Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker’s phone screen glared back at him, radiating judgment and an anemic blue-white glow in the near-dark of his studio apartment. The Chase app displayed a grand total of $10.27, just enough to buy a coffee and a scone if he wanted to be reckless with his budget. He couldn’t, because payday was still four days off and exactly one and a half slices of bread left in his fridge to subsist upon.
The overhead light stuttered every ten seconds, giving the illusion of a stop-motion horror film set. Shadows staggered across the scuffed hardwood, exaggerating the mountainous heap of unwashed laundry and the skeletal silhouette of the Ikea futon that doubled as both bed and sofa. His apartment itself was a coffin-sized walk-up at the north edge of the city, strategically located above an all-night laundromat and next to an alley that, if nothing else, offered free wafts of fryer oil and burnt weed.
Dennis sat in the middle of it all, hunched over his little kitchen table, a piece of scavenged plywood that someone had left by the curb, balanced on milk crates and stained with at least four kinds of ancient takeout. He poked absently at the cracked glass of his phone, thumb scrolling through job listings he’d already memorized. He skipped the “Management Opportunity” posts and the too-good-to-be-true work-from-home scams. The only things left were low-wage shift jobs that paid less than he was making now, which was already less than a respectable adult should ever admit to.
Somewhere between “Line Cook – Immediate Start” and “Donate Plasma for $70,” his stomach let out an animal groan. It reminded him of a time he’d tried a three-day fast for charity in high school. Back when he thought suffering had a purpose, or at least a donor match on the other end. He grabbed a mug, handle chipped, interior permanently stained the color of old pennies, and drained the dregs of last night’s coffee, now cold and metallic on his tongue.
The air inside his apartment was almost as biting as it was outside. Even with the radiators hissing at full blast, the cold clawed its way through the ill-fitted windows and nested itself in his bones. He wrapped the only clean hoodie he had tighter around his chest, hunching up until his chin nearly disappeared.
That morning’s forecast blinked on the phone’s screen: “Light snow, heavy winds, high of 28 degrees,” delivered by a chipper meteorologist with teeth so perfect Dennis could practically hear his mother’s voice in his head. “You’d have that smile too if you hadn’t wasted your life making poor choices.”
He banished the thought with a violent swipe of his thumb. Yet it clung, as it always did, heavy and insistent as a tick behind the ear. Dennis knew the exact day his life had detonated, one year, three months, and four days ago. He could chart it down to the hour: the argument, the slamming door, the sick lurch in his gut as he realized he was on his own.
Even before the words “I’m gay, Mom” had bounced off the granite countertops and shattered every last expectation in his parents’ faces, Dennis knew that was the day when the idea of becoming Dr. Whitaker was outside his reach.
His phone buzzed again, a notification from the scheduling app. Sophie, his manager, had added him to a double shift. “Of course.” He rolled his eyes and opened it, confirming what he already knew: tonight, like most nights lately, he’d be trading sleep for a string of closing and opening shifts and whatever spare change the regulars felt like tossing his way.
It took all the willpower he had not to smash his phone against the table as the promise of at least one night of full rest was ripped from him.
Instead, he dropped it face-down and braced his hands on the plywood. For a long moment, he just sat there, eyes closed, letting the cold and the hunger and the exhaustion have their way with him.
Then he stood up, stretched until his back popped, and peeled off his hoodie to reveal the barista uniform beneath. The shirt was technically a “small,” but it hung on his frame like a hospital gown, which was fitting in a way.
A year ago he’d been athletic, lean, but strong from hours at the university gym and eating whenever he wanted to. Now he looked like one of those before-and-after photos for malnutrition awareness, all collarbones and shadows. He raked a hand through his short brown hair, hoping it would distract from the pallor in his face.
The bathroom mirror was unkind. It magnified everything he’d rather not see: the sharpness of his jaw, the new lines under his hazel eyes, the faint redness around his nose from last week’s sinus infection that never really went away. Dennis bared his teeth, crooked, but charming in a lopsided way, or so his ex-boyfriend once claimed, and tried on a smile. The effect was more grimace than anything else.
