Work Text:
You check your phone for the fourth time in ten minutes. Nothing. Just the same text from Dana from an hour ago: He’s wearing a dark green jacket. You’re going to love him!
So far, you do not.
You are fifteen minutes into a blind date with a ghost, perched on an uncomfortable barstool at the city’s dinkiest pub. You’re already nervous, your leg bouncing anxiously against the brass footrail, but the nerves are quickly curdling into annoyance.
In the short time you’ve been sitting here, you’ve politely but firmly turned down three separate guys offering to buy you a drink. You’re holding out for Michael, whoever he is. But if he doesn’t show up soon you’ve resolved to let the next guy who asks buy you that drink.
Your finger hovers over your screen and the text chain you've got with Dana. She had not given you his number, rightly clocking that if you had it you would have cancelled at the last minute, so you had no way of calling Michael to chew him out for being late.
Or worse, standing you up entirely.
The heavy wooden door of the pub swings open, letting in a blast of cool night air. You glance over, ready to scowl, and your breath catches just a little.
It’s him. Or, at least, you hope it's him.
He’s tall, handsome, and most importantly, wearing a dark green jacket. He runs a hand through his hair, scanning the room with a frown. You give him a tiny wave from where you're standing. You're not quite sure he sees it.
But regardless, he comes over to you and gives you a polite smile before turning to signal the bartender.
“Michael?” You ask hesitantly. It's been a while since you've been on a blind date and you're not sure if some of the etiquette has changed.
He turns to you and looks momentarily confused
You slide off your stool, smoothing down your clothes, and take a small step into his space. You give him your name, and he gives you a hesitant smile, looking lost, so you add, “I'm Dana's friend?”
Recognition dawns on his face and his smile becomes less hesitant, “Right, yeah of course. Call me Robby.” The bartender arrives, and he glances at the water in your hand. “Can I get you a drink?”
You breathe a sigh of relief, glad the night is finally going back on script. “Sure,” you nod, then look around at the half empty tables, “uh, do you want to grab a table?”
He gives you another confused look, and you do your best to not let the nervousness show on your face, “I mean, that's how these things usually go, right?” You go for breezy and miss by a mile, and he must take pity on you, because he nods and nods towards a booth in the corner.
You're settled in by the time he brings the drinks, and you've decided to overlook him being nearly half an hour late. He sits and takes a long pull from his beer, then finally sets it down and leans back in the booth.
“How do you know Dana?” He asks after a moment of awkward silence.
“Uh, we went to school together.” You tilt your head in confusion, “did she not tell you at all about me?”
Dana had been right lipped about Michael, the only thing you knew was that he's a nice guy and they worked together. You had thought that was because she was worried you would flake on the blind date if she told you too much, but maybe she had been similarly tight lipped about you to him.
“She … doesn't talk that much about her friends outside of work.” He says with a grimace. You can tell he's covering for her though, “By school did you mean training?’
“Um, no?” You frown at him, suddenly wondering if he's got that bit of casual sexism going about women and higher education, “we got our degrees together.”
And you had been damned proud of it too, all those years of tears and more tears being poured into the stupid engineering degree just for that ring on your pinky.
“You -” he hesitates, makes a face and takes another sip from his beer, “sorry, I'm just surprised because you look -”
“Look what?” You press when he doesn't finish the sentence.
“Look … too young for that.” He says finally with a grimace, and you can't tell if he had meant to say something else. “Sorry.”
“I…skipped a year in high school?” You say uncertainty. Then it dawns on you that he might have been trying to give you a compliment, so you belatedly add, “Thank you?”
“Sorry,” he says again. He shakes his head ruefully, “Shit, I'm so bad at this.”
You sigh and flash him a small smile, at least he's trying. “It's fine.” You furrow your brows, “well, no actually that was a pretty dumb thing to say, but that's ok.”
He laughs, and the corners of his eyes get all wrinkly. It shouldn't be attractive, but it is.
You give him another grin. “So… how’s work treating you?”
“Ah, you know,” he shrugs, suddenly looking a little less pleased, “just trying to make it through, one day at a time.”
