You look like you’re about to bring the wrath of God down on this place, kid.” Dana teased, but there glint of concern in her eyes.

“I don’t even have the words right now.” You leaned against the front of her desk, gripping the counter so hard you were sure it would leave marks.

“Let's start with why you’re back a day early from the break you desperately needed.”

That simple sentence sent another wave of wrath through your body.

“I’m well aware I needed the break, and it was fantastic until I came home last night to find my boyfriend screwing one of his med students in my bed.” You spit out the last part in a harsh whisper, careful to not let the elderly patient being wheeled by hear you.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Dana’s mouth was agape.

“I save lives for a living, Dana. I’ve lost count of the number of patients I've treated.” You ranted, running your hand down your face in exasperation. “I have manually pumped a human heart with my own hand, and he pumps implants into trophy wives… and he cheated on me.”

“Woah, woah, you got cheated on?” Ellis had somehow, despite having a usually recognisable gait, snuck up on you, her brows furrowed in concern and anger.

You let your head fall against your folded arms, letting out a groan as you heard Dana chuckle. Ellis’ hand rested on the middle of your back, comforting and familiar.

“Is this that asshole you met at the conference Gloria sent you to?”

You let out another groan at the memory. Gloria had insisted someone from the ED attend a conference on the modernization of emergency medicine (read: how to prioritize money over patient care). Robby, Gloria’s favourite man to torment, had been the obvious choice. He was an attending, pretty much the face of the ED at this point. And you, an ex-nightshift senior resident, not enough of a people person to be sent to a conference meant for networking, were completely powerless against the look in his unbelievably sad brown eyes when he’d complained to you about it over coffee, and offered to take his place.

It had been miserable, a weekend filled with board members who had never set foot in an ED telling you, an actual doctor, how you should be doing your job. Coping came in the form of multiple glasses of whiskey in the hotel bar, and that was when you met Preston. Overly charming, a little slimy, even, but he was there, sitting in front of you, and the man you wanted was not.

He’d wooed you, paid for your drinks, commiserated with you over how stupid this conference had been, asked to take you out to dinner when you both got back to Pittsburgh, and you’d agreed. An obvious mistake, but hindsight is always 20/20.

“The very same.” You nodded, peeking out from beneath your arms.

Ellis scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Who was that guy anyway? You never talked about him.”

A fact you were very grateful for at this moment.

“He was a plastic surgeon at Presby.” You explained, wincing as the words left your mouth. “I caught him with one of his med students last night.” 

“Of course you did, he was a plastic surgeon.”

You shot Ellis a glare.

“Okay, sorry.” She relented, raising her hands in surrender. “Not the time.”

“Not the time for what?” Abbott, the newest member to your pity party, questioned, regarding the three of you with a suspicious glance.

“Not the time to keep digging into my personal life.” You recovered quickly, halting any attempts from Dana or Ellis to spill your problems. “Got a case for me?”

Abbott frowned, but pointed at the board above you. “Got a girl in central fourteen who needs pain management for endometriosis.”

“I’ll head there now.”

You pushed away from the central counter with a soft smile from Dana. Abbott tracked you across the room with his gaze, not unusual, but you knew he wasn’t going to let what he’d seen at the front desk go easily.

As predicted, once you’d set your bag down at your desk Abbott had appeared at your side, his head slightly tilted as he tried to catch your eyes.

“You okay?”

Abbott was your oldest, if not your closest, friend since you’d started at the ED. you’d done your first three years of residency with him before switching to the day shift. According to Robby, he still called you his best resident. It’s not exactly a false statement. During the massacre that had been pitfest, the two of you had fallen back into your old rhythm, moving like a well oiled machine even after a year apart.

“I’m fine. Just had a rough start to the day.” You forced a smile that in no way convinced Abbot.

“You wanna go get some air before you start?” He offered, a knowing look on his face.

Abbott had introduced you to his ‘special spot’ after you’d lost your first patient. You never crossed the railing, not like he did, but you had found there to be something humanising about watching the sun set over the city.

“I’m good, I promise.” You assured, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Just need to get in the groove.”

“If you change your mind you know where I’ll be. Sunrise is looking real nice this morning.” Abbott raised his brows at you, nodding towards the door to try and lure you away.

“Unlike you, I’m not a slacker.” You laughed, pushing at his shoulder. “Now leave me alone. I’m busy.”

“You don’t even have a patient yet.”

“Busy!”

7:22 am

Your first hour had passed by in a blur. You made your way through a patient needing pain management, road rash after a triathlon, botched boob job (not done by your ex, unfortunately), and an incredibly cute baby with an overcautious new mom before Robby had walked through the door.

He’d shown up in his usual uniform; dark cargos, scrub top with a clean white tee underneath, and his favourite hoodie with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. A simple outfit, yet somehow the most alluring thing you’d ever seen a man wear.

He’d taken a quick glance to the board, said a good morning to Dana, and taken the long way to the stairwell, sparing a quick glance into the room of your only current patient on his way. He and Abbot had created a small morning routine, meeting each other on the roof where they could debrief in private before descending to the chaos of the ED.

You envied that kind of relationship. You and Ellis had been close when you were still on night shift. The only two female residents on shift, commiserating over your dead social lives and keeping a tally of all the drunken patients who’d hit on you. She’d made work fun for you.

Collins, Landgon, and Samira weren’t bad company, they were honestly great, but shifting your entire work crew after three years had thrown you for a loop. They were all welcoming, but three years of working together had naturally formed bonds that unintentionally kept you on the outskirts, not as much anymore, but things had been lonely at the start.

Robby, however, had taken you in immediately. You’d spent years hearing stories about him from Abbott, reading the notes he left in your charts, hearing patients talk about how handsome the doctor from the shift before had been. He’d been intimidating at first, but it had only taken you your first shift to realise the two of you got on like a house on fire. Even Gloria had made a comment on it.

“Um, excuse me?” Whitaker’s voice brought you out of your reverie.

“Whitaker, good to see you.” You greeted, tapping into your computer to edit a chart. “How’re you doing?”

“Not too bad, a little tired.” He answered, shrugging his shoulders. “How are you?”

“I’m not doing too bad. Do you need me?”

Whitaker’s cheeks flushed at your phrasing. “Oh, um yes. A patient just came in with who she says is her aunt, but their dynamic’s a little… off.”

“Aunt’s answering questions for her? Patient checks in with the aunt before answering anything on her own? Both insist on not being separated?”

“Yeah, exactly that.”

You nodded. “And just to double check, the patient is above eighteen?”

“Yes, she’s twenty-six.”

That made you turn your head. “Okay, could just be a strange dynamic, but let's flag Kiara and I’ll come check it out.”

Whitaker led you to the patient, taking you straight past the stairwell Robby and Abbott had just emerged from.

Robby caught you by your shoulder, guiding you back so he could see your face. “You got a minute?”

You shook your head, pulling away from his touch. “Whitaker needs me for a possible case of trafficking. I’ll come find you after?”

His brows furrowed, his eyes searching your face for something you couldn’t figure out, but he nodded.

“Sure.”

8:07 am

“Hey, you still need me?”

Robby sat reclined at your desk, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose as he read over a chart.

“How’d things turn out with Whitaker’s patient?” He asked, peering at you over the rims of his glasses. 

God, you loved it when he did that, but your moment of enjoyment cut itself short for professionalism.

“It was a good catch on his part. We put the girl in a private room under the guise of a pelvic exam and Kiara is with her now.”

“Nicely done. Keep me updated when you learn any new information.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. “Did you need me for anything else, or…”

“Abbott mentioned that you seemed a little bit off this morning. Came in a day early, at five in the morning no less.”

“Rat.” You muttered under your breath. You should’ve known that Jack would say something. “I’m fine, just caught a case of cabin fever. ‘M not used to having so much time off, just needed to get into the groove of things again.”

Robby nodded, but you could tell immediately that he hadn’t fallen for the lie.

“Okay, just remember I’m around if you need me.”

“Of course.”

11:48 am

Robby should’ve been focusing on his patients, focusing on the med students he had been tasked with teaching, but each time you crossed his path he couldn’t help but take a moment to admire you.

He could still remember the first shift he’d ever worked with you.

You were Abbot’s best resident, the nurse's favourite doctor (donuts and coffee every Sunday had secured you that position.), and despite being an R3, the two of you had never crossed paths.

Sure, he’d seen glimpses of you from across the ER, read the sticky notes you left scattered around your desk, had a million and one patients ask for the ‘charismatic, young doctor’ from the night before.

After almost three years of unsatiated curiosity, Robby had made peace with the fact that you’d become nothing more than an urban legend in his life. That was until a year ago when Abbott had needed him to cover a night shift, something to do with the wedding of an old friend he’d served with.

You’d greeted him with a smile and a fresh cup of coffee, shook his hand, and told him Abbot talked about him so much you felt like you already knew him. Robby had repeated the sentiment and tried to match your smile, but he was slightly too aware of just how soft your hand felt against his.

It had taken him less than an hour to realise why Abbot liked you so much. You were incredible at your job, even better with the patients, and the moment an urgent trauma had crossed the doors of the ambulance bay, you transformed. Warmth had quickly been traded for brutal efficiency. Your every move was clean, smooth, practiced to perfection.

Robby had been hooked on you by the end of the shift.

He hadn’t made a move on you. Even after only an hour he’d known you were miles out of his league, not to mention that the gap in age hadn’t been anything to blink at. He’d been sure you’d have no interest.

He’d clearly been wrong.

The shift had ended without incident, only a few immediate cases had come through the ambulance bay, but other than that it had been the victims of drunken brawls, sick kids, and elderly people falling in the dark.

You’d stopped him outside, laid a hand on his arm, offered him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen and told him how much you’d loved having him on this shift, and made him promise to say hello when your shifts crossed paths. It hadn’t been a declaration of love, but it had opened a new door.

He’d spent the next few weeks clocking in just a few minutes earlier, catching you just as you crossed the threshold back into the outside world. Robby would flirt (in his own way), and you’d flirt back. It had been a good start to his mornings, made him feel a bit younger, put a new pep in his step.

After a particularly long day, he’d found himself up on the roof with Abbott, staring out at the city looking for a reason to keep going, and Jack, as if he’d read his mind, had dropped the bomb that you were switching to the day shift. He hadn’t specified why, had just accused Robby of stealing his best resident. That simple sentence had kept him fueled for the next week.

The true nail in his coffin had been almost a year ago. You’d fallen on the sword for him, taken his spot at yet another ridiculous conference Gloria had insisted someone from the ED attend. That had been the moment he knew he was falling in love with you. And he fell fast.

He’d spent the entire week you were gone thinking about you, planning the best way to ask you out for dinner without forcing you into a corner if he’d read the signals wrong. And then you came back, exasperated by the amount of ridiculousness you’d put up with over the last week, as happy to see him as he’d hoped, but with a dinner date for a week ahead locked in your calendar.

You were incredible, he couldn’t blame another man for noticing, he’d just wished he’d noticed sooner.

Robby had spent the next eight months watching parts of you slowly fade away. Your smile lost its usual sparkle, your hair didn’t shine under the fluorescent lights the same way it used to. He had asked you about it, pressed you for details on more than one occasion to no avail. You always seemed to be carrying a weight on your shoulders, until this morning.

Even without Abbott’s words bouncing in his head, he could tell something in you had changed. Your eyes looked tired, shadowed by bags under your eyes, but that weight he’d noticed had finally seemed to leave your shoulders. Even with your exhaustion (and snappy attitude), you seemed lighter, happier than he’d seen you in months.

He knew he’d get the information out of you eventually, but for the time being he was just glad to see your true smile again.

7:21 pm

One death, four close calls, and one too many idiot patients later, You found yourself on the cool bench across from the hospital, beer in hand as you laughed with your coworkers. Robby sat next to you, as usual, a serene look on his face as he watched Perlah and Princess argue semantics about an old patient.

As the calm night washed over you, the guilt of snapping at Robby finally settled in your stomach. It hadn’t been fair of you, it wasn’t his fault your ex had turned out to be a piece of shit. A cruel part of you had still blamed him though, thinking that if he’d acted on the feelings you hoped he had for you, you wouldn’t have had to put up with subpar treatment for eight months.