He slipped into his coat, the cheap kind with foam insulation that made him look like a trash bag with arms, and headed out into the early morning.
The city was awake but subdued, cloaked in fog and the sort of thin, persistent sleet that soaked through jeans in under a minute. He ducked his head against the wind, hands jammed deep in his pockets, and started the mile-long walk to Grindstone.
The journey took him past his least favorite part of town: the Healthcare District, a row of gleaming towers where doctors and pharma reps sipped artisanal espresso and never had to count quarters at the end of the month. He’d shadowed here once, back before his world collapsed, and he’d loved the sense of purpose in those echoing corridors. Now, every glimpse of a white coat or hospital badge felt like a personal jab.
At the foot of the main building, a massive digital billboard advertised Robinavitch Medical Technologies’ new cardiac monitor—“Saving lives with the future of science!” Dennis snorted under his breath. He doubted his parents’ foundation would ever approve a grant for something as practical as affordable cardiac care, unless there was a photo op or a wing to name after themselves. Even now, he could picture his mother in her tailored suit, lips pursed as she posed beside the CEO for the annual donor gala, pretending at philanthropy while freezing her own son out.
He forced himself to look away, focused on the cloud of steam rising from the manhole covers and the rhythmic slap of his sneakers on the wet sidewalk. He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone in those towers would even remember him. Maybe that was for the best.
The “OPEN” sign at Grindstone glowed sullenly through the condensation-smeared windows. Dennis paused just outside, composing his face into something resembling energy and that could pass for basic customer service. He inhaled, braced for another day of forced cheer and caffeine stench, and pushed open the door.
+++++
The interior of Grindstone Coffee was the opposite of the city outside: overheated, overlit, and scented with equal parts espresso and buttered croissants. Dennis’s glasses fogged instantly, which gave him a second to compose his face before his manager, Sophie, speared through the steamy air.
“You’re late,” she said, not bothering to look up from the register. The clack of her acrylic nails on the touchscreen was louder than her actual voice.
“I’m three minutes early,” Dennis replied, forcing a smile. His cheeks prickled as he tried to look sincere, but the best he could manage was “barely conscious but not mutinous.”
“Uh-huh, whatever you say rat, I’ve got my eye on you.” Sophie’s gaze flicked to the tip jar, then to Dennis, then away. The tip jar had a hand-lettered sign “Tips for your hard-working baristas! <3 :)” and was perpetually five dollars short of what it should have been, possibly because Sophie skimmed from it any time she thought no one was watching. She’d been doing this so brazenly lately that Dennis was almost impressed.
Almost.
“You’re on espresso and counter until four,” she said. “After that, we have a private event, so no fuck-ups.” She pursed her lips, then seemed to remember she was supposed to be a supportive boss. “But you’re my best on register, so. Try not to look like you just crawled out of the grave, okay?”
“Will do, Chief.” He tied on his apron, already stiff with old milk and coffee grounds, and took his place behind the machine. The air by the steam wand was a balmy seventy-five, enough to thaw his fingers and lull him into a strange, almost narcotic comfort. For a moment, the smell of fresh grind and scalded milk was nearly soothing, making him forget how miserably he was on the inside.
It lasted until the first lull, about forty minutes into his shift. The place emptied out, leaving only a grad student asleep in the corner and a couple of business types muttering over spreadsheets. Time slowed to the rhythm of the clock above the menu board, tock, tock, tock, every second another nail in the coffin of his afternoon.
He wiped down the counter, lined up the sugar packets, and debated which self-help poster above the condiment bar was the most condescending. (“Every day is a fresh start,” according to a mug-waving cartoon sun.) Out of habit, he checked his phone, hoping that an email would finally break through, but the screen was blank; even his spam emails had given up on him.