“Oh boy, Dana's that much of a slave driver, huh?” You grin. He and Dana are at the same firm, that much you knew. She's been sketching out some skyscraper that’s going to go up in Dubai, hoping to put in a bid, and you're pretty sure she mentioned Michael being on the same project.
“Yeah, but she's the only thing keeping it all working, so I can't complain.” He sighs ruefully, “What about you?”
“Doing some stuff for the children's hospital,” you wave in the general direction of where you think the hospital is, and he gently shakes his head and points in the opposite direction. You shrug, “They're adding a wing.”
He nods, “Yeah, I heard. Twenty beds.” He smiles and it lights up his face again, “Didn't know they were up and running already.”
You shake your head, “No, still drafting the plans.” You drink the beer he brought you and grimaces at the taste, hoping he doesn't notice. “It’ll be another month, probably. Wanna get proper input from the doctors and all.”
He studies you for a moment and frowns, “Shoulda told me you don't like beer.” He takes the drink from you gently and puts it next to his. “I can get you something else instead.”
“Oh no, it's not -” you reach for the beer, embarrassed already about this being a thing. But he raises an eyebrow at you and you remind yourself you’re trying to be more assertive. So you retract your hand and smile sheepishly. “Alright, you caught me.”
“What can I get you? Something you actually like.”
“Um -” You look over at the bar wistfully, where a group of laughing women are drinking something pink with little umbrellas.
He looks over and frowns, “Cosmopolitan?” He asks you.
“Yeah, I guess? Or, whatever’s easiest, I’m not picky.” You say, but you must not be able to hide the way your mouth waters at the thought of something syrupy sweet because he just grins at you and gets up from his seat.
You watch him walk back to the bar, admiring the broad set of his shoulders beneath that dark green jacket. Okay. So he was late, and the conversation started off a little bumpy with the weird comments about school, but you liked the way he smiled, the way he grinned, the way he didn’t seem to mind that you don’t actually like beer.
Your phone buzzes, and it’s probably Dana checking to make sure you haven’t bailed on the date she set you up. You ignore it, instead watching the way Michael seems to talk easily to the bartender, gesturing towards the group of women with their fancy drink.
He comes back to the table with the prize. It’s a tall glass, vibrant cherry-red at the bottom fading to a fizzy, translucent pink at the top, clinking with ice cubes and garnished with a couple of neon maraschino cherries.
"Not a Cosmo," he announces, sliding back into his side of the booth. "Dirty Shirley."
You smile, wrapping your fingers around the cold, condensation-slicked glass. Leaning in, you bring the little red straw to your lips and take a sip.
It tastes exactly how you imagined it, but still somehow better. There’s a rush of syrupy grenadine that coats your tongue, immediately followed by the bite of lemon-lime soda popping against the roof of your mouth.
You take a second, longer pull, genuinely thrilled to be completely rid of the bitter hops from the beer.
"Oh, yum," you sigh happily, pulling back from the straw. You drag the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip to catch a lingering, sticky drop of the syrup.
When you turn to look at him, he isn't looking at your eyes. His gaze is fixed intently on your mouth, tracking the slow swipe of your tongue. You watch as his jaw clench, his eyes lingering on your lips for a second before he finally forces his gaze upward to meet yours.
"Good?" he asks.
“Perfect.” You smile, “Wanna try?” You move the drink towards him but he stops you with a shake of his head.
“Maybe later.” He says, and something about his voice makes it sound like a promise.
Some of the tension evaporates from your shoulders as you sip the cocktail, and the conversation flows much easier. You start with a little more small talk about the Steelers, then veers into a lament about the price of avocados. You briefly detour into a conversation about the public education system, which meanders into a rant from both of you about social media and AI. It’s nice, it’s smooth, and it’s interesting.
At some point, he gets up to get himself another beer, and when he comes back, he hesitates for a fraction of a second before sliding into your side of the booth. He bends his head, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Easier to talk this way. Okay?”
You nod, biting your lip to stop from grinning.
He is a solid, grounding warmth pressed against you, his thigh lined up against yours. Sometime during the evening, his arm drapes along the back of the booth behind you, and you find that you quite enjoy the heavy weight of it against your shoulders.