One by one your coworkers headed home, wishing you a good rest of your night and promising to see you again in the morning. Before you knew it, only you and Robby were left in the comfortable silence.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you today.” You spoke softly, picking at the tab of your beer can. “I took out my anger on you and it wasn’t fair.”

“Thank you.” Robby nodded. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you remember that guy I’ve been seeing?”

Robby nodded again, a small frown furrowing between his brows.

“I found him in bed with one of his med students last night.”

Robby let out a heavy sigh, his head shaking slightly as he looked down at his shoes. “That is…”

“Yeah.” You almost laughed. He didn’t even need to speak for you to know what he would’ve said.

A moment passed before he spoke again. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” You let the laugh escape you this time. “He was an absolute asshole.”

Robby laughed with you. “I didn’t know much about the guy, but what I did know, I didn’t like.”

That shot a strange feeling up your spine.

“Wanna know the worst bit?” You asked, pushing down the feeling.

“Of course.”

“I was more upset about the fact that I didn’t get to break up with him first than I actually was about the cheating.”

He laughed, a true deep laugh, the kind you heard rarely but loved.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit.” Robby lectured, resting a hand on your knee where it almost brushed his. “As cliche as it sounds, it’s worth waiting for someone who you know will treat you right.”

“Someone like you?” You questioned, suddenly emboldened by the alcohol coursing through your veins.

Robby paused, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips for a split second. “I’m not sure I’m the man you want.”

“I know you are, Robby.”

His calloused hand moved to rest against your face, his thumb tracing over the ridge of your cheek. In the subtle glow of the park lights you could perfectly see his features, those gentle brown eyes you could never seem to forget. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his in a quiet invitation.

The feeling of his lips against yours had been more perfect than you’d imagined. They were slightly chapped, warm, and just right. His beard scratched against your cheeks in a way that made your thighs ache.

He pulled away after one kiss, ever the gentlemen, and rested his forehead against yours.

“Let me take you back to my place.” He begged, brushing a quick kiss against your cheek. “I’ll wash your clothes, walk you back to work in the morning.”

You struggled to bite back the smile on your lips. “Lead the way.”

[watchtowerlibrary]

“I love Jazz.” You murmur, a little self-consciously, as you set your eyes on his stethoscope instead of his face. “I know.” You pick your head up immediately, brows furrowed. When did you tell him that? “I mean, I heard you talking to Dr. Mohan.” He clarifies. You nod, a kernel of hope growing when you realize he was eavesdropping. Maybe this obsession is more than one-sided. Maybe.

The moment he said "I know", why did my mind imagine a whole monologue of "I know because I know you and listen to you and vividly watch everything you do." 😅

“It’s okay. Robby’s coming, of all people.” An odd thing happens to the attending you thought was unflappable. He looks past your shoulder, clearly searching for Robby, before quickly pulling back to look you up and down. His mouth opens slightly, then closes shut immediately. “Fucking finally.” He mutters under his breath.

Dude, that action alone spoke more than a thousand words 😏🤣

Nothing like how he looks now, waving at you awkwardly as he walks down the street in dark pants and a button-down paired with a jacket to stave off the chill. It shocks you for a second – the first time you’ve seen him out of his scrubs.

I just imagined how it would be like to meet Michael out and about, just wearing his casual clothes 🤣 And you needing a few seconds to even recognize him 😅

When you look back, you watch Robby tuck your purse under his coat and your heart aches. Just a little.

Oh my God this is like the nicest thing I've seen anybody do 🫠

idiots doctors in love

dr. michael robinavitch x resident f!reader

smut. oblivious reader. down bad robby. jazz obssessions.

based on the vibe of the music robby was listening to in ep1 and 15, i headcanon he's a jazz man. SORRY NOT SORRY.

"what do you mean you can't go?"

you frown at dr. mohan, your pain-in-the-ass best R3 friend who's currently breaking your heart. "you're telling me you'd rather stay here than go out?" you gesture to the ER, workers fluttering around as day shift turns to night. out of the corner of your eye you catch a head of almost-silver hair and smirk. "so that's why you want to stay?" she finds the man in your line of sight and immediately shakes her head. samira unclips her clip, shakes her head, and reclips it -- something she never does in the ER. it's a sure sign of her crush on dr. abbot, even if she won't admit it.

"it's not even a crazy club, samira." you hook your arm through hers and drag her away from the board that she was scanning with a single-minded ferocity. "it's r&b night at this new jazz club. we can sit and still have fun! you don't even need to wear heels." she's already dragging you back to the board and shaking her head. "i came in late today. i need to finish my 12 hours." by late, she means the two hours she spent throwing up from food poisoning. even robby told her she could go home and here she is, staying. "fine. but you better text me, i expect you to leave here by 9pm sharp. no more than what you were supposed to work." you squeeze her arm and only let go when she smiles at you. what a liar. you know she'll work way into the night. "sure thing, mom. i'll text you what i eat and when i go to bed, too." she shoots back, smiling. you nudge her side before locating your water bottle and gathering yourself, mentally, to leave the chart board. "i expect nothing less. see you sunday!"

when you turn, your water bottle smacks into your attending.

"shit, i'm sorry." you look up and there he is, crow's feet crinkling as he smiles. rounded black eyeglasses compliment the black ipad he holds, likely updating someone's chart before you whacked his hand with your sturdy bottle. "what's that thing made of?" he lowers his head like he's examining the pink steel of your bottle, and it's hard not to feel giddy under his full attention. stupid, stupid crush.

"confidential weapon materials. it's indestructible." you grin as he shakes his head, clearly done with your antics. "get out of here, doctor. there's only room for so many dad jokes." you roll your eyes, untwisting the cap of your water bottle and drinking just so you can have a few more seconds with him before you really have to go. today was one of those days where you still feel human when you leave work -- no soul-crushing experiences. you're sure one will come on your sunday shift, but the rest of friday night and all of saturday scream freedom to you. a drop of water escapes your mouth and trails down from the corner of your lips to your chin. a lapse in control, something you usually have in spades, but never around robby. how embarrassing, not being able to drink water with more etiquette than a child-

a warm finger brushes the skin of your chin, wiping away the droplet.

you lock eyes. his are brown and a little out of it, his nose flaring and immediately condensing when he retracts his hand. he tucks it in his cargo pants and it's like you've imagined the whole thing.

must be ER-induced delirium.

"any weekend plans, robby?" absolute insane, to ask that question after you just displayed your lack-of-drinking skills. fortunately, all robby does is shake his head. his veiny hand swipes his glasses off his face and tucks them in the front chest pocket of his scrubs. unfortunately, the fluidity of it does a lot for you. must be the competency? "don't call me old, but the record store i like is having a sale on all their duke ellington records tomorrow. might stop by, pretend i have a life." he laughs in that self-deprecating way of his, like he's embarrassed to admit he's human and not just an attending.

your heart melts.

"i love jazz." you murmur, a little self-consciously, as you set your eyes on his stethoscope instead of his face. "i know." you pick your head up immediately, brows furrowed. when did you tell him that? "i mean, i heard you talking to dr. mohan." he clarifies. you nod, a kernel of hope growing when you realize he was eavesdropping. maybe this obsession is more than one-sided. maybe.

"you goin' to that thing you mentioned?" he asks, rolling his shoulders and looking away before looking back at you. "maybe. samira, i mean, dr. mohan can't go, so i might see if my roommate wants to go. she's really into rock though, like die-hard metal fan, so i'm not too sure if she'll want to..." you trail off, a bit saddened. you do want to go, and if it was daytime you would, it's just being alone at night in the city can still be scary. especially after a long shift, even if you're sober. your senses are dulled, worn out from all-day usage. the idea of a long bath and playing a favorite playlist sounds equally appealing and way less work.

"i'm free."

you gape at him, then quickly recover before he can notice how wide open your mouth is. "really?" he looks shocked at himself for even offering, so all he does at first is nod. robby looks off-kilter, far from the confident attending you've spent your last two years with. "you don't have anyone- i mean, any plans tonight? i don't want to take up too much of your time, it starts at 8:30 and it'll probably be at least an hour, maybe two." he barks out a laugh, swiping a hand down his face before answering. "no one's waiting on me. plus, i'm not that old, doctor. my bedtime is 12 anyway." he winks, recovered from whatever shock he was experiencing. you laugh, covering it with your hand before it becomes a full-force giggle. he's not even that funny, but he's just so endearing with those soulful brown eyes and terrible humor and warmth. on hour 12 of your shift, you simply can't take it.

"let me talk to dr. abbot and then i can walk out with you. it's kind of a speakesy so there's this password and this back door and," you realize you're waving your hands around, priming him for another water bottle attack, and quickly fix them to your sides, "and, i'll be right back. don't take another case or i'll go without you." his eyebrows crinkle a little at your mention of dr. abbot but you write it off as tiredness. he nods his affirmation and you bolt through the ER, desperate to finally get out of here.

"dr. abbot!" thankfully he's charting and not gut-deep in a poor patient. he looks up and nods you over, clearly expecting an interesting case. "i need you to do me a favor. dr. mohan is abandoning our jazz club plans to work her full shift and i need you to promise me she leaves here by 9pm. she already had food poisoning this morning, she does not need to work longer than necessary." he's smiling by the end of your demand, clearly amused than angry you're making demands. "you'll make a perfect chief resident, doctor. she won't be here past 9 or i'll walk her out myself." that's what you're hoping for, but you don't mention that. "sorry about your plans." he adds. you shrug, rocking back on your feet as you try not to give away your excitement. "it's okay. robby's coming, of all people."

an odd thing happens to the attending you thought was unflappable. he looks past your shoulder, clearly searching for robby, before quickly pulling back to look you up and down. his mouth opens slightly, then closes shut immediately. "fucking finally." he mutters under his breath, underestimating how good your hearing is. "sorry?" you ask, a little off guard. he shakes his head, resetting. "nothing. have a good night, doctor. have fun." when has he ever told you to have fun? you nod, extremely confused with whatever oddness has affected the Pitt attendings. you wish him a goodnight and beeline back to Robby, who's trying not to involve himself in two GSW's that just burst through the doors.

it's intimate, walking out with him. he holds the door for you but with his hand up high, making you almost duck under it to exit. you talk all the way to the parking lot, only realizing he doesn't even drive when you arrive at your car. you explain how to get into the club, the password being "April 29th" for the NYC Duke Ellington Day in 2009. he takes all of it in stride, nodding precisely at the right points like he's actually listening. "you need a ride home?" you offer, hoping he says no. this past hour has been too much of a whirlwind and you need a moment to contemplate, but the people pleaser in you demands hospitality. thankfully, he shakes his head. "i like walking home. not too far and clears the head." you nod, completely understanding. usually when you drive home, you keep the windows down and the music low to decompress. unsurprisingly, it's jazz or more modern r&b that clears your head.

"i'll see you there, then. text me if something comes up or you'll be late." you tack on, trying not to seem desperate. not to seem like this is a date, of course, which it is not. he's just being friendly, eavesdropping on your personal conversations and connecting over hobbies and offering his time outside of work when he could be, for one, sleeping. "i'll see you at 8:30, doctor."

-

you splurge for a cab, figuring the moment allows for it. plus, your feet ache from hours on your feet and the kitten heels you're wearing don't exactly help. after paying the fee, you step out onto the sidewalk and smooth out the creases in the dress you chose. it's the original outfit you were going to wear: a little black dress that hits above the knee paired with black heels that have bows on them, a small purse around your shoulder. except, you did your makeup instead of going bare face like you originally would've. it's armor to face multiple hours with the man you've been crushing on for months. sure, you've shared beer in parks and much-needed coffee on the roof, but nothing outside of the confines of work. nothing like how he looks now, waving at you awkwardly as he walks down the street in dark pants and a button-down paired with a jacket to stave off the chill. it shocks you for a second -- the first time you've seen him out of his scrubs. he comes to stand in front of you and beams a little, his cheeks pulling up. he's more relaxed without the weight of the ER on him and you yearn to see him like this a thousand times more.

"hi."

"hi."

you stare for a second before reminding yourself that you are not a teenager and can have adult conversations. except this is your boss, a fact you keep forgetting. "i honestly imagined you showing up in scrubs." you tease, gesturing at him to follow as you make your way to the entrance. he chuckles, a low tone that hits like a shower after a long shift, needed and soothing. "i like your dress, too, doctor." he replies. your skin heats at his compliment, glad you're not facing his direction. you wander through the side hallway that accompanies the front of the restaurant, pausing a little before the secret door. before you approach, you turn to him. "you don't have to call me doctor, robby." you remind him, tilting your head a little. he takes the moment to scan the length of your dress, the sheer tights that feed into your heels, before landing back on your face and saying your name. your first name.

it's the first time he's said it, you think. like a shock of epi to the veins, waking you up. his eyes darken and it must be a trick of the light, but you see his pupils expand. you grin shyly before turning and approaching the door. a gold-embossed slit in the door slides open and a pair of blue eyes blink at you. "password?" there's a sudden presence behind you as robby hovers, a touch away from your back. not the closest he's ever stood but you feel practically naked without your scrubs, like he's seeing your bare skin. "april 29th." you supply, clearing your throat as you remind yourself he's just being courteous.

the door swings open and you stifle a gasp. it's all mahagony wood and low lights, candles on every table with velvet-covered chairs and clinking bar glasses. an acoustic version of a leon bridges song plays as you make your way inside, robby only a step behind you. "isn't it pretty?" you turn your face up and there he is, staring down at you. "very pretty." he refers to the room, but his eyes stay on you, warm pools of chocolate in the lamplight. you find a table far enough away from the band where you can talk, even though your tongue is currently tied. robby murmurs something about getting drinks and you sit gladly, your feet straining from being put through even more walking. you set your purse on the table and close your eyes, letting your body finally relax as you take in the music. your head sways a little, the rhythm soothing you after another long-but-worth-it day in medicine.

"i wasn't sure what you wanted, so i got the specialty drink they were serving." he sets down what looks like a fancy dirty shirley with edible gold glitter swirling around. it catches the light and reminds you of the gold flecks in robby's eyes, illuminated by the candles. he sits down in the chair next to you, the table small enough for your knees to brush as you both face the stage. neither of you pulls away.

"they must have upcharged an extra $10 for the glitter." you take a sip and close your eyes, loving the fruitiness. a look left reveals his own drink, dark liquid in a glass tumbler. "part of the experience." he shrugs, nudging you with his knee. "plus, i know mohan wouldn't comp your drinks like i will." you giggle at that, keeping it at a low volume as the band continues. you take another sip for courage before putting the glass back down. "thank you, robby. for the drink and for coming." he takes a sip of his drink and sets it down. the table must be too small or his eyes really that bad, because he sets it so close to you that your knuckles brush. these accidental touches keep sending ill-advised sparks to your core, making you shift in your spot and press your thighs together.

when you gather the courage to look in his eyes, they seem to be on your thighs. a trick of the light, as they flick up and catch yours, no apology on his lips. "i wanted to-"

"hello everyone!" the saxophone player has the mic, greeting everyone with a bright smile. "thank you for coming to our little gathering tonight. it'll be a mix of jazz, r&b, and anything that sits right in the soul. we've got our singer coming on in about an hour but for now, enjoy the music." the bassist plucks a few strings and they start, launching into a louis armstrong song.

it's something close to peace that you feel. taking in the music silently, robby closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. you make small talk occasionally, learning more about him than you ever knew. how he used to live in chicago, how he's the older sibling of a much younger brother and sister off doing Great Things. you tell him about your favorite bagel spot that you stop by when you have the time and how sometimes, you think your roommate might hate you and not actually tolerate your late-night taco cravings. it's addicting, every smile he gives you, each one more endearing than the one before it. you like that he barely drinks, only sipping after a long conversation. you want to remember this, so you let your drink slowly lessen but don't ask for a second.

his knee stays against yours the whole time, a tender anchor to the moment.

after an hour, the singer graces the stage. her voice is raspy and low, perfect for the songs she picks. "these next few are perfect slow songs, in my opinion. and would you look at that, we've got some empty room on the dance floor." she launches into an etta james song about sundays and you can't help but gather your courage. "dance with me? if your feet aren't too tired, of course." you add, suddenly worried you overstepped. he shakes his head, stepping out of his seat and gesturing you forward. when you look back, you watch robby tuck your purse under his coat and your heart aches. just a little.

at first, you feel like a kid at her first dance. there's too much space between you, his hand so high on your back that it almost reaches your neck. it's hard to move together this far apart, so you take a deep breath and step closer. "this okay?" you whisper, face inches from his. he nods a little sharply, but steps closer until your cheek is flush to his chest. "it's perfect." you smile to yourself and lose yourself to the music.

as more people join the dance floor, robby pulls you snug to his chest. "having fun?" he asks, lips grazing your ear. his hand slides lower, still on the small of your back. it's the most you've ever touched him, felt the woodsy scent of his cologne and the hardness of his torso. "yeah." you mumble, drunk on the music and his presence. he seems to understand, tucking your head under his chin as you sway, his other hand tightening in yours as you grip his shoulder lightly. the singer croons about love and loss and you feel it, right under you.

after a few more songs, the band takes a break. when you pull back from robby, something has changed. he has to have felt this pull in your chest, the one tethered to your heart strings. "take a break with me?" you nod to the quiet hallway that leads to the bathrooms, perfect for a break from the crowd. he follows you loyally, hand hovering at your back as you walk down the hall. voices fall away until it's just you two in some alcove between the bar and the bathroom.

he puts his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall. you take a deep breath and one step forward.

"robby."

his eyes squint when you don't follow with a question and widen when he realizes what you're asking, or not asking.

robby swipes a hand down his face before it falls to his side, tapping the top of his thigh. "we can't." he reasons. your toes touch his shoes, shiny ones you didn't even imagine him owning. "says who?" you murmur, standing your ground. both of his hands are at his sides now, flexing and unflexing. if he wasn't wearing long-sleeves, you'd be tracing the veins. "the pittsburg medical board. gloria." he answers, not doing anything to move from where you stand. this time, it's him who straightens, bringing him closer to your heaving chest.

"i'm not going to tell them." you murmur. there's an instant sense of a mistake as he leans back into the wall. "it's not like that for me. it's- i'm not a casual person." the confession is more than you were hoping for, a long-forgotten dream that lay buried in your heart. "it's not like that for me either, robby. i really liked tonight. i want to do it again."

strong, capable hands cup your face. his thumbs swipe under your eyes, probably ruining your makeup, as he tilts you into his eyesight. "you have no fucking idea how long i've waited for this." he confirms, the tips of his fingers brushing your jaw. "really?" you plead, off-kilter from his sudden admission. "since you found me on that roof, still soaked in blood from two child GSW's." a year and a half ago. your heart pounds and you smile.

"can't deny you anything when you look like that." you're not entirely sure what he means -- when you're covered in blood or when you're in this dress? doesn't matter.

"won't you kiss me, then?"

and he does.

robby kisses like a man possessed. his hands on your face stay there, keeping you open even as you gasp into his mouth. it's not sloppy but toes the line as he keeps himself restrained, only allowing his tongue to peek out when you moan in delight. robby leaves little bites and licks with every sound you make, letting you melt into his arms with your arms around his shoulders.

"i don't want our first time to be tonight. i want to do it right." he demands into the wet heat of your mouth, covering the burn of his words with a solid kiss. you agree but still hitch your leg up around his waist as far as your dress will allow. "these fucking tights." he nips your jaw and you giggle, melding yourself further into him. "c'mere."

you lead him to a one room bathroom, locking the door behind you. instead of the perfectly good countertop, he corners you against the wall, hands sliding up and under your dress. "this okay?" he asks and you whine, pushing your hips further into his grasp. your dress gathers at your waist as he finds the band of your tights digging into your skin. "you gonna let me taste?" you nod, practically begging.

he yanks down your tights and you ignore the sure sound of them ripping, glad they were a sale purchase. "i'll buy you new ones." he promises your inner thighs, kissing gently upwards. with your demolished tights, you're able to swing one leg over his shoulder as he lowers himself onto his knees. you've been wet all night from his touches and it doesn't surprise you when he has to peel your lace underwear off, slick clinging in strings as he works them to the side.

"so wet for me. i know, baby, i know." he hums as you whine impatiently, moving forward until his words land on your empty cunt. he works you like an expert, splitting your folds open as he licks a stripe up and down. almost all the way down.

robby isn't like the college boys who treated this like a task. he lavishes you with kisses, small sucks to your clit that end when you start bucking. the tip of his tongue teases your hole but doesn't go in, seemlingly leaving it for another time. his nose, that strong nose you always catch yourself admiring, presses against your clit and you jolt from the pleasure of it. you fuck yourself a bit on it, encouraged by his moan that pulses through your core. the friction switches between his nose and his tongue and you can't get enough, that tell-tale pressure building in your lower stomach.

"robby, i'm close." you admit, gasping when he sucks your clit even harder. waves build and tense in your core as you chase the feeling, moving your hips without thought. "c'mon, honey. come." he mumbles, muffled by your thighs. like you do everyday in the ER, you follow his command, moaning as you tense and flutter around him. he guides you through it with sloppy licks until you're pushing him away, overstimulation creeping over your shoulders.

his beard is sopping with your slick, something he doesn't seem to care about as he emerges after fixing your underwear. deft fingers guide your feet out and into your heels as he fully frees you of the ripped tights, little brushes to your ankle bone going straight to your heart. it's only after he throws away your tights does he stand, eyes glittering.

you look down at his cock clearly straining against his trousers. when you reach for it, his hand stops you, stroking the soft skin of your wrist. "tonight's not about me." one part of you is disappointed but the other is dreadfully tired, needing rest after all of this excitement. "thank you, robby." you say, unsure of how to feel the silence. his hands grip your waist and he kisses your forehead before he pulls back, thumb swiping over your bitten lips. "call me michael, honey. you want to stay or you done for the night?" you shake your head instantly, exhaustion deep in your bones. "take me home, michael."

-

when you wake in the late morning, he's still in your bed. if he hadn't been, you would have thought last night was a jazz-induced dream. instead, he's murmuring to someone on the phone sternly. your eyes trace his bare chest down to his boxers, the same chest you fell asleep against last night. you lay a hand on his chest and he covers it with his own, seemingly done with his phone call. "who was that?" you ask, too curious to hold back. "HR." he grins. "haven't even asked me out properly and you're already calling HR." you grumble, inching closer until he gathers you in his arms, kissing the top of your nose.

"will you go out with me, doctor?"

-

writing this was a fever dream.

if you haven't seen noah wyle dressed up, i highly encourage you to.

[watchtowerlibrary]

“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t tease.”

I'm frothing at the mouth, I tell you. FROTHING 🤤

Deep. All the way. In one solid thrust that stretches you wide and makes your whole body jolt. You gasp, clutching his forearms—but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

That visual alone YOWZA 🫨🫠

He’s shaking now—his abs tensing under your hands, his breath rasping in short, uneven bursts as he fucks you harder, deeper, wrecklessly, like something gave out inside him and there’s no pulling it back.

Love that visceral reaction 💕😏

jack seems to be so composed in your writing, especially during sex. is there ever a scenario you could see him maybe losing control/composure during?

Oh, definitely—Jack’s composure isn’t just habit, it’s armor. But under the right pressure? He’ll break. And when he does, it won’t be loud or reckless—it’ll be raw. Quiet.

Here’s where I think he’d lose control—physically, emotionally, or both. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: rough sex, deep emotional repression, emotionally charged confessions, unprotected sex, dom/sub energy without labels, messy pacing, loss of control, clingy post-sex silence

1. When He Thinks He’s Losing You

You shouldn’t be here.

Not after what you said. Not after the door slammed. Not after you’d spent the past few nights curled under someone else’s blanket on someone else’s couch, trying to forget how his voice sounded when he didn’t ask you to stay.

But it’s raining, and you’re here. And Jack opens the door like he knew you’d be on the other side.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

His gray curls were tousled, flattened at the sides like he’d been dragging a hand through them too many times. The shirt he’s wearing is soft, white, the collar stretched, the hem sitting uneven over a pair of sweats. He stood still, but not at ease—his weight angled slightly, one leg bearing just a little more than the other. The prosthetic stayed grounded, subtle in its silence, like something his body adjusted to without thinking—something you’d learned to notice only when he was this still.

He looks tired.

He looks like he hasn’t been able to stop thinking.

You speak first. Quiet. “Can I come in?”

He nods, barely. His jaw twitches like it pains him not to reach for you.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway. The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle you left half-burned in the kitchen—still faint in the air, like the memory of your warmth hasn’t fully left.

He closes the door behind you. Doesn’t move.

The silence between you presses down—thick and unfinished.

“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” you say first. Voice quiet. Uncertain.

Jack huffs through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

Your voice drops. “I didn’t come to keep fighting.”

“I didn’t think you did,” he says. Then, after a pause: “But you did leave.”

You nod, once. “I left. You shut down. Not that different.”

It lands. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just stands there, still, eyes locked on yours like there’s more he wants to say but no good way to say it. He breathes out, sharp at the edges, and you know—it got through.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.

You nod again. “Neither did I.”

It hangs there for a moment—we hurt each other. We didn’t mean to. But we did.

Then finally, you say it. Not softly, not dramatically. Just truthfully.

“I missed you.”

And that—that—is what breaks him.

His hand’s in your hair before you can breathe. His mouth finds yours—desperate, uneven, like the words he didn’t say are still stuck in his throat and this is the only way to let them out. Not polished. Not careful. Starving.

He's everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the small of your back—like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first. His body crowds into yours, chest to chest, thigh slipping between yours without finesse, without warning. It isn’t about sex. It’s about contact. Closeness. Like he’s trying to fit both of you back into the same breath.

“Jack,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Hey—”

He kisses you harder.

“I can’t—” His voice breaks at your throat. “I can’t do that again. I can’t watch you leave and pretend it didn’t fucking gut me.”

Your hands find his chest first—flat against the worn fabric, fingers curling into it like you’re trying to steady both of you. He’s burning beneath it. You slip your palms beneath the hem, not tugging, just touching, just wanting—a wordless way to say me neither.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

That’s when something in him gives.

He grabs the back of your shirt and pulls it off, fast and clumsy. His own shirt’s gone next—tossed to the floor. You catch a glimpse of the scar trailing along his ribs, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow.

His hands move to your waistband, not asking. Just moving. Just needing. He drags your pants down with both hands, catching your underwear with them, tugging hard until they’re off and forgotten on the floor. Then his hands are back on you—raking up your thighs, gripping the curve of your hips.

You start to reach for him, but he’s already gathering you into his arms—like instinct took over before thought could catch up. You cling to him without hesitation, arms winding around his shoulders, legs locking at his waist. He carries you down the hall without a word, without pause, like getting you to the bed is the only thing anchoring him now.

He lays you back on the bed and follows you down.

No teasing. No pause.

Just Jack—pressing into you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself between your legs. You’re already wet. Already open. And when he pushes in—deep, slow, all at once—his breath leaves him in a broken exhale.

He stills.

Not to tease. Not to hold back.

Because it wrecks him.

He lowers his head, jaw clenched tight, arms shaking with restraint. You feel him tremble above you—one, sharp tremor—and then he starts to move.

Not rhythmically.

Not smoothly.

Just fucking desperate.

Every thrust is erratic, forceful, like he’s been holding this back for days, weeks. He can’t find a pace. He can’t breathe through it. He’s rutting into you like it’s the only way to stay grounded. Like it’s the only place he knows how to be.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow down. He presses his forehead into your neck—sweat damp, teeth clenched. He makes no sound. But you feel it.

The unraveling. The shudder in his hips. The way he drives deeper, harder, chasing something even he doesn’t have words for.

And when he comes—he doesn’t curse. Doesn’t groan.

He just breaks.

Whole body locking up. A silent, shuddering gasp against your skin. Hands gripping too tight. Hips stuttering through the aftershock.

And then stillness.

He stays inside you.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes—shallow and wrecked—his weight braced against your chest like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling further.

2. When You’re in Control—And He Didn't See It Coming

He’s lying on the bed, propped against the headboard. Bare chest rising slow and steady like he’s trying not to let the day get to him.

And then you crawl into his lap.

No warning. No words. Just your body over his, thighs straddling his hips, your skin barely covered by the oversized shirt he left folded on your side of the bed. His shirt. Still carrying his scent.

His hands move automatically—to your waist, to the back of your thigh—but you push them back. Gently. Firmly.

“Let me,” you whisper.

His brow lifts—only a little. The only sign of tension is the flicker in his jaw, the way his thigh shifts beneath you. But he doesn’t stop you.

You lean in, kiss his collarbone, run your hands over his chest, the scars and the muscle and the years of wear he never talks about. You don’t rush. You don’t ask. You just slide your hand lower—over his stomach, beneath the waistband of his sweats—and wrap your fingers around him.

That’s the moment he falters.

His head drops back against the headboard. His mouth falls open. One of his hands fists the sheet beside him, the other grips your hip—tight, like he needs something to hold onto. He bucks up into your hand once, twice, breath caught in his throat.

“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t tease.”

You do.

You stroke him slow, deliberate, watching the tension build in every part of him—his abs flexing, his breath shortening, the way his eyes shut like he’s fighting not to give in. You feel him throb against your palm, hot and heavy and helpless in your grip. He’s panting now, voice shredded when he tries to speak.

And when you finally slide down onto him?

He gasps—sharp and strangled. His hips jerk upward and he catches himself on instinct, trying not to lose it too fast. But you ride him with control, your hands braced on his chest, grinding down slow and deep until he’s twitching inside you, his voice stuck in his throat.

His hands fly to your hips again, gripping hard, trying to hold you still. You lean down, brush your mouth against his ear.

“Let go.”

And he does.

He flips you onto your back, his mouth crashing into yours, and drives into you with everything he’s been trying not to feel. No rhythm—just need. His voice is raw when he breaks, forehead pressed to yours, thrusting so deep you swear you’re going to come undone from the inside out.

“You wanted to see me lose it,” he growls, breathless. “Here.”

And he fucks you like it’s not just sex—it’s relinquishing. It’s him, undone.

3. After a Day That Nearly Broke Him

He doesn’t say a word when he comes in. Just shuts the door, tosses his keys somewhere near the counter, and disappears down the hallway like the house is too loud, even in silence. You hear the shower.

By the time the mattress dips behind you, you’re barely awake.

But then you feel it—his hand. Heavy. Flat against your thigh beneath the sheets. He doesn’t trail it up, doesn’t ask, just presses. Like he needs to know you’re warm. Real.

You shift toward him, barely murmuring his name—and he’s already on top of you. No words. No preamble. Just his body moving over yours like a weight he can’t hold anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first—open, hot. Not a kiss. Just breath and teeth. Desperation.

His hands work fast. Pulling your sleep shorts down, dragging your legs apart with his palms wide on the inside of your thighs. Breath stuttering as he fits the head of his cock between your folds.

And then he pushes in.

Deep. All the way. In one solid thrust that stretches you wide and makes your whole body jolt. You gasp, clutching his forearms—but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just stays. Buried to the base, forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

“Jack…” you whisper.

His jaw is clenched tight. Breath shaking. His hands grip your hips hard—too hard—but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You know this isn’t about rhythm or foreplay. This is him trying not to break.

And then he starts to move.

It’s not fast. Not sloppy. It’s intentional. Each thrust deep and full, grinding into you like he’s trying to anchor himself inside your body. You feel every inch of him dragging slow and thick through your cunt, your breath catching every time his hips meet yours.

His arms cage you in. His mouth is at your throat, hot and wet and lost. Not saying anything—just making small, broken sounds against your skin.

You moan his name again, and that’s what shatters him.

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the sound obscene, wet, raw. You cry out. He doesn’t pause.

Again. Harder.

He’s shaking now—his abs tensing under your hands, his breath rasping in short, uneven bursts as he fucks you harder, deeper, wrecklessly, like something gave out inside him and there’s no pulling it back.

You feel him pulse inside you before you hear the sound he makes—low, guttural, broken. His whole body tightens, chest pressed to yours as he comes hard, buried deep, cock throbbing with each wave as he empties into you, mouth open against your collarbone, completely silent now.

He stays inside you. Breathing. Not moving. One hand slides up your side and stays there.

You don’t ask what happened at the hospital.

You just hold him like he’s still unraveling.

Because he is.

4. When You Break Him With Words

He’s already fucking you when it happens—slow, deep, focused. Jack above you, heavy with control, arms braced tight on either side of your head. His chest brushes yours with every roll of his hips, thick and steady, cock sliding in slow and hot with the kind of precision that only comes from someone who never lets himself get carried away.

He doesn’t talk much during sex. Just the occasional sharp breath, a low curse when you clench around him. Mostly silence. Measured. Like everything else he does.

His body covers yours completely—his weight, his warmth, the subtle difference in how he shifts to keep balance—but there’s nothing hesitant about the way he moves. He knows your body, knows how to make you fall apart. He just rarely lets himself need it.

Tonight’s no different.

Until you say it.

“I love the way you fuck me,” you breathe—first, casual. And he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, pace unchanging.

But then: “I love you.” “I mean it.” “I want all of you.”

That stops him.

Not entirely. His hips stall mid-thrust, chest tight against yours, his jaw locked so hard you feel it in the weight of his breath. His cock throbs inside you, thick and full and unmoving.

You cup the side of his face—fingers slow, tender—and say it again.

“I mean it, Jack. I want you. All of you. Not just this.”

He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Like he’s trying to fight the way that lands. You feel it in the way his arm flexes. In the way his cock twitches inside you, untouched and aching.

Then suddenly—he moves.

Faster. Rougher.

He drives into you like something cracked, like if he keeps fucking you hard enough, he can shake the words out of his head.

But it’s too late.

They’re already inside him.

He fucks you with his whole body—thrusts rough and deep, every stroke dragging moans from your throat as he hits you just right. Your thighs are hooked around his waist, back arching into him, nails raking down his shoulders as he starts to unravel.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he mutters, voice hoarse and close to ruined.

“I do,” you gasp, holding onto him tighter. “Jack, look at me.”

He does.

And his rhythm falters the second your eyes meet.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole body stutters.

He growls—actually growls, low and guttural—as he drives into you harder than before, pace snapping, control slipping completely. You feel him start to lose it—his hips jerking, cock throbbing so deep inside you it makes your vision go white. He’s there, on the edge, and trying not to be.

You dig your heels into his back and pull him closer. “Don’t hold it in.”

His eyes flutter shut. His mouth crushes to yours, desperate, brutal, all tongue and teeth. His thrusts go ragged—sloppy and devastated—until he buries himself fully and groans, deep and wrecked, as he comes inside you.

You feel every pulse, hot and thick, his cock twitching deep inside your cunt as his whole body jerks. His arms are shaking. His breath is gone.

And still—he doesn't move.

Just stays there, pressed full length against you, forehead buried in your neck like if he lifts his head, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

[watchtowerlibrary]

one

Even when they're no longer together, Robby still knows her to a T 🫠😅

Oh my god the way he nestles his head into her hand

Evans calling their divorce into question after their pda 🥹

Oh my god that text message at the end just warmed my heart - he still cares!🥰

two

Love how they can tease each other with Reader rarely going to the basement for the dusted-up ladder 😅

Oh my god the name change debate 😏

Talk about confusing with sleeping in bed with your ex

Robby probably slept better than before 🤗

The way he caged her in 😏

three

I find that so fascinating she understood him so much better now that they're no longer married

I just love when Robby is so happy or at least purely content when he mentioned Dana had a good time🤗

four

My absolute favourite part of the series, maybe because we get the first tangible proof how much Robby actually cares and the resolution to everything 🥰

I just love once the moment comes and Reader decides she needs to get over him *sigh*🥹 I love that kind of pain.

Selling the house? Talk about the cleanest slate ever. 😅

Oooh, the way Robby just expected her to stay in the same city. 😏

Damn, the way he clings to her after that phone call, like he needs her to breathe 🥹

five

Hope this is really the last part 🧐😅

Robby just taking care of business feels really nice 💕

Mrs. R Masterlist

Pairing: Dr. Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: Angst; fluff; all that good stuff

Summary: For as amicable as the divorce had been, the two of you had problems. When Michael was stressed, he shut you out from the source of it, determined not to bring it home. But as hard as he tried, the strain and drain of his work hung on him. You’d wanted to be a safe space for him, but as the pressures of his job mounted, he’d never allowed you to be.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Part Five

[watchtowerlibrary]

But, he’d given you his first name when placing the order for his latte, so Michael he remained.

I love that part how he used his first name for that 😊

You sat back down next to Michael, insisting to yourself that the heat radiating off his arm stretched across the back of the bench was in no way related to the flip in your stomach.

I see you, Reader 😏 Keep telling yourself that.

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

Someone was worried awwww. 🥹 She just wants to take care of her man.

“You had one of these yet?” he asked, holding up one of the cookies. You shook your head. “You should, they’re working miracles.”

Ohhhhh, the feeling is mutual 🥰

“Samira!” you jumped up, reaching for her. She gripped you tight, sinking against you for the duration of the hug.

Without context I thought she only did that to evade Michael 😅 And quite exuberantly.

“It’s late.” Michael said, leaning close enough for his shoulder to bump yours. You nod, leaning in as well. “You ready to go?” you nodded again, fighting back a yawn that was bubbling to the surface. He nodded, shouldering his backpack and standing up.

Damn, they're already married 🥰🥹 Their shoulders bumping felt so cute.

He waited for you to unlock to door before pulling it open for you. You slipped inside, Michael following you to the kitchen. You moved in sync, putting things into the dishwasher, the few bits of leftover brownies into one of the fridges.  Once things were put away, you leaned against the counter, giving him a once over. “You’re not subtle.” he mutters.

The lines were getting so blurry because at times I thought those two were already in a secret relationship, with the way those two were on the same mental level 😅

sweet nothings

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Laying it on thick today?” you laughed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[watchtowerlibrary]

“I don’t want to hear excuses, I want to hear ‘yes, sir.’ Do you understand me?” Robby said, nostrils flared, face red. You could not BELIEVE the audacity of this man. You looked around, and every single person in the Pitt had their eyes on you. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and tears stung your eyes. “Yes, sir.” You hissed.

I think I would just die from mortification if he ripped into me like that 🥺

Normally, Robby would have made a sarcastic comment back, but the only thing he could think about as he walked to the doctor’s lounge was you. He opened the door to the lounge, and his heart sank when he saw that your belongings were already gone.

Dude, how quick did she just dip? 😅

“Do you love me?” He asked, scared like a child.

Awwwwwww 🥰🥹

Afterglow

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, Minors DNI, unprotected sex, angst but then smut

A/N: I had been trying so hard to finish up this one! I love writing for angsty Robby that ends up being happy in the end. I just love my tortured lil guy with brown eyes.

—

You could feel somebody’s eyes burning a hole through your head as you finished charting for your last patient of the shift. You knew it was Robby. The patient was a young woman who had come in after fainting for the first time. Robby suggested dysautonomia and wanted to discharge after observation, but you weren’t so sure. So you ordered an EKG, revealing a second degree Monitz Type 1 heart block. These were benign but important to explain her fainting. The only problem? You did it after Robby explicitly told you no.

Your relationship with Robby was perfect. Most of the time. He provided for you, cared for you, and protected you. And you were eager to reciprocate it. After a year of dating, you both kept the privacy of your relationship at work. Only Dana and Abbot knew. Robby treated you like every other resident, but sometimes, that wasn’t a good thing.

You finished typing in the chart and logged out of the computer. You stood, ready to go grab your backpack and head home. But when you turned around, Robby was towering over you with his arms crossed.

“We need to talk.” He said gruffly.

You raised an eyebrow, not able to read the emotions behind his eyes. “About…?” You asked.

“I told you not to order the EKG for Room 3. Explain to me how that got lost in translation.” His eyes were narrowed, and you grew uncomfortable under his piercing gaze.

You crossed your arms, mirroring him. “Because she’s an athlete. Second degree Type 1 is very common in young female athletes.” You stated firmly.

“Which is also benign. The dysautonomia could also account for her fainting.” He countered.

You shook your head in confusion. “I don’t understand. We helped a young woman learn about a block that could be a problem down the road. What is the problem?” You asked.

Robby chuckled, but you knew that laugh. The one before he blew up on a medical student. “The problem is that you went behind my back and ordered an EKG I explicitly told you not to.” He explained, bordering condescending.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “Because I didn’t think your diagnosis was correct.” You responded, feeling anxiety rush through your veins as you stood up for yourself.

He shook his head “I don’t care. You are the resident, and I am the attending.”

He pulled his rank on you. He’s never done that. Even before you were dating. You huffed and clenched your jaw. “But I was right.” You said.

“You were right this time. But making a habit of defying your superiors can lead to somebody dying.”

“But-“

“I don’t want to hear excuses, I want to hear ‘yes, sir.’ Do you understand me?” Robby said, nostrils flared, face red.

You could not BELIEVE the audacity of this man. You looked around, and every single person in the Pitt had their eyes on you. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and tears stung your eyes. “Yes, sir.” You hissed.

Robby watched you storm off to the doctor’s lounge. The anger in his chest began to dissipate as he looked around the room and noticed the scene he had caused. “Get back to work.” He ordered, and everyone began to awkwardly continue about their shift.

He sat down at the desk you had been working at and rubbed his hands on his face. Regret began to sink in.

“Hey, man. What the fuck was that?” He heard Dana ask him.

Robby looked up and shook his head. “I don’t know.” Was all he managed to say.

“Well, you just humiliated a resident and your girlfriend in front of the whole Pitt. Let’s start there.” Dana said as she sat down next to him.

“She went behind my back and-“

“Yeah, yeah, I heard the story. Everyone did.” Dana deadpanned, and Robby rolled his eyes. “Why did you feel the need to berate her like that?”

Robby shrugged. “I didn’t berate her. I had to remind her that she can’t just defy orders as a resident. That could both of us in trouble if something bad happened.” He explained.

“Sure, that makes sense. But you were a dick about it.” Dana replied.

“It just happened. I was angry.”

Dana leaned in closer, keeping her voice quiet in case any nosy nurses were listening. “You are in a relationship with a power imbalance. Maybe it’s equal at home, but not here. You can’t just drill her like that.”

“I have to treat her like she is a junior resident. I can’t give her special treatment because she’s my girlfriend.”

Dana laughed, unable to handle how dense Robby was being. “Special treatment? Robby, you are way harder on her than you are on anybody else in the Pitt. Even the senior residents.”

Robby looked to Dana. “She is defying me in front of the senior residents.” He defended.

“She is standing up for herself. Just like Langdon, just like Collins, just like any resident would. Whatever pride is getting in the way of your relationship, you need to let it go.”

“It’s not pride.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Dana sighed heavily. “Robby, I have seen you in a work relationship up close. You did not act this way to Collins. But I also know you didn’t love Collins.”

Robby felt an internal sting of guilt at the mention of his past relationship. But Dana was right. “What’s your point?”

“You are about to destroy the one thing that makes you a tolerable person.” Dana said bluntly.

Robby sat there for a moment, the words echoing in his ears. He had never considered that he might be hurting your relationship. All he was worried about at work was turning you into the best physician. Even if that came with tough love. But today wasn’t tough love. It was his pride and arrogance pushing through the surface and bearing its ugly teeth.

“You had better go and get her before she’s gone.” Dana’s words snapped him out of his thoughts.

Robby nodded and stood up. He squeezed Dana’s shoulder. “Thanks.” He said.

Dana leaned back in her chair as Robby turned to leave. “First relationship counseling session is free. Next one, I’m charging 50 bucks.” She teased.

Normally, Robby would have made a sarcastic comment back, but the only thing he could think about as he walked to the doctor’s lounge was you. He opened the door to the lounge, and his heart sank when he saw that your belongings were already gone. So, he collected his backpack and hurried out the door to your apartment.

—

You managed to hold it together until you got home. You dropped your backpack on the ground and burst into tears. Robby had never yelled at you like that, and honestly, you were a little frightened by it. You knew he would never lay a (non-consensual) finger on you, but you never imagined you would be on the receiving end of his meltdowns.

You collapsed onto your bed and pulled the pillow to your chest as you cried. The image of Robby’s angry red face was terrorizing your mind. And even worse, you felt unstable in the relationship for the first time. You had never fought with Robby, not really. Tiny arguments over thermostat settings were the worst altercations, and you both laughed the whole time.

The age gap between you and Robby was not a problem. You both had an honest conversation about what it would mean to work with each other before you started officially dating. There had not been any issue. Sure, you noticed that he was more critical of your work. You figured you deserved it, but you didn’t notice any difference between that and the criticism he held for other residents.

You heard the front door lock click, and the door opened. “Hey, kid. I’m home.” A voice called out.

You suddenly felt anger bubble in your chest. Robby walked around the apartment for a moment until he saw you through the open bedroom door, curled up with the pillow. He sat down on the opposite side of the bed, looking down at you.

“I’m sorry.”

The words didn’t mean anything to you. You wanted to yell and scream and get back at him. Make him feel as bad as you did. But you didn’t. That wasn’t healthy.

Robby took your silence as the response. “I fucked up today. I belittled you in front of everyone, and I didn’t respect your education and decisions.” He continued.

You watched him through teary eyes. And it broke his heart. He wanted to hold you close and wipe them away and kiss the stains they made on your cheeks. But he knew he caused them. He rubbed the back of his neck, his anxious tic.

“I know you’re mad. And I know that you will be for a while. I let my pride and arrogance get ahead of me, and I didn’t respect you as a resident.” He said and reached a hand to stroke your hair out of your face. “But more importantly, I didn’t respect you as my girlfriend. My partner.” He added.

You felt the anger begin to dwindle but kept your guard up. “You‘ve never yelled at me like that.” You whispered and a fresh wave of tears streamed down your face.

Robby felt like a knife was twisting in his chest at the sight of you. “I know. And I’ll never do it again. That’s a promise.” He replied. “I know I’m harder on you than the other residents. I just want you to be the best physician. Better than me.”

You rolled your eyes at his answer. “Shouldn’t you want all of your residents to be the best?” You asked.

Robby bit his bottom lip in thought. “Yes. But I want you to be better than all of them.” He said.

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. He loved you. He said he loved you. Robby had never dared utter the words prematurely. Sure, you knew you loved him months ago. But you weren’t going to risk scaring him off if he wasn’t ready for that.

“I love you, kid.” He reiterated when he saw that you were processing his words carefully. “And I have for a long time. You have shown me what it means to be happy. I used to dread waking up every morning, and now I wake up with you by my side. Every decision I make is for you. For our future. You are my anchor to reality. I was scared to say it because I didn’t want karma or fate or whatever to take you away from me.”

Your face softened, but the tears kept coming. For a different reason this time. You reached your hand out and pulled him by the strings of his hoodie to lie down next to you. Robby’s sad brown eyes began to well with tears as he stared into yours.

“Do you love me?” He asked, scared like a child.

You realized you hadn’t said anything since his initial confession. A smile graced your lips, just slightly. “Michael, I love you more than anything.” You whispered.

Relief washed over Robby’s face, and his heart skipped a beat when you said his first name, which you rarely did. Only in intimate moments like this. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, the tears starting to fall down his face, but not wanting to push boundaries if you were still upset.

You answered by leaning in and capturing his lips with yours. Robby wrapped his arms around you tightly, afraid you would disappear if he let go. The kiss was not hot or desperate like the ones you were used to after a long shift. This one was slow and soft. He pulled gently at your top lip and took advantage of your ensuing moan to slip his tongue in your mouth. You let him explore like it was your first kiss and slid your own tongue against his.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” He whispered into your mouth over and over.

You ran your fingers through his dark thinning hair and anchored them at the base of his neck, guaranteeing that his lips couldn’t leave yours. His beard began to burn against your chin, but you didn’t care.

“I love you.” You whispered in return.

Robby’s mouth finally left your lips and began kissing anything he could find. Your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your jaw. Moving down to your neck, sucking gently but not leaving a mark, as according to the rules you both set for work. The hot open-mouthed kisses on your carotid sent chills down your spine, and you squirmed in his grasp, legs weaving between his. He tugged at your scrub top, and you momentarily left his grasp to pull it off.

Once you were back in his arms, Robby’s mouth latched to your chest, pressing more kisses down the valley of your breasts. His hands expertly unlatched your bra in the back, exposing your soft nipples to the cold air of the room. His beard tickled your skin as he moved to your right breast. Your head dropped back on the pillow when his tongue glided across your nipple, making circles to excite it. Once it hardened, he took the bud in between his teeth and sucked gently.

A shaky breath left your lungs, the polarity of sensations driving you crazy. One of your hands remained in his hair as he nursed on you, the other digging into the skin of his back. After what he deemed enough time for your right breast, he moved to the left one, giving in the same treatment.

It wasn’t like Robby to move slowly like this. Usually, he had you on your stomach, ass in the air, and pounding away within five minutes of getting home. But he didn’t want to fuck you tonight. He wanted to show you his love.

You finally pulled at his hoodie, wanting to feel more of his skin on yours. He sat up, a small smile on his face, and shed both his scrub top and hoodie, exposing his broad but toned upper body. He fell back down to you, but moved lower this time. His mouth left kisses down from your breasts to your navel, fingers pulling at the waistband of your scrub pants and underwear. As you lifted your hips to help remove them, he left love bites along your waist, which was fair game.

When he tossed your scrubs and panties aside, Robby lifted your thighs, placing them on his shoulders. This position you were very familiar with. He planted kisses on the inside of your thighs, met with slick wetness as he got closer to your weeping pussy. You could feel him smile from the way his beard moved against your skin. It didn’t matter if he was fucking you after work or eating you out while on break in the call room, it boosted his confidence tenfold to know how wet you got for him.

“All this for me?” He asked, looking up to you those boyish brown eyes glistening in the dark light of the room.

You breathed a laugh, squeezing your thighs a bit around his shoulders. “Only for you.” You confirmed.

“That’s right.” He breathed.

His tongue gently teased your slick folds. His mouth began to water once he could taste you, and he needed more. He tightened his grip on your hips and buried his face in between your legs, ungodly sounds coming from his throat as he devoured you.

You screamed and twisted the bedsheets in your fists. Your thighs squeezed around his neck involuntarily, and it drove him crazy. He reached a hand down to your mound and rubbed strong circles with his thumb as he ate away at your pussy. You didn’t have to tell him that you were close. He knew by the way your hips bucked into his mouth that you were losing control.

“Come for me, baby girl.” He mumbled against you.

The white hot sensation exploded from your core across your body after another few expert maneuvers with his tongue. He lapped up all of the juices that spilled onto his tongue, swallowing them like a starving man. His free hand rubbed soothing circles on your abdomen as your body finally went limp.

Robby kissed your inner thighs when he finished his meal and moved back up the bed, hovering over you. His beard glistened with your juices, and you pulled him down to kiss them off.

“You got one more in you?” He asked, gently pressing his clothed hips against yours.

You smiled and reached for the drawstring of his scrub pants. “Always.” You whispered.

Robby kicked off his scrub pants and boxer briefs, unleashing his painfully hard cock, already leaking with precum. You instinctively started to roll onto your stomach, but he grabbed your hips, planting them firmly against the bed.

“No. I want to look at you while I fuck you tonight.” He said.

Even after a year, Robby could still make you blush. You nodded, spreading your thighs as he centered himself at your pussy. He pushed in slowly, his cock filling you out completely. You unconsciously moaned the entire time until he bottomed out. He pressed a kiss against your neck as he pulled out again.

“That’s a good girl.” He breathed.

His hips began to thrust, making a slow but intentional pace. He indulged in every pitiful sound that fell from your lips as he gently fucked you.

“You feel so good.” You managed to mumble into his ear.

He grinned and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then resting his forehead against yours. The thin gold chain that hung around his neck slapped your chin with every thrust, the cool metal providing an extra sensation to your already overstimulated body. Your fingers dug into his back, scratching and slipping on his sweaty skin.

“I’ll make you feel better.” Robby said, and he pushed your knees to your chest, ankles around his shoulders, compressing his cock even more within your walls.

You let out a string of explicatives as the new position enhanced your pleasure. Robby chuckled as he continued to thrust, slowly picking up more speed. Tears squeezed through your eyes as your second orgasm began to rise. And like always, he knew you were getting close.

“That’s it, baby girl.” He praised, his pace unfaltering.

Your second orgasm hit stronger than the first, rendering you numb and weak. Robby kept pounding against you, struggling to maintain a consistent pace as his own orgasm was nearing. But just like he could sense yours, you knew when he was about to come.

“Come inside me.” You begged, the first time you had ever requested it.

Robby’s eyes widened, and he grunted as he tried to hold off his orgasm. “Are you-are you sure?” He asked, squeezing your waist tightly.

You nodded eagerly. “Yes, please. Please come in me. I want to feel you.” You pleaded again.

A small grin made its way to Robby’s face. But the thought was too exciting for him, and his orgasm hit him harder and faster than he was used to. You could feel each hot spurt of cum coat your walls, each pulse of his veined cock twitch inside you. His arms trembled, and he collapsed on top of you, the weight of his body rather comforting.

You rubbed soothing circles on his back and kissed his sweat-covered forehead. “I love you, Michael Robinavitch.” You whispered.

Robby smiled as his head rested on your bare chest, listening to your heartbeat. “I love you, kid.” He responded, feeling happiest he had ever been.

[watchtowerlibrary]

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the senior attending from your first four days of working here. He didn’t look too different out of his scrubs and navy hoodie that he wore at work. Black joggers and gray long sleeve athletic shirt that hugged his waist…really nicely.

Why am I so into his casual look? 😅😏

Langdon scoffed. “We went fishing last weekend. What does that make me?” He asked. “I prefer the term ‘coworker that I hang out with sometimes outside of work.’” Robby said, but you could see the teasing in the way his eyes crinkled.

That's quite a mouthful 🤣🤣

Robby chuckled at your earnestness. “Hear that, Langdon? ‘Yes, sir.’ You should be taking notes.” He ordered facetiously, pointing his finger at the senior resident.

Don't give me any ideas 😅😏

You must have been staring too much because Robby’s shoulders hunched, as if trying to subtly cover his exposed body. “Let me just take a look at the cut.” You said, trying to come back to earth. You moved to the edge of the bed and removed the bandage that he had placed himself.

Way to objectify your boss 😅👀

At this point, the needle was hovering just an inch above your first injection site. “Recent studies show that patients report less pain with a 90 degree angle.” You said, confident in your sources. Robby smiled, but you didn’t see it. “Very good.” Was all he said.

The way my pride would just hit at receiving such a compliment 😊

“You’re doing great, Dr. Robby.” You praised, just as you would with any patient. “Fuck, I say that to patients all the time. No wonder it makes no difference.” He grumbled.

Hear that? You're nothing special 😅

You grinned. “Looks like the angels couldn’t get enough of you then.” You teased. Robby chuckled and ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, careful not to pull against the skin as you worked. “How’s it looking back there?” He asked, trying to continue conversation.

Sounds like someone's feeling awkward at receiving a compliment 😉

Robby looked down to you, letting his eyes linger as he watched you put your phone away. “If you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe I can give you a masterclass. All ER docs have to know every suture.” He offered.

You looked up to him, suddenly very aware that he was still shirtless in front of you. You smirked and crossed your arms. “Sure. But only if you teach me just like this.” You said, looking him up and down. “You know, because you’ll need to let those stitches breathe.” Robby grinned. “Wow. That was pretty smooth.” He admired.

Mmmmmmh 😏

Robby stood there, smiling to himself. He pulled his shirt on and walked out to the desk hub. Langdon was still charting, but caught the attending before he snuck out. “What’s that goofy smile for?” He asked, even though he knew the answer. Robby shrugged, hands in his pockets, unable to shake the smile off his face. “I don’t know.” He said before walking away to leave. Abbott leaned against a desk near Langdon. “His ears are red.” He noted. “That motherfucker is in love.”

Okay, that's adorable 🥰

Angel Kisses

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: graphic medical descriptions, needles

A/N: I thought this fic would be a little less fluffy and more spicy but I just can’t help it. Plus I love Noah Wyle’s barely there freckles. I feel like this isn’t my best work because I had severe writers block. Hope it’s good enough for yall tho 💕

My Ko-Fi :)

—

The Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center was rumored to be the 9th level of Hell. So when it was time for you to begin your schedule for trauma surgery, you prayed for a different hospital. Literally any other hospital.

But there you were, in the depths of the Pitt, working your fifth 12 hour shift of the rotation. Only 1pm, but you felt like someone had changed the clocks because there was no way that the day was only halfway done. You were reading a pediatric patient’s CBC results, getting ready to tell your senior attending for the day, Dr. Jack Abbott, that the child is anemic. But Dana’s voice distracted you:

“You can’t even stay away on your day off. Do you have a life besides the Pitt?” She said to someone out of your view.

“Trust me. This is a last resort.” You heard a man respond, the voice slightly familiar.

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the senior attending from your first four days of working here. He didn’t look too different out of his scrubs and navy hoodie that he wore at work. Black joggers and gray long sleeve athletic shirt that hugged his waist…really nicely.

“Last resort for what?” Dr. Frank Langdon called out from where he sat at his desk, charting his patient case.

“I fell of a ladder and tore up my back on the fence in my backyard.” Answered Dr. Robinav- Dr. Robby, you had to remind yourself. “I need stitches, but I can’t reach the cut.”

Langdon winced and leaned back in his chair. “Need me to stitch you up?” He asked.

Dr. Abbott walked up to the desk near Langdon and laughed. “No, he wants his friend to stitch him up. Right, Robby?” He joked, referring to himself.

Robby laughed and crossed his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of the athletic shirt. Damn. “Friend is a strong word. I don’t have friends.” He said with a smile.

Langdon scoffed. “We went fishing last weekend. What does that make me?” He asked.

“I prefer the term ‘coworker that I hang out with sometimes outside of work.’” Robby said, but you could see the teasing in the way his eyes crinkled.

Dana rolled her eyes. “You are all annoying me. Jack, go stitch him up so he can get out of here and rest.” She said before walking off to a patient room.

Robby shook his head. “No, no, just let a med student do it. Good learning opportunity.” He said.

“No med students today. Only interns.” Langdon mumbled as he continued typing on his computer.

Robby clasped his hands together and held them close to his chest. “Even better. I would love for my scar to be in a straight line.” He joked.

Abbott looked to you, who had been watching the group interact from a couple of desks over. Your face flushed slightly, realizing you probably look like an eavesdropper. He motioned with his head toward Robby. “Why don’t you take our patient to holding and fix him up? I’ll take the CBC results.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” You answered, almost a little too seriously. The Pitt was an intense environment, but these attendings did not have the same egos as the ones from your last several rotations.

Robby chuckled at your earnestness. “Hear that, Langdon? ‘Yes, sir.’ You should be taking notes.” He ordered facetiously, pointing his finger at the senior resident.

Langdon looked up from his desk as you began walking with Robby to the back of the Pitt where the holding rooms were. “You know, we tell all of our patients over 65 to be very careful when doing yard work.” He called out.

Robby shot him a bird without turning back around. You smiled at the banter, not used to the lax interactions between physicians of different ranks. Once you made it to the room, Robby sat on the bed, and you grabbed a standard suture kit.

“Is it on your back?” You asked, turned away from him.

“Yeah. I’d do it myself if I could reach it. I managed to cover it up though.” He said.

When you turned back around, his tight fitting shirt had been peeled off his upper body. Holy shit. In the last five days, you didn’t really give yourself time to fantasize about your attending. He was handsome for sure and charming when he wasn’t jumping down a resident’s throat (yet he still had the patience of a saint). His abdomen was well toned, and his chest was smooth. Not what you expected based off his hairy forearms and face.

You must have been staring too much because Robby’s shoulders hunched, as if trying to subtly cover his exposed body. “Let me just take a look at the cut.” You said, trying to come back to earth. You moved to the edge of the bed and removed the bandage that he had placed himself.

You could see the blood that had leaked through the dressing, but you were not prepared to see the extent of the cut stretch across the majority of his upper back. “Oh, shit.” You swore.

Robby chuckled. “That’s not a comforting thing to hear from your doctor.” He said, shifting uncomfortably as the cold air of the hospital struck the wound.

You shook your head in a panic. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t say that to a normal patient.” You covered for yourself.

Robby shook his head. “No, no. Listen. You’re taking everything a little too seriously. Just relax. Roll with the punches. That’s the only way you’ll survive down here.” He explained.

You nodded, taking in a stiff breath anyway. You disposed of the bandaging and picked up the lidocaine syringe. “Okay. I’m about to start injecting lidocaine around the cut. You’ll feel the burning more than the needle.” You said. You placed one gloved hand on his back, giving yourself a guide while you held the syringe in the other.

“90 degrees or 45?” He asked, making you freeze in place.

You paused for a moment, almost afraid to say your answer in fear of being incorrect. “90.” You answered.

“Why?”

At this point, the needle was hovering just an inch above your first injection site. “Recent studies show that patients report less pain with a 90 degree angle.” You said, confident in your sources.

Robby smiled, but you didn’t see it. “Very good.” Was all he said.

You injected the first round of lidocaine, and he hissed at the burning around the open wound. You kept moving around the cut, injecting small doses. “You’re doing great, Dr. Robby.” You praised, just as you would with any patient.

“Fuck, I say that to patients all the time. No wonder it makes no difference.” He grumbled.

You smiled slightly and injected the final dose. “All done.”

Robby let out a heavy breath, hanging his head as the skin slowly numbed where you worked. You began to open the suture kit and sort out its contents on the metal tray near the bed.

“What stitch?” He asked.

You grabbed some gauze and antiseptic from the drawer in the room before returning to his side. You cleaned the skin around the wound where the blood had dribbled down his back in a mix with sweat from working outside.

“Running stitch. The cut is long but not at risk of tension.” You answered. Robby nodded in approval. You carefully started on your first stitch, delicately inserting the curved needle into his skin. “So, you were on a ladder?” You asked.

Robby huffed in slight irritation. “Yeah. Trimming some branches that were reaching over the fence into the neighbors’ yard. I misstepped on the way down and lost my balance.” He explained.

You grimaced. “That sucks.” You said matter of factly.

“Yeah. Maybe Langdon is right. I’m getting too old for that kind of stuff.” He said with a chuckle.

Your hands carefully moved as they continued to sew. “You don’t look old.” You said.

Robby smiled to himself, not expecting you to respond at all. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” You said, glad he couldn’t see your involuntary blush. As you continued to stitch, you noticed all of the spots and marks that dusted his back and shoulders. “I like your freckles.” You noted.

Robby’s mind halted. It was a compliment he had never received. Your words went straight to his chest, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt flustered.

“My freckles?” He repeated.

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah. You got ‘em on your face too?” You asked.

Robby turned his head, not to present his face, but because he was still surprised and wanted to see if you were being genuine. And there they were. A light scattering of freckles across his cheeks and bridge of his nose.

“Yep. They’re precious.” You said after inspecting and returning back to your stitching. Robby’s face flushed, and you could especially see it in his ears as you worked. “You know, my mom used to tell me that freckles were angel kisses. Every time I got a new one, I thought an angel had kissed me. I went an embarrassingly long time into junior high before realizing it was just a tall tale.” You explained.

Robby smiled at the charming story, feeling an unusual feeling of comfort. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.” He said.

You grinned. “Looks like the angels couldn’t get enough of you then.” You teased.

Robby chuckled and ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, careful not to pull against the skin as you worked. “How’s it looking back there?” He asked, trying to continue conversation.

“I need to run about five more stitches. Then you’ll be on your way.” You said.

He nodded and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you working tomorrow?” He asked.

You thought for a second, honestly not sure. “I don’t think so. My first off day since I started.” You replied. “Are you?”

“No. Seven on, seven off.” He said.

You pulled at the last suture and cut the remaining thread. “All right, Dr. Robby. You’re all cleaned up.” You announced.

“Great.” Robby hopped off the bed and stood up straight, popping a few kinks in his back from being hunched over. He towered above you, losing the intimacy that you temporarily had. “Take a picture and show me.” He said.

You pulled off your gloves slowly, unsure of how to respond. “Of the stitches?” You asked, afraid that he was going to grill you for sloppy suturing.

“Yeah, just to see the damage.” He responded.

You pulled your phone out and stood behind him. Fuck, even his back looked good. You snapped a picture and zoomed in to show him your work. Definitely saving that for later. “Does it look okay?” You asked timidly.

Robby nodded, impressed. “Actually yeah. Don’t think I could’ve done it better myself.” He complimented.

You laughed in relief. “Oh, good. I still need more practice on different suture patterns. I’m just lucky you were a simple case.” You said.

Robby looked down to you, letting his eyes linger as he watched you put your phone away. “If you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe I can give you a masterclass. All ER docs have to know every suture.” He offered.

You looked up to him, suddenly very aware that he was still shirtless in front of you. You smirked and crossed your arms. “Sure. But only if you teach me just like this.” You said, looking him up and down. “You know, because you’ll need to let those stitches breathe.”

Robby grinned. “Wow. That was pretty smooth.” He admired.

You shrugged. “Just rolling with the punches.” You responded, repeating his quote from earlier. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

And you left. Robby stood there, smiling to himself. He pulled his shirt on and walked out to the desk hub. Langdon was still charting, but caught the attending before he snuck out. “What’s that goofy smile for?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

Robby shrugged, hands in his pockets, unable to shake the smile off his face. “I don’t know.” He said before walking away to leave.

Abbott leaned against a desk near Langdon. “His ears are red.” He noted. “That motherfucker is in love.”

[watchtowerlibrary]

He never said it, but it was obvious. She was his golden resident. She scrubbed in with him more than anyone else. He taught her the most complex techniques with the kind of softness he didn’t extend to anyone else. He even brought her coffee when she had a long case ahead — Jack Abbott bringing someone else coffee.

Awwww 🥰😊

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. Lighter. Familiar. “Jesus. You didn’t answer my texts. You okay?” She glanced up, annoyed. “I’m working, Robby.”

Love a no-nonsense character just being immersed in their work. Kinda cute that Robby still worries 😊

“Just wanted to see if you were alive. I made you dinner.” “You’re ridiculous.” “And you love me.” “You’re lucky I do.”

She sighed, shoved him with the towel, and muttered, “I need a nap.” “Or,” Robby grinned, falling into step beside her, “you could come home, shower, and let your very loving, very charming boyfriend feed you tortellini.” “…What kind of tortellini?” He smirked. “The homemade kind. You’ve been on my mind all day.”

Look at them being adorable 🥰

Ok ok now flip the wrong husband idea. Intimidating/grumpy resident who’s close to and clearly Jack abbotts fav resident, the med students think they might be secretly together only for her to actually be Robby’s gf/wife 👀

Wrong Attending

Pairing: Dr Michael "Robby" Robinivich x Attending!Reader

She was terrifying. That’s what the med students whispered behind clipboards and in the corners of the nurse’s station.

Dr. (Y/N), third-year resident. Surgical precision in her tone, her incisions, and her sarcasm. Always serious, always focused, always somehow two steps ahead of the attending she was assisting. If she barked an order, you followed it. If she gave you a look, you apologized before even figuring out what you’d done.

Jack Abbott adored her.

He never said it, but it was obvious. She was his golden resident. She scrubbed in with him more than anyone else. He taught her the most complex techniques with the kind of softness he didn’t extend to anyone else. He even brought her coffee when she had a long case ahead — Jack Abbott bringing someone else coffee. It was enough to start rumors.

“She’s totally his girlfriend,” one of the med students said as they wheeled a post-op patient back to recovery.

“Girlfriend?” another scoffed. “Try wife. You think anyone else could get away with back-talking him like that and not get reamed for it?”

She passed by just then, sleeves rolled up, surgical cap still on. She gave them all a pointed look as she walked through.

The students fell silent. Guilty. Terrified.

Later that day, the ER flooded.

A pile-up on the interstate. They needed hands. All hands. She was already pulling on gloves before anyone called her name.

She was hunched over a trauma bay, blood on her scrubs, one hand in a chest cavity when—

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. Lighter. Familiar. “Jesus. You didn’t answer my texts. You okay?”

She glanced up, annoyed. “I’m working, Robby.”

Dr. Robby. The senior attending. Golden boy of the ER. Charismatic. Bright-eyed. Sunshine in scrubs. Or maybe that's just how she saw him.

He blinked. “You’re elbow-deep in a thoracotomy and I’m the one getting attitude?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the trauma.

The med students, standing nearby and wide-eyed, watched in confusion.

Dr. Robby stayed there, leaning against the glass, watching her with something oddly fond in his expression.

She finally stepped back after the patient stabilized, ripping her gloves off and walking to the sink.

Robby handed her a towel.

“Can I help you?” she asked flatly, drying off.

“Just wanted to see if you were alive. I made you dinner.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“You’re lucky I do.”

One of the students behind them dropped their chart.

Robby turned, startled, and blinked at the frozen group of baby doctors staring at them.

“…What?”

One of them finally managed: “Wait. You’re dating Dr. Robby?”

She raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

Robby looked smug. “Jealous?”

“No,” one of them muttered. “Just… we all thought it was Abbott.”

Robby paused, then laughed so hard he doubled over.

She sighed, shoved him with the towel, and muttered, “I need a nap.”

“Or,” Robby grinned, falling into step beside her, “you could come home, shower, and let your very loving, very charming boyfriend feed you tortellini.”

“…What kind of tortellini?”

He smirked. “The homemade kind. You’ve been on my mind all day.”

The students watched them go, stunned into silence.

One turned to the others. “That’s gotta be the biggest plot twist in this hospital.”

The others nodded slowly.

Jack Abbott walked by a moment later, glancing toward the hallway they disappeared into, then at the med students. “What’s with the faces?”

One said weakly, “Sir, did you know she’s dating Dr. Robby?”

Abbott blinked. Then snorted. “Of course I know.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“We thought she was yours.”

Jack gave them a look so dry it could sand furniture. “I have a wife, you morons.”

Then he walked off, chuckling to himself.

[watchtowerlibrary]

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Just this image alone sounds like a dangerous man to me 😏

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

That look 🫣

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled. “On whether he comes over here or not.” Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

That aura alone ... it's got to ward off all the other people from approaching him 😅

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.” You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke. “She’s with me.” You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.” “You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

Pride meets practicality 😅 They way he just talks so deliberately. Not to mention, he's also silent but deadly, with his quiet mannerism. Just prepared to act.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back. You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby. “Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp. He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

This gave me the vibes like Reader and Robby were former fwb 😏

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.” “Oh no?” “No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Robby is behaving like such a dick ... and why am I into it? 🤣🤣

But the second you stepped out, he looked. And stayed looking. His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

*cough* Damn, I'm telling you, silent but deadly with just one look.

“You knew,” he said roughly. Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?” His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

Oooooooh, what a line 🥰

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him. “Robby—” “Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

🤤🥰

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos—umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then—just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped—quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again��his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

[watchtowerlibrary]

“Dr. Abbot?” Whittaker’s voice is tentative, his gaze flicking nervously between Jack and the patient on the table. [...] “I’m a little busy.” Jack mutters. “Get Robby!” His voice laced with authority. An order, not a suggestion.

I love when something like this happens 🫣

Robby curses under his breath, his eyes flashing to Dana. He knows Jack will never forgive them if something happens to you and they didn’t tell him. If Jack doesn't get to you in time.

Love those stakes! 😏 When it's a deeper layer of them taking care of someone close to them.

His gaze flicks to the glass doors of Trauma One, catching Robby’s eyes. He's pressing into someone’s chest with practiced ease. But there’s something else. Panic. Jack’s alarm bells go off. He moves, quickly. But before Jack reaches the door, Dana steps into his path. She places her palm against his chest, gently pushing him back.

The way Robby and Jack just caught each other's gaze. That he could just read his friend like that and just know.

“What the fuck”, Jack tries to push past Dana, but Langdon and Matteo are already there, hands on his arms, holding him back. “Dana”, Jack’s voice cracks. “I know, hon. Take a breath”, she rubs soothing circles on his chest, then steps back. “We’ve got her!”

Love me a feral, protective man.

“I wish you’d had the chance to get to know her. You would've loved her…” He tries to hold in a strangled sob, but it escapes anyway. Robby steps closer, placing a hand on Jack's back, voice gentle and reassuring. “I still can… If she’ll let me.” He realizes he needs to carry that hope for both of them right now.

Just the mere idea of her not pulling through 🥹 Just love the second-chance friendship.

“Are you in pain?” The concern in his eyes certainly isn't helping, it hurts to see him like this. You shake your head, but it’s a lie. You know it and Jack knows it too. He doesn’t hesitate, moving swiftly to the IV to adjust the meds with practiced hands.

One of my favourite scenes 😅 The way Jack just does it, you know? Like he instantly knows. Don't worry, I got you, babe.

1) Love your writing and cant wait to see more!! 2) For the prompt inspiration, what about something along the lines of Jack's girlfriend, that Dana and Robby don't particularly like, shows up seriously injured at the Pitt?

Someone New: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: After witnessing the fallout from Jack's failed marriage, Dana and Robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. But when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of Jack’s feelings, their perspectives shift.

Warnings: Canon-typical depictions of trauma; traffic accident, death, injuries, mentions of a failed marriage, divorce

Word count: 1.9k

A/n: LMFAO guys, most of my requests rn are for injured readers are we okay? Anyway... enjoy xoxo (also, thanks so much for the compliment!! messages/comments like these are super motivating <3)

Mistress. Homewrecker. The Other Woman.

You’ve called yourself worse a thousand times. The guilt over how things started with Jack weighs on you. And though his love feels sweet and pure, it offers little comfort in the face of their judgment.

You wish you’d met under different circumstances. Started things the right way.

But in your heart you know it’s real. Even if they don’t.

The truth is, Jack’s marriage was over long before you came into the picture. They were separated when you met, though the divorce wasn’t final.

So you let others believe that it was your fault. Made little effort to dispel the rumors. To introduce yourself properly.

Maybe you were embarrassed.

Definitely ashamed.

Perhaps they had a point and you destroyed a perfectly good relationship. Or at least got in the way of Jack and his ex trying to salvage what was left.

But it doesn’t matter now. Not anymore. Nothing does.

“Female. 30s. Car vs. pedestrian. In and out of consciousness. Possible head injury. Probable femoral fracture”, the EMT presents.

The cold metal of the gurney beneath you makes you shiver, harsh sterile lights flickering overhead.

“Woah. What happened?” Dana’s voice is laced with concern.

“I’m fine", you murmur, but your voice betrays you, weak and unconvincing. “Just a bit sleepy.”

Why is everything spinning?

“You hit your head?” Robby's voice is sharp and suddenly close, the light of his pen so bright it feels like it’s burning through your skull. He instructs you to follow his finger. You try, but your vision is distorted, like shattered glass. You can barely manage to focus.

“I- I’m not sure”, you confess, struggling to catch your breath, your lungs burning.

“Someone pushed her into oncoming traffic", the EMT continues, calm and clinical, part of his routine. "A bicycle hit her head-on and a car slammed into her hip."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut and your stomach twists with horror.

You can't remember any of it.

You try to move, to sit up, but your body refuses.

Why is your face wet? You beg, pray, it’s just tears. It has to be.

But it’s thick and warm. And the familiar, metallic smell makes your head swim.

“J-Jack… I-“, you plead.

Robby’s movements are faster now. His commands sharp and alert. He gestures to Whittaker, who immediately reacts, moving swiftly, as he rushes out of the room, a quiet urgency in his steps.

Everyone knows about you and Jack. Though it feels like no one approves. Almost no one.

“Y/N, it’s okay. Just keep your eyes open for me, alright?” Collins’ voice is warm, grounding. She takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. You’re thankful. Thankful for her presence. To see a friendly face amidst the chaos.

But you can't shake the quiet fear that maybe... it’s the last one you’ll ever see.

Heather is one of the few who welcomed you, made an effort to get to know you.

You’ve become friends.

You meet up for coffee, chat for hours about the boys. And though her and Robby’s relationship ended, you can tell there is unresolved sadness between them. You wonder if either of them will ever admit it.

“Heather… I-I’m…” Your voice is barely audible now. You're slipping. Slipping fast.

You fight to stay awake. To hold on. Just a little longer. At least until you see Jack.

Until you get to say goodbye.

But your eyes grow heavier by the second, something pulling at you, each blink slower than the last.

You can hear yourself saying something. But it’s far away.

You’re shaking. Why is this hospital so goddamn cold?

Before you can say another word, everything fades to black.

“Male. 20s. Cyclist vs. pedestrian. Unconscious. Blunt force trauma to the head. Multiple fractures", another EMT announces, as they rush the gurney into Trauma Two, the team prepared and ready to work in perfect sync.

Jack's moves are quick, methodical. Driven by one clear, urgent goal: to stabilize the patient first, then assess for further injuries.

“Dr. Abbot?” Whittaker’s voice is tentative, his gaze flicking nervously between Jack and the patient on the table. He hovers just inside the doorframe, not quite sure whether to disturb Jack or not.

Jack glances up briefly, his hands moving over the patient's chest, steady and determined.

Whittaker hesitates, his voice shaky. “We need you in Trauma One.”

“I’m a little busy.” Jack mutters. “Get Robby!” His voice laced with authority. An order, not a suggestion.

He isn’t finished with this patient yet, not ready to be pulled away.

Whittaker hesitates, before he nods and steps back. Jack watches him go, but there's no time to think about what might be waiting in Trauma One.

His focus is here, the young patient's life literally in his hands.

“Abbot?” Robby growls, frustrated at Whittaker’s failed attempt.

Whittaker shakes his head, his expression tense. “He’s treating the cyclist in Trauma Two”, Whittaker answers, almost apologetic.

Robby curses under his breath, his eyes flashing to Dana.

He knows Jack will never forgive them if something happens to you and they didn’t tell him. If Jack doesn't get to you in time.

Dana knows, too. She knows that this isn’t just about the accident. It’s about what they owe Jack and what they owe you.

“Hold compressions.” Jack orders.

Everyone’s eyes are fixated on the monitor, but the flatline continues.

“Okay." Jack’s voice drops. "That’s it.”

“Time of death: 10:35”

Jack takes a minute of silent reflection. He’s been here before. Too many times. But it never gets any easier.

He steps out into the bay, taking a breath. His eyes search the nurse’s station, which is unusually empty.

Javadi almost crashes into him, gripping a blood bag tight to her chest. Jack steps back, putting distance between them.

“Slow down. If you trip and fall you’re no good to anybody.” Always the teacher, calm and collected. “Where’s Robby?”

Javadi stumbles over her words, struggling to catch her breath. “Trauma One, a- a pedestrian got hit.”

“Shit." Jack mutters. "I just called it on the cyclist.” His brows furrow. “Need any help?”

“Not sure… it’s not looking good.” And with that, she rushes back in.

Jack watches her go, making sure she doesn’t run into anyone else. His gaze flicks to the glass doors of Trauma One, catching Robby’s eyes. He's pressing into someone’s chest with practiced ease.

But there’s something else. Panic.

Jack’s alarm bells go off. He moves, quickly.

But before Jack reaches the door, Dana steps into his path. She places her palm against his chest, gently pushing him back.

“Jack”, her voice calm but firm. “You can come in, but we need to do this the right way, honey.” Her eyes soften, full of compassion. “Robby’s doing everything he can.”

In that moment, Jack catches a glimpse of the patient’s face. Your bloodied, gorgeous, beautiful face. The woman he loves.

Multiple hands are on you, your own dangling off the side of the gurney.

His eyes lock on the delicate ring he gave you only a few days ago.

The one that was supposed to be forever.

“What the fuck”, Jack tries to push past Dana, but Langdon and Matteo are already there, hands on his arms, holding him back.

“Dana”, Jack’s voice cracks.

“I know, hon. Take a breath”, she rubs soothing circles on his chest, then steps back. “We’ve got her!”

The sincerity in her voice, comforts him, if only slightly.

The fact that he just called his patient’s death a few minutes ago, tells him everything about the severity of your injuries.

There's a deep ache in Jack’s chest as he follows Dana into the room. He steps to your side, his hand brushing gently over your forehead, the way you like it. The way he’s always calmed you.

“I’m here, baby”, he whispers, his voice raw. “I’m here.”

He watches Robby and the team work, each movement calculated, each second agonizing.

He knows his place. He won’t overstep. His only focus is you.

Like many times before, Jack finds himself on the rooftop. Each inhale of the harsh midnight air a painful reminder of you in that hospital bed, fighting for every breath.

Jack feels someone approaching, doesn’t have to turn around to know who. “Who pushed her?” Jack's voice is low and raw with pain.

“They’re…-" Robby pauses, scratching his neck nervously. "They're still looking.” His tone is soft.

Jack nods, but the corners of his mouth turn downward. “You’ve been too hard on her, man.” He exhales sharply.

“I know, brother.” Robby's words are filled with guilt and regret. He wants to make this right. Needs to.

Jack's gaze hardens. “She was afraid, you know. Felt like you were judging her… more than me.” He huffs out a humorless laugh.

Robby’s remorse is palpable. “We were worried about you. Didn’t want to see you get hurt. We had no idea it was serious between you.”

“Does it matter?” Jack’s voice cracks on the last word.

“I- I suppose not.” Robby shakes his head. “I’m so sorry.”

Jack nods. He doesn’t need Robby’s apology. You do.

“She gets it. She gets me.” Jack's looking straight at Robby now, barely bringing himself to say the words. “I wish you’d had the chance to get to know her. You would've loved her…” He tries to hold in a strangled sob, but it escapes anyway.

Robby steps closer, placing a hand on Jack's back, voice gentle and reassuring. “I still can… If she’ll let me.” He realizes he needs to carry that hope for both of them right now.

Jack isn’t convinced, but Robby’s belief gives him a moment’s peace.

The door to the rooftop suddenly slams open. Jack and Robby both turn instinctively.

Dana stands in the doorway, her pulse racing. “Jack.”

Jack is terrified to hear what she has to say, assuming the worst.

The midnight air suddenly feels suffocating.

“Jack?” Your voice is barely a whisper, fragile and tired, the effort of speaking taking all of your energy.

“Hi, gorgeous.” He moves closer to your bed. “Are you in pain?” The concern in his eyes certainly isn't helping, it hurts to see him like this.

You shake your head, but it’s a lie. You know it and Jack knows it too. He doesn’t hesitate, moving swiftly to the IV to adjust the meds with practiced hands.

Warmth floods you and you exhale slowly. The deep physical ache subsides and your thoughts clear. Only now, you can fully appreciate that you’re alive. That Jack’s here.

“I’m here," he repeats, more to himself than to you and for a second you wonder if you said the words out loud.

Jack's hand is gentle against your skin, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Robby and Dana feel badly about how they’ve treated you.” The words heavy with sorrow.

“They shouldn’t.” You're exhausted, but you mean it. “They don’t even know me.” You give him a smile, weak but genuine.

“Maybe it’s time we change that?” Jack leans in gently stroking your forehead, like he always does. Like he always will.

His other hand traces the space where your ring used to rest. You realize it’s no longer there. It was taken off during the chaos of saving you. But Jack knows where it belongs.

With a tender, deliberate touch, he slides the ring back onto your finger, a symbol of the forever he’s promised.

Hahahah aaall the fluff!! It was needed after so many angsty requests lol Pls comment/share your thoughts below. ♡