At three-fifteen, the bell over the door gave a ceremonial jangle. Dennis didn’t look up right away, too busy reorganizing his little pyramid of to-go lids. Yet, the hush in the café changed, sharpened with the awareness that someone very out-of-place had entered the room.
He glanced up and promptly stared.
The man at the counter was the sort that never wandered into this neighborhood by accident: six-foot-plus, with the posture of someone used to occupying space and the suit of someone who could probably buy the entire block and not notice a dent in his bank account. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculate, his shoes were shined, and his eyes—steady, amused, a little curious, were locked right on Dennis.
“Good afternoon,” the man said, like he was checking into a five-star hotel, not ordering a five-dollar coffee.
Dennis snapped to attention, nearly elbowing a carton of half-and-half onto the floor. “Welcome to Grindstone. Uh, what can I get for you?”
The stranger looked at the menu for less than a second. “Black coffee, medium, one pump of chocolate syrup, no sugar, no cream. And… whatever you’d recommend from the pastry case. I’d prefer something soft and sweet, if you know what I mean,” he said, with a playful wink.
Dennis blinked, unsure of how to read the man’s face and the obvious flirtation going right over his head. He’d never seen anyone order like that before, like it was a trust fall instead of a transaction. “We have a maple scone? Or banana bread? The scone is fresher, I think.”
“Perfect. Scone it is.” The man flashed a grin, straight, white, the kind of smile that made you want to be on its good side.
Dennis fumbled the order into the register, acutely aware of his own unwashed hair and the stale sweat in his armpits. He could feel the guy watching him, not in the judging way (which he was used to), but like Dennis was something interesting on TV and he didn’t want to miss a second.
The coffee brewed slow. The scone stuck to the pastry tongs and threatened to crumble. Dennis tried to summon a joke, his usual defense against attention—but all that came out was, “Sorry, I’m a little out of it. We’ve been slammed all day.”
The stranger’s eyebrows lifted, the tiniest signal of skepticism, but he let it go. “No trouble at all. Take your time, sweetheart.”
When Dennis slid the cup across the counter, his hands were shaking just enough to slosh coffee over the lid. He blushed, wiped it clean with a napkin, and braced himself for a complaint.
Instead, the man said, “I like the color of your eyes.” As if it was a normal comment to make to a barista you’d never met before.
Dennis felt his brain short-circuit. He’d been complimented before, sure, but usually by people who wanted a free extra shot or had ulterior motives that involved his ass, not his personality. “Uh. Thanks. I mean, they’re just brown.”
“They’re not. Hazel. And expressive,” the man said, dropping a five into the tip jar like it was a coin fountain. “You should be proud of them. Those are strong eyes. I can tell.”
The automatic “thank you, sir” got lost somewhere between Dennis’s mouth and his exhausted cortex where the man’s handsome face had concocted “hello, daddy”. What came out instead, barely above a whisper, was “Thank you, Daddy.”
Time didn’t exactly stop, but the world definitely paused to witness the train wreck.
Dennis’s cheeks went to nuclear as he realized what he’d said. He tried to laugh it off, then stammered, “Sorry, I, double shift, I meant to say.. Thank you, Sir, I….”
The stranger just smiled, the grin doubling in wattage. “No need to apologize. I’ll take it as a compliment.” He extended a large, carefully manicured hand. “Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Robby to friends. Though I don’t hate the idea of being called Daddy. At least not in this context.”
The name had gravity. The kind of gravity that made you feel crushed to the floor from the force of an entire solar system.
Dennis recognized it instantly. Anyone who’d ever been pre-med, gone through medical school, or even watched daytime TV would know the name.
Robinavitch Medical Technologies.