“You want another one?” he asks when your glass hits empty. You look up at him in confusion. You hadn’t realized you’d drank it so fast, but a glance at the clock on the wall tells you it’s been nearly an hour.
“Oh, sorry, you didn’t even get to try -” You duck your head, “I - uh -”
He hums, and his gaze drops to your lips. He leans in slowly, plenty of time for you to push him away, to tell him no.
You don’t, and when his tongue finds its way into your mouth you find you don’t even mind the taste of hops.
There’s a loud crash somewhere from the direction of the kitchen, and you flinch. He pulls away slowly and leans back in his seat, looking satisfied. “Too sweet for me, I think. I’ll stick with beer.” He gives you a lazy grin, and you’re thrilled to see a faint reddish tint high on his cheekbones.
Thank goodness it’s not just you.
He gets you another drink anyway, and another beer for himself. You take out your phone and grimace when you realize that somehow you’ve managed to turn the flashlight on while it’s in your pocket and now your phone is hot and the battery is only at 4%. You shoot a message to Dana anyway without reading the string of texts from her, “Thanks! <3” and put it back into your pocket, trusting that she’ll know what you meant.
You take a sip of your new drink and find it just as delicious as the first one. A thought occurs to you, and you look up at him. “Hey -”
He hums, waiting for you to continue. You suddenly find yourself tongue-tired, not sure how to get the thought out without embarrassing yourself.
“Um, for later -” You try again, and grimace at how stilted you sound, “Just - um -”
“Uh oh,” He murmurs, “Should I be worried?”
“No, no -” You shake your head and laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, “Um, I just wanted to tell you, since I’m not too tipsy yet, that um, I’m totally happy to … you know…go home with you, or whatever.”
He raises an eyebrow at you, and you bite your lip, certain that your face is the colour of tomatoes. “I just mean, like, I’m - um - you wouldn’t be taking advantage of me or anything, if I do end up a little tipsy after this drink. Like, I’m totally good to -” You pause for a moment, looking for the right word, “- to um, do whatever.”
He stares at you for a long, heavy second, then he sets his beer down on the table with a soft clink. You look away, sure that you’ve made a huge fool out of yourself completely.
The arm draped casually behind your shoulders shifts. His large hand settles gently against the side of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in the hair at your nape. You suck in a sharp breath as his thumb begins to stroke the sensitive skin just below your jawline. You lean into the touch.
“I think, if you are good to do…whatever,” He murmurs against your ear, voice low, “Then we should probably get out of here now, before you do get too tipsy.”
“Wh- now?” You look up at him, then at both your drinks that are nearly full. “Um, what about -”
“I’ve got drinks at my place.” He says, his thumb now tracing your collarbone.
You nod and watch as he stands up and offers you his hand. The second your fingers loop through his, he tugs, pulling you right into his chest. You collide softly with him, gasping as his free hand immediately goes to your waist. You have to tilt your head back to look at him, suddenly hyper-aware of how much taller he is.
"Let's go," he says, his gaze dropping to your lips one last time before he turns, keeping you tucked tightly against his side as he guides you through the crowded pub.
He doesn’t lead you down the sidewalk. Instead, the second you’re around the corner and out of the direct glow of the streetlights, he stops. He crowds you backward, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you gently but firmly against the rough brick of the building's exterior.
"Robby - " you start, breathless, but the word is completely swallowed by his mouth.
He kisses you hard, his mouth hot and demanding, completely stealing your breath. His hand slides up your spine, tangling deep in your hair to tilt your head how he wants it, while his other arm wraps securely around your waist to pull your hips flush against his.
A tiny, embarrassing sound escapes the back of your throat, and he groans into the kiss in response. He steps even closer, his thigh pressing between yours, letting you feel exactly how affected he is by you. The heat rolling off his body chases away any early spring chill.
You melt against him, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his jacket, holding on for dear life as his tongue traces your bottom lip, coaxing you open. He tastes like beer and the lingering, syrupy sweetness of your Dirty Shirley.
His hand drops from your hair, trailing down your neck, over your collarbone, until his fingers find the hem of your shirt. He doesn't hesitate, slipping his large, calloused hand underneath the fabric. The contrast of the freezing night air and his scorching hot palm flat against the bare skin of your waist makes you jolt, your back arching off the brick and pressing you harder against his chest.
His thumb strokes a slow, torturous line over your ribs, his grip tightening on your waist.
He pulls back just a fraction, both of you panting. His forehead rests against yours. “Sorry, couldn’t wait.” He says, sounding not at all apologetic.
“So…uh, your place?” You ask, still breathless.
“That ok?” He checks, and you nod emphatically, thinking of the mess of drafting instructions that is piled everywhere in your condo.
Turns out it’s a short walk to his place, which is perhaps why Dana had told you to meet him at the rundown pub to start. You’re both quiet as you walk, you are distracted by the feeling of his hand around your waist, too focused on the heat radiating off his body and the anticipatory thud of your own heartbeat. His thumb rubs against your hip bone through the fabric of your clothes, a reminder of exactly where this night is heading.
He guides you up the concrete steps of a brownstone, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. You want to make some comment about the design of the house, but before you could he is ushering you inside and up a short flight of stairs.
His hands are on you again the second you cross the threshold into his apartment.
He crowds you backward until your shoulders hit the solid wall. You let out a soft, surprised gasp, and he takes immediate advantage, his tongue sweeping past your lips.
He shrugs off his jacket, letting it drop unceremoniously to the hardwood floor. His lips trace a hot, wet path down the column of your neck. You tilt your head back to give him better access. Your hands scramble for purchase, sliding up his chest to grip the broad line of his shoulders.
"Fuck -" he murmurs. His teeth graze the sensitive skin over your collarbone, making your knees actually buckle a little. "Remind me to thank Dana."
You giggle, but it turns into a breathy moan when his hands slide under the hem of your shirt. His palms travel upward, his fingers mapping the curve of your waist before sliding higher to cup you through the lace of your bra.
You moan softly into the quiet apartment, your fingers tangling tight in the hair at the nape of his neck. You pull him closer, and he obliges happily, his hands squeezing gently as his knee parts your legs. He steps firmly into your space, his thigh pressing up firmly against your body.
The friction makes your hips instinctively tilt toward him, grinding against his leg in a way that makes a rough sound tear from his throat.
He kisses you harder, his hands dropping to grip the back of your thighs. Then, in one smooth, effortless motion, he hoists you up. You wrap your legs tight around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back as he carries you down the hallway without ever breaking the kiss.
You have to pull away eventually for air, and you giggle as he stumbles slightly as he carries you.
“Sorry,” He mutters, “Out of practice.”
“Mhm,” You are still grinning even as you nuzzle into his neck, “Lucky me.”
He drops you onto his bed, and you squeal in surprise as you bounce on his mattress. It’s a nice bed. Firm with crisp linen. You take a moment to look around as he studies you, and you frown.
“Um -” You snap your mouth close before another word escapes. But he caught your hesitation, because he pauses in taking his shirt off. “Oh no, don’t stop-” You call out, then snap your mouth shut again as he raises an eyebrow at your eagerness.
He resumes taking his shirt off, but it’s slower now as he watches you. “Something you don’t approve of.” He murmurs, it wasn’t a question.
“No, no -” You shake your head to deny the diagnosis, but you can’t help it and glance at his window.
He turns to follow your gaze, frowning when he catches what you’re looking at. “Is it the curtains?”
"No," You shake your head again, but you can’t help it and glance at his window again.
It’s not the curtains. It’s the framing. The casing is visibly out of plumb, and there is a faint but distinct hairline stress fracture running up the drywall from the top right corner.
You shouldn't say anything, you tell yourself. You are literally on a very hot guy's bed, about to hook up. Do not critique the structural integrity of his apartment.
Surely he sees it, right? He works at Dana's firm. He drafts skyscrapers for a living. He has to know the lintel is sagging. Maybe he leaves it like that on purpose? Some kind of post-modern, structural irony?
“Baby,” He says softly, and the nickname does something that rewires your brain. Suddenly you can’t recall why you were so concerned about the stupid window. “I won’t be able to focus if you don’t tell me.”
You sigh, and point a finger toward the wall. "I was just wondering if the sagging lintel and the micro-fissure in the drywall over there is, like... intentional? You know, the cobbler's children having no shoes, doctor who can’t diagnose himself, that kind of thing?"
"Uh... sure?" he says slowly. He clearly has no clue what you're talking about, which is weird, but you are far too distracted by the sudden reveal of his bare chest to dwell on it. He is not overly muscular, but he is fit, all lean muscles and a smattering of dark hair that tapers down toward the waistband of his jeans.
You swallow hard, shaking your head to clear it. "Okay. No more shop talk."
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that goes straight to your core as he crawls onto the mattress, his knees bracketing your hips. "Yeah, ok. Think we're doing pretty well there."
Then, the amusement vanishes from his face as he hovers over you, replaced by that pinning intensity from the bar. He leans down, his bare chest brushing against your clothed one.
“Stop me.” He murmurs.
You shake your head.
His hands catch the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it blindly over his shoulder. The cool air of the bedroom hits your flushed skin for only a second before his mouth is there, replacing the fabric with a scorching, open-mouthed kiss against your collarbone.
You let out a sound that was too close to a whine, your hands coming up to finally touch his bare skin. His chest is hard and warm, the muscles jumping under your fingertips as you trace the up the broad line of his shoulders and tangle your fingers in the hair.
He makes quick, desperate work of your bra's front clasp. As the lace falls away, he groans, shifting his weight to press his hips flush against yours. The heavy, rigid friction of him against the cradle of your thighs makes you arch off the mattress, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.
"You're fucking perfect," he breathes out, his lips trailing hot, wet kisses down your sternum. His hands slide down to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin to hold you exactly where he wants you.
"Robby," you gasp, your nails lightly scraping down his back.
He shudders at the touch and it’s almost as if you’ve broken something in him. He kisses his way back up your neck, hot and desperate and sloppy. His tongue tangles with yours.
Your hands drop to the waistband of his jeans, then they graze lower to cup him through his jeans.
He breaks the kiss, panting, his dark eyes blazing as he looks down at you.
“Stop me.” He murmurs again, his fingers hovering over the buttons on your pants. This time there’s a desperation in his eyes.
You grin at him, suddenly feeling a little bold, and shake your head.
The morning light hits your eyes as you wake slowly, your body warm and relaxed.
You blink against the soft sunlight streaming through the slightly out-of-plumb window. A heavy, warm weight is draped over your waist, pinning you to the mattress. You carefully turn your head.
Robby is fast asleep, his face relaxed, hair thoroughly messy, one broad shoulder exposed above the dark blue duvet. He looks ridiculously peaceful. And ridiculously gorgeous.
You glance at the clock on his nightstand. 4:30 AM.
Panic immediately spikes in your chest. You hadn't meant to stay that long. After the third spectacular time he had managed to draw an orgasm out of you, you had both been exhausted, and you told him you were just going to close your eyes for five minutes while waiting for the Uber surge pricing to go down.
That was three hours ago.
You carefully lift his arm, holding your breath as he shifts and mumbles something under his breath. He doesn't wake up. You slide out of the bed, shivering slightly as the cool morning air hits your bare skin, and begin the frantic, silent scavenger hunt for your clothes.
Your bra is draped over a chair. Your shirt is somewhere near the doorway. You wriggle into your jeans, hopping on one foot to squeeze into them, and grab your coat.
You pause at the bedroom door, looking back at him. You could wake him up. But the thought of doing the awkward, sleepy, morning-after small talk makes you cringe. You take a deep breath. This is ok. You are gonna be the cool girl who doesn't cling. Plus, leaving now gives the whole incredible night an air of mystery.
You pad out to his kitchen. It's clean, minimalist, and strangely decorated, as if he had put no thought into it. It’s strange for an architect, but you shrug it off. You spot a pen and a notepad sitting on the granite counter. You scribble a quick message, leaning against the island.
Thanks for a great night. Call me. It’s perfect. Confident, simple, and direct. You know Dana gave him your number, so this leaves the ball squarely in his court.
You grin, already imagining getting that call from him.
You leave the note right next to the coffee maker, and quietly let yourself out, making sure the deadbolt clicks softly behind you.
Out on the street, you pull out your phone to finally call that Uber, only to remember the black screen. Dead. Right. You had wanted to plug it in at his place, but had obviously been distracted by doing other things.
You walk a few blocks in the crisp morning air until you reach a busier intersection, managing to hail a passing cab.
By the time you unlock the door to your condo, you are practically buzzing. This was the first blind date you’ve been on that has been a success. You drop your keys on the console table, beeline for your bedroom, and plug your dead phone into the charger on your nightstand.
You go to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, smiling to yourself as you remember the heavy, calloused feel of his hands.
When you get back to your room, the phone screen is lit up. You tap it, unlocking the screen, and immediately see the notification bubble over your text chain with Dana.
You open it.
Dana (7:15 PM): Babe, I am SO sorry. We got completely slammed with a last-minute crisis on the Dubai bid and I am making him stay to fix the drafting errors. Total flake, I know. Drinks on me tomorrow to make up for it?
You stare at the screen. 7:15 PM. That was twenty minutes before you had blindly typed out your reply in the dark pub.
You (8:30 PM): Thanks! <3
Dana (8:32 PM): Woah, no need to be passive aggressive with me, lady! I said I’ll buy you drinks.
Dana (8:43 PM): You better not be giving me the silent treatment!
Dana (10:50 PM): Ok fine I’ll buy you brunch this weekend too, ok? Love love love. Don’t be mad over a guy!! He’s cute but not that cute!
You put the glass of water down slowly, rereading the texts.
I am making him stay to fix the drafting errors.
If Michael was at the firm with Dana... who the hell was at the pub?
Your heart drops into your stomach. You hit Dana's contact name and then put her on speaker as you start pacing the length of the room.
"Oh my god, are you still mad at me? It’s sooooo early." Dana answers on the second ring, sounding half asleep. "What the fuck babes, are you punishing me?"
"Dana," you say, your voice coming out as a strangled squeak. "Was Michael with you last night?"
"Um, duh!" Dana says with a groan. "The Dubai client threw a fit over the load-bearing calculations and we were stuck at the office until midnight. Which was only….four hours ago, jesus christ woman, why are you calling me."
"I hooked up with Michael," you blurt out, sinking onto the edge of your bed. "Dana, I - I - There was a guy at the pub, and he was wearing a dark green jacket. He said his name was Michael."
There is a beat of dead silence on the other end of the line.
"You met a man named Michael in a green jacket... and you hooked up with him?" Dana asks slowly.
"He said he knew you!" you wail, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. "I asked if he was Michael, he said yes. I said I was Dana's friend, he said 'of course.' I called you a slave driver and he agreed so I thought ok he obviously works with you and knows you pretty well.”
"Oh my god," Dana gasps, the realization hitting her.
"I woke up in his bed thirty minutes ago!" you shriek, dropping your head between your knees. "Dana, I slept with a total stranger! What - oh my god - oh my god -"
"Okay, okay, deep breaths," Dana says, though she sounds like she's desperately trying not to laugh. "This is fine. It's a funny story! You had a great time, right? Just wait for him to text you."
"He can't text me!" you cry out.
"Why not?"
"Because I left a note that just said 'Call me'!" you groan, rolling back onto the mattress to stare at the ceiling in pure agony. "I didn't leave my number! I thought he was your Michael! I thought he already had it!"
Dana actually snorts this time. "Oh babes.” She coos.
"This is a disaster!” You groan, “I don't even know his last name! I don't even know what he does for a living! Why did I think I could be breezy? I should have woken him up this morning -"
"Okay, calm down," Dana soothes. "Just go back to his apartment. You can knock on the door, laugh about the misunderstanding, and actually give him your number."
You squeeze your eyes shut. "I can't."
“Ah, shit, you didn’t get his address, did you?” Dana says. She knows you well enough to know that you have all the directional sense of a toddler. She knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that you could never find that apartment again without an address.
"It was dark! We walked like, two or three blocks from the pub. Or maybe four? We turned at some point? And….and we went into a brownstone.” You try to mentally retrