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Heather woke slowly, surfacing through warmth and the unmistakable weight of someone’s arm secured around her waist. It was decisive, as if Robby was making sure reality didn’t slip away while he rested.
His face was tucked into the crook of her neck, breath warm against her skin. When she shifted slightly, he murmured something unintelligible and pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to her shoulder. She smiled despite herself.
The end of yesterday’s shift had left everyone in unusually high spirits— they’d delivered surprise twins in Trauma Two, both healthy and loud. It was the kind of rare, uncomplicated win that made everyone feel buoyant.
Later that night when Heather sat at a table with her girlfriends, tipsy from her second glass of wine, she was surprised when she caught Robby’s eye across the restaurant. Of all the restaurants in Pittsburgh. They kept glancing over—Heather pretending to scan the exits, Robby pretending to study the specials board.
At one point, she caught him actually watching her. He lifted an eyebrow. She mirrored it back. It was over. She was doomed.
So truly zero people were shocked—least of all Heather—when she found herself speedwalking through the snow and knocking on his door at 11pm. He opened it before she could knock a second time.
“Hi,” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied, stepping aside and already pulling her in.
Now, back in the morning light, with his arm around her, it was embarrassingly easy to remember how everything unraveled from the moment he kissed her.
They lingered in bed far longer than responsible adults should. Robby was warm and unguarded in a way she rarely saw anymore. Heather wasn’t usually a morning cuddler, but she let herself sink into him, into the comfort of familiarity and the soft press of his chest against her back.
At some point, he rolled her onto her side to face him, their noses brushing. He kissed her again—slow, almost careful, like he was savoring something he hadn’t tasted in years. His thumb stroked her jaw, her cheek, the line of her collarbone, each touch soft but purposeful. She kissed him back, matching his unhurried pace, letting the morning stretch like taffy around them.
Then Robby’s alarm blared.
As if doused with cold water, Heather startled awake and pulled back.
He groaned, rolling onto his back like a man personally wronged. “Ugh. Hate that we have to work today,” he muttered. “But at least we get to spend the day together.”
The words landed a little oddly, like he wanted a response she didn’t have. Heather let the shapeless thought hover for a moment before it faded away with her morning sleepiness.
“I’m showering first,” she said, peeling out from under the comforter.
Heather descended the stairs, attaching her badge to the spare scrubs she’d left behind the last time they’d fallen into bed together. Robby had washed them afterward—folded them neatly into his dresser, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the evidence but couldn’t quite let go.
In the kitchen, he had his back to her, chopping something with deliberate concentration.
She stopped in the doorway, crossing her arms as she took him in—broad shoulders, messy hair, the kind of posture that said I’m pretending this is totally normal. A slow smile tugged at her mouth.
Without turning, he said a little shyly, “So… too late to get a restaurant reservation, but I can make a pretty good steak and I have a bottle of that Malbec you like just waiting to be opened…”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “For dinner.”
“Dinner?” she asked slowly, feeling like she’d stepped into a conversation she’d missed the first half of.
Then he turned around, holding a bowl. He lifted it slightly, almost shy. “Cheesy, I know. But… happy Valentine’s Day.”
Heather looked up like a deer in headlights. Valentine’s Day.
“Oh,” she breathed. Just one syllable, but enough for him to understand. She saw it in the subtle shift of his expression. Surprise, realization, and then the quick, tight smile of a man pretending he wasn’t disappointed.
“You forgot,” he said quietly. Not accusing, just true.
Heat crept up her neck. “I just-” She stopped. She had forgotten. Entirely. Catastrophically.
Would she have come over last night if she had realized it was February 13th?
“Well.” He set the bowl down gently. “I should shower. It’s getting late.”
He brushed past her with a polite half-smile, the kind he used with difficult patients or strangers at fundraising galas. She hated it instantly, leaving her to stare at the bowl in front of her—oats, yogurt, and sliced strawberries arranged painstakingly into a lopsided heart.
Heather stepped into the hallway of the ED, where the Valentine’s Day decorations glared at her from every direction—pink hearts, glittered cupids, a banner loudly declaring LOVE IS IN THE AIR!
They had been up for two weeks.
She groaned internally. How had she missed all of this?
And throughout the shift, it was like she couldn’t get away from any of it.
The first offender was a middle-aged man clutching his shoulder, face burning with embarrassment.
Perlah asked, “How’d this happen to you?”
“Uh… Cupid-related,” he mumbled.
Perlah blinked. “Like the cherub?”
The man sighed. “My wife and I were doing a little Valentine’s Day role-play and she—look, she got too enthusiastic with the wings, okay? They were metal.”
“Metal?”
“Metal! Why would Etsy sell metal wings?
Heather bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly drew blood.
Perlah, valiantly attempting professionalism, nodded. “So… blunt trauma from decorative angel wings?”
“Exactly.”
“But, uh… don’t tell my wife I complained. She’s got another costume planned for when we get home. Said she felt bad,” he added excitedly.
“Hope we don’t see you back here again,” Heather deadpanned.
And of course the medical field is not just about curing, it’s about prevention too—
Heather was checking a college student’s vitals, when the man on the cot squinted at her thoughtfully.
“Hey, can I ask you something not medical?”
Heather braced. “Depends on the question.”
“Should I text my ex today? Y’know, Valentine’s?”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
Robby, walking past with a chart, didn’t miss a beat: “Under no circumstances.”
Heather didn’t even look at him.
The patient groaned. “Man. Brutal in here.”
By midafternoon, Heather was wishing for an easy, straightforward case when a sharp-eyed woman in her eighties shuffled in, holding a small knife with a neat but clearly painful cut across her palm.
Heather set to work immediately, cleaning the wound and wrapping it with practiced precision. The woman watched her with bright, curious eyes, as if this were all far more interesting than it had any right to be.
“You’ve been so kind, dear,” the woman said, flexing her fingers experimentally. “It’s a shame they’ve got you working so hard today. I remember being in high school, playing hooky on Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend—skipping class just to spend the whole day together.”
Heather snorted before she could stop herself. “If I were still in high school, maybe I’d consider it.”
The woman studied her face, assessing. “Do you have plans for Valentine’s Day?”
Heather glanced down at the chart, buying herself a second. “No… not sure yet.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” the woman said gently, her tone shifting into something almost conspiratorial. “A pretty girl like you deserves to be taken out.”
Heather smiled—the polite, professional one she’d perfected over years of patient interactions. “That’s sweet, thank you. Now, going back to your discharge instructions—”
The door swung open.
“Hey, how are we doing here? I’m Dr. Robby, do we need anything?” Robby asked, already halfway into the room. His tone was warm but efficient; Heather knew he was really here to clear the bed for the next patient.
The woman’s eyes lit up instantly.
“Yes,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “You know what she needs. What she really needs is a date! What’s a girl got to do to get a night out on the town?”
Heather froze, heat creeping up her neck. “Oh my god.”
Robby blinked, clearly thrown, shifting his weight like the floor had betrayed him. “Uh…”
The woman leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was imparting a sacred truth. “I’d volunteer myself, but I think Dr. Collins deserves someone younger. And stronger.”
“Ma’am,” Heather groaned softly, “really—”
Robby opened his mouth, thought better of it, then scratched the back of his neck, helpless. The woman laughed, delighted with herself.
“I’m just saying,” she continued cheerfully, “young people should know how much fun a proper night out can be!”
Heather shot Robby a pointed look. He raised his eyebrows in surrender, offered an apologetic shrug, and retreated with a faint smirk.
Heather turned back to the patient, inhaled once, and resumed the discharge instructions, determined to salvage whatever professionalism remained in the room.
The day shift was winding down, but you wouldn’t know it from the scene in the ER. It felt just as busy as it had been 10 hours earlier. Heather sat at her workstation off to the side, typing notes with one hand and clutching what she swore would be her last coffee with the other.
At Central, McKay was mid–Valentine’s Day manifesto.
“Valentine’s Day is a predatory corporate holiday designed to sell subpar chocolate to lonely people,” she announced, waving her protein shake with the authority of someone who had researched this.
A chorus of tired “mmhmm”s rose from the nurses.
Heather kept her gaze on her monitor, maintaining a neutral, noncommittal expression.
Robby stood beside McKay, leaning one hip against the desk as he scrolled through a chart on a tablet. He gave a casual shrug that broadcast I am above this conversation but not enough to walk away.
“Sure, yeah. It’s commercialized,” he said. “But… I don’t know. Flowers, chocolate, the whole thing. There’s something kind of nice about it.”
His tone was soft. Thoughtful. Quieter than McKay’s but somehow traveled across the room straight to Heather’s ears.
Heather’s fingers froze above her keyboard.
She risked the smallest glance up—just enough peripheral vision to catch him leaning against the counter, looking every bit like the kind of man who would absolutely make someone heart-shaped breakfast food.
McKay snorted. “What’s nice about paying triple for roses that’ll die in twelve hours?”
Robby lifted one shoulder, almost sheepish. “Sometimes it’s nice to have a day where you say the quiet stuff out loud.”
Heather’s heart gave an undignified thump.
She ducked her head lower over her keyboard, pretending to be deeply fascinated by a lab result she’d already signed off on ten minutes ago.
She was absolutely not listening. Absolutely not affected.
3 hours later, Robby trudged home, ready to write the entire day off as a “lesson in expectations.” Therapy had taught him not to catastrophize, but he was still fluent.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his keys, told himself he was fine, totally fine, actually not thinking about Heather at all, when a knock interrupted his spiral.
He opened the door.
Heather stood there, still in scrubs, breathing hard like she ran there. In her hands: a bouquet of slightly wilted grocery-store roses and a box of chocolate that had clearly been pillaged from the discount section.
She lifted them, awkward but earnest. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Robby.”
For a second, Robby didn’t speak.
Then his expression softened—slowly, beautifully—and the smile she knew best finally reappeared.