The guy on the billboards, the magazine covers, the philanthropic profiles. This was not just a well-dressed stranger; this was a celebrity, at least in the circles Dennis used to dream about moving in. One of the foremost brilliant minds in medicine, advancing its technology and innovations at a pace that made most research groups spin their heads. All with the simple idea of making fast, effective medical equipment that was high quality, cheap to make, and ensured that every hospital could afford it. Not just instruments or devices, either. Dr. Robinavitch hand-created cutting edge medical techniques from his time in the armed forces and while working in someplace he called “the pitt”, where you didn’t always have technological marvels to save lives, and shared those techniques all across medical universities.
For a second, all Dennis could do was gape, starstruck before him. “I… I know who you are,” he blurted. “Sorry. You’re, um. Kind of a big deal. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first, I uh… I’m used to seeing you in a lab coat. Or with more than three hours of sleep.”
Robby’s gaze went softer, more genuine. “A big deal? Not to everyone, but I’m glad to be one to you.”
Dennis managed to regain a molecule of composure and took the offered hand, surprised by the warmth and softness of Robby’s grip. “Dennis. Whitaker.” He hesitated, wondering if he’d recognize his surname.
“Nice to meet you Dennis. Please, call me Robby. Or Daddy, whatever’s your speed,” Robby said, with a wink.
The coffee shop had gone oddly silent. Dennis could sense Sophie watching from the back, calculating whether this interaction would increase or decrease her afternoon tip haul. He quickly released Robby’s hand and stepped back, mind racing, mortified and weirdly exhilarated all at once.
“Do you always work doubles? I didn’t want to say anything at first, but you look a little under the weather. Not to mention underweight, overstressed, and what I’m guessing is an unhealthy addiction to caffeine and energy drinks.” Robby asked, casual but with a probing edge that made Dennis feel like he was being interviewed for something important.
“Lately, yeah. Need the hours.” He tried to keep his voice light, but even he could hear the edge of desperation in it.
“You must be exhausted.” Robby’s tone was halfway between concern and curiosity.
Dennis shrugged, not trusting himself to elaborate without oversharing. He busied himself with a rag, wiping a spot on the counter that didn’t exist.
Robby sipped his coffee, then set it down. “This is excellent,” he said, gesturing at Dennis. “I can always tell when a barista knows what they’re doing. You certainly do work hard.”
Dennis snorted. “You’d be surprised how low the bar is.”
“I’m not,” Robby said. “I only seek out the best of company.” He looked at Dennis as if daring him to catch the double meaning.
Dennis’s face went warm again. He could barely meet the man’s gaze, so he focused on aligning the sleeves of bakery bags instead.
“Let me ask. Would you mind if I’m a bit forward for a moment? If I’m bothering you, I’ll leave, but… There’s something important I need to ask.” Robby said, still appraising Robby’s every move.
“More forward than you already are?”
“Much more.”
Dennis nodded. He wasn’t used to being hit on, especially not by someone so important, but something in his chest shuddered and he finally looked up, meeting the man’s gaze.
Suddenly, Robby reached across the counter and gently touched Dennis’s hand. The move was so unexpected that Dennis froze, heart hammering. Robby’s palm was large, rough at the edges but soft in the center, the kind of touch that said he’d spent years both saving lives and signing checks.
“Do you need a Daddy, sweetheart?” Robby’s voice was low, just for him. “You look like the world’s stomped all over you, and I’d love to be able to take care of you.”
Dennis forgot how to breathe for a second. He could feel every neuron in his body firing, unsure if he should recoil, say something witty, or just melt on the spot. For the first time in months, he felt seen, not as a failure or a disappointment, but as someone worth noticing.
He laughed, nervous but genuine, and said, “I don’t think anyone’s ever offered to adopt me before. Most people run the other way.”
Robby smiled, thumb tracing a light line across the back of Dennis’s knuckles. “Well. Most people are idiots, and just so we’re on the same page, I’m not talking about adoption, sweetheart. Though, you knew that already, didn’t you?”
Dennis didn’t know what to say to that. But for the first time all day, the exhaustion in his bones felt a little lighter. The moment stretched, Dennis trying to decide whether this was all some elaborate prank or the part of his shift where he actually hallucinated from sleep deprivation.
He was still staring at Robby, his hand, specifically, which lingered on Dennis’s own, when Sophie made her entrance from the back. She moved with predator speed, her eyes darting from Dennis to the tip jar to Robby’s immaculate suit. The moment she registered the face beneath the salt-and-pepper hair, her entire body language reversed course.
“Dr. Robinavitch!” she gasped, voice flipping from bitchy drill sergeant to breathless fangirl in half a heartbeat. She grabbed a towel and started wiping the already clean counter, glancing up at Robby through her mascaraed lashes. “Oh my God, what brings you here? Do you live in the city? I didn’t know that!?”
Robby looked at her the way you might look at a pigeon that had learned to speak English. “Occasionally, when I’m not travelling,” he replied, dry and polite. “I come to this area for the coffee, and to relieve my youth spent in the ER pitt.” He let his hand slip from Dennis’s, slow enough to draw blood to Dennis’s cheeks.
Sophie barely waited for the words to finish before launching her next salvo. “We’re such big fans, my fiancé is always talking about your apperances on TV, and, like, what you do for the hospitals that are underfunded or patients that can’t afford your products? It’s so inspiring! You’re, just… So great, you know?” She added a giggle that belonged in a perfume commercial.
Dennis wanted to sink into the floor. The only thing worse than being embarrassed in front of a hot stranger was being embarrassed in front of a hot billionaire, and the only thing worse than that was being embarrassed in front of a hot billionaire while your boss made a play for him like it was a reality show elimination round and she was gunning for that rose. All while engaged.
“Bitch, you’re shameless.” Dennis thought to himself.
He tried to say something, anything to reclaim a shred of dignity, but Robby beat him to it.
“Actually, Dennis here was just telling me about his double shift. He looks like he’s about to collapse. Are all your baristas this overworked?”
Sophie’s eyes snapped to Dennis, her smile barely flickering. “He’s just being dramatic. They all do doubles, it’s how we build team spirit!” She laughed, a brittle sound that echoed off the tile.
“Interesting philosophy,” Robby said, folding his arms. “But it doesn’t seem especially conducive to great customer service. Or health, for that matter.”
Dennis could sense the tension twisting inside Sophie. She wanted to defend herself, but every corporate survival instinct screamed “don’t piss off the philanthropist with a direct line to half the hospital boards in the country and who owns at least three hospitals in the state.” She settled for a simpering, “Of course! We value our team members so much, and you’re the doctor, after all! Dennis, why don’t you go on break? Take as long as you want. Actually, feel free to take the day! I’ll handle closing tonight, for Dr. Robby’s peace of mind.” She flattered her eyebrows, practically glowing as though she were some goddess on high descending to free the impoverished masses.
Dennis blinked. In the year he’d worked here, he’d never once been told to take a break before his shift was technically over.
Robby turned back to him, giving a slow, appraising look. “You heard your boss. Let’s get you some air, hmm? Doctor’s orders.”
The next thing Dennis knew, Robby’s enormous hand was guiding him out from behind the counter and through the front door, all in one smooth motion.
Outside, the wind had kicked up, flinging icy dust across the sidewalk. Before Dennis could even register the cold, Robby was already shrugging off his suit jacket, a charcoal gray number so expensive it probably cost more than Dennis’s entire wardrobe, and draped it over Dennis’s shoulders with shocking gentleness.
“You don’t have to…” Dennis started, but Robby cut him off with a single finger to his lips.
“I want to,” Robby said, then dropped his hand, stepping back with the same crisp efficiency that suggested he was used to orchestrating much larger events than a barista rescue. “Let’s find a place to sit.”
They ended up on a bus stop bench, barely ten feet from the café window but, somehow, in a world entirely apart. The snow had started up again, soft and soundless, swirling around the two of them. Dennis huddled in the too-large jacket, feeling the silk lining and the faint, spicy scent of whatever cologne Robby wore. It didn’t seem possible that only twenty minutes ago he’d been half-asleep behind a coffee counter.
Robby handed him the coffee he’d just made and watched as Dennis took a grateful gulp. The heat was instant, the chocolate an indulgence, and for a moment, Dennis felt an impulse to cry from sheer relief. He covered it with a cough.
“So,” he managed. “I’m, uh. Really sorry about my boss. And about the…” He made a vague gesture, as if miming “Daddy Incident” would erase it from both their memories.
“No apology necessary.” Robby’s smile had softened into something less dazzling, more sincere. “She’s not the worst I’ve dealt with. To be honest, I rather liked your slip. Gave me butterflies. Haven’t had butterflies for a long time.”
Dennis choked on his coffee, then coughed until his lungs stopped rattling. “I’m not usually, I mean, it was an accident. The ‘Daddy’ thing.” He glanced up, saw Robby’s eyebrows raised just slightly, and added, “I’ve just been working a lot. Sometimes my brain… short-circuits.”
“Yours and mine both,” Robby said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’re the first person in a long time to call me anything other than ‘sir,’ ‘doctor,’ or ‘you’re blocking the sidewalk.’ I enjoyed it.”
Dennis’s laugh escaped before he could filter it. He risked a longer look at Robby, really taking in the hard lines of his jaw, the touch of tiredness around his eyes, the little crinkles that deepened when he smiled. This was a man who didn’t just play at confidence, he wore it like a suit of armor, and, for some reason, had decided to take it off just a little, for Dennis.
The silence between them was soft and natural. For once, Dennis didn’t feel compelled to fill it. The snow kept falling, a curtain of quiet, punctuated only by the hissing of distant bus brakes and the occasional rumble of a passing car.
Eventually, Dennis broke the spell. “So what is this? I mean, is this… Are you actually interested in… me? Is my brain getting the right memo that you’re flirting with me, or am I about to get a LinkedIn offer for a barista-to-clinical-trials pipeline? Do you need test subjects? Because honestly, if it pays good, you can inject me with anything you want.”
Robby laughed, an honest, open sound. “Tempting. But no. Though I do have a feeling you’d thrive in a better environment.”
Dennis shook his head, smiling into the rim of his coffee cup. “I’m not sure I even remember what that looks like anymore.”
Robby placed a hand gently on Dennis’s thigh, just above the knee. The weight was reassuring, not demanding. “Then let me show you.”
Dennis’s heart stuttered. He looked at Robby, searching for the catch or the punchline or the subtle hint of mockery. He found none. Only warmth, and a kind of mischievous challenge.
He sipped his coffee again, feeling the cold recede from his body, replaced by an odd, giddy heat. “Is this the part where you take me to a secret billionaire club and change my life?”
Robby grinned. “Only if you want me to.”
Dennis thought about the ten dollars left in his account, the double shifts, the parents who hadn’t called in a year. He thought about the weight of Robby’s suit jacket around his shoulders and the feeling, just for a second, of being wanted for something other than his labor.
He met Robby’s eyes and said, “Okay. Surprise me.”
Robby’s smile, so sharp and confident in the coffee shop, softened under the streetlights. “To be clear. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That is my first rule of these kinds of… Engagements for me.” he said, voice quiet and low. “If you’d rather not talk, that’s fine. Though, to start off, if you want to unload, I’m a decent listener.”
Dennis opened his mouth, ready to default to the usual banter, but instead found himself blurting, “I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. Not one that wasn’t about order minimums or my lack of a future.”
Robby’s hand returned to his shoulder, warm through the expensive fabric. “I’d like to hear your story. If you’re willing.”
The snow was coming down heavier, dusting the cars and benches and even the awning of the Grindstone, which looked less like a workplace and more like a distant planet from where Dennis sat. He drew his knees up on the bench, wrapped himself tighter in the suit jacket, and tried to pretend the city was just background noise.
“Okay,” he said, trying for lightness, but his voice came out hoarse. “I grew up with a plan, which I guess is where I went wrong. My parents, well, they weren’t monsters or anything, just… really invested in seeing me on a doctor’s pedestal. They own the Whittaker Foundation,” He took a shaky breath. “I got into med school. I was good at it. Not genius level, not the kind of person who was going to cure cancer, you know? Still, I worked my ass off, and I actually cared. You know? Helping people wasn’t just a brochure slogan for me.”
Robby nodded, eyes locked on Dennis’s. No judgment. Just attention.
“So. I’d just finished my residency. I was getting ready to actually start being a doctor. Pediatrics. A big time in my life. So, I wanted to “celebrate” and finally do something I wanted to do my whole life. I… Came out to my parents. It was, look, I was twenty-seven, I thought maybe they’d be over themselves by then and see me as an adult. They weren’t and they didn’t. My mom said I was making them look bad. My dad just stopped talking to me altogether” Dennis’s hands tightened on the coffee cup until the cardboard bent. “It wasn’t just the gay thing. I don’t think the gay thing is what bothered them, it was the marriage thing. They’d already lined up an engagement with this girl from their circle, a daughter of some major medical center, sweet, but I wasn’t ever going to make her happy. Wasn’t even attracted to her. But we’d been forced to hang out and be with each other our entire lives.” He let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “I broke it off after I came out. Both me and the girl were relieved. Her parents? Not as much. My parents? Well, they called me an ungrateful shit, told me I was out of the will. Cut me off, cold.”
Robby’s hand slid up Dennis’s back, gentle and sure. It didn’t stop there; it stayed, steady and present.
“I could have survived on my own. I really could have. I knew, in the back of my head, it was a possibility and I was ready to do everything on my own. Thing is… My parents have friends everywhere. I got fired for “performance issues” at the hospital I was working at the very next day. Suddenly none of my professors would recommend me anymore for jobs, and when I applied out of state, every single one ghosted me. Even interviews I was promised in person just… evaporated. Guess my parents made calls, as revenge. I’ve applied every day to every kind of medical job you can imagine, and none of them… Ever panned out. I’m blackballed from the industry that I spent my whole life trying to get into. All that time, a waste now. All I’m good for anymore is making mediocre coffee and existing. I’m not even worth the trouble of dealing with.”
Robby squeezed his shoulder. “You’re more than worth the trouble, Dennis.”
The words hit like a punch and a warm bath at once. Dennis felt his eyes sting, but he blinked it away, angry at himself for even letting it get that far.
“I tried bartending for a while when I ran out of money,” he went on. “Then temp work. Sold blood and plasma. Cut down on food. Cut down on expenses. Then I landed at Grindstone, because at least it was steady and the coffee was free. Tried to keep applying to clinics, sometimes using a nickname, but every resume just went into a black hole. Sometimes I’d get a canned rejection email, but usually nothing.”
A sharp gust of wind made Dennis shiver. Robby pulled him closer, until their thighs were pressed together, and for the first time in months, Dennis didn’t mind being touched. He found himself talking faster, like the words needed to come out before the moment passed.
“My parents…” he shook his head, “…my parents sit on the board of the biggest private health foundation in this state. It’s all about who you know, and they made damn sure no one wanted to know me. I still get their newsletters, you know, hand delivered to my inbox? Every month, some new grant or donation or gala. Little notes at the bottom like “We could’ve built a wing in your name, could’ve donated to the Children’s fund for you, if you’d just played along.” But I didn’t want that. I never wanted to be like them. I wanted to do something good for the world.” The old anger bubbled up, hot and jagged. “They’re bottom-feeding monsters who only care about money and prestige, and medicine is just a way for them to make money and exploit the most vulnerable people in the world. They’d suck an onion dry for whatever blood they could get out of it, and throw it away when it was useless.” He laughed, too loud, then covered his face with his hands. “Jesus, I sound like a bad cable drama.”
“You sound like a man who knows what he wants. Passionate. Strong. Someone who even when you’re kicked to the bottom of a hole, you start digging yourself out,” Robby murmured. His hand was on Dennis’s neck now, kneading softly, soothing. “I like that. I respect that.”
Dennis peeked through his fingers, wary. “Yeah? What do you want, Dr. Robinavitch?”
Robby leaned back, considering. “Right now, I want to eat dinner with you,” he said, “and then I want to hear more about your dreams. I want to know what will make you happy, sweetheart. You deserve better than this.” His thumb stroked the back of Dennis’s head, unhurried. “Let’s start with food. You look absolutely famished. Nobody can talk or plan for the future on an empty stomach. We can discuss the particulars of our agreement there.”
Dennis snorted. “You just want to see if I’m as much of a train wreck in a nice restaurant as I am in a coffee shop.”
“I already know the answer,” Robby said, smiling. “But I’d love to watch you surprise yourself.”
The snow was coming harder now, the sidewalk turning white at the edges. Dennis’s jeans were already damp, but the jacket and Robby’s closeness kept him from caring. He finished the last swallow of coffee, then set the cup down on the bench between them.
“Isn’t it a little fast?” Dennis asked, hating how small his voice sounded. “I mean, you’re like… We’re talking about… You being my…”
“Sugar Daddy?” Robby smirked. “We are.”
Dennis nodded, biting down on his lip.
Robby shook his head. “Nothing about you makes me want to move slow. Besides, I’m a man who knows what he wants and have the means to make it happen.” He traced a line along Dennis’s jaw, featherlight. “But only if you want it. If I’m not your type, if this gives you the goosebumps, then we can call it off here. The offer’s here, though, if you want it.”
“Do I want this?” Dennis thought.
Robby was… Handsome. A little older than Dennis pictured his first real boyfriend to be, but the man before him was strikingly hot in all the ways that made him tingle.
Robby was kind. This might be a transactional relationship, he didn’t[‘t know, but somewhere deep down, Dennis knew that Robbie must have more than money and sex on the brains. Otherwise he wouldn’t have cared listening to his story. Or worse, he would have just offered money, taken them to a hotel room, had their fun, and moved on. No… There was something deeper here.
Though… Maybe it was a bit naïve of him, or maybe it was a false hope or an act of selfishness, but… If anyone in the world could get him out of his parent’s shadow, it would be Dr. Robby. The one man who could make his parents drop down on their needs and grovel in the presence of his bank account and connections, easily 100 times more than anything his parents could ever hope for.
“He gets what he wants. I get what I want. I… Could do worse.”
Dennis found himself nodding, an involuntary gesture, like a reflex. The relief in his chest was huge and new. He let his head tip to the side, letting Robby’s hand steady him.
“I want it,” he said, voice steadier now. “God, I want something to go right for once.”
Robby stood, brushing off the back of his pants. “Then let’s go.” He extended a hand. Dennis hesitated only a second before letting himself be pulled up, enveloped in the coat, and guided along the sidewalk.
They reached the curb, where a black SUV idled, engine humming against the cold. Robby opened the rear door and gestured grandly for Dennis to enter. For a split second, Dennis hesitated, what if this was the part where he got kidnapped, or worse, turned into a footnote in the news cycle? But Robby’s hand on his shoulder was real, solid, and reassuring.
Inside, the car was a cocoon of warmth and soft leather, the city’s noise and grit instantly replaced by the low thrum of jazz through the speakers. Robby slid in beside him, nodded at the driver, a statuesque man in a crisp black suit, and said, “Monty’s, please. Oh, and call ahead to the Davidson group and cancel my evening appointment, I have other plans now that are more important.”
The driver didn’t bat an eye, just pulled away from the curb with practiced ease.
Dennis stared out the window, watching the snow blur the city into a thousand shifting lights. He felt the day’s exhaustion and bitterness slough away, replaced by something tender and shaky but alive.
Robby’s hand found his knee, squeezed, and didn’t let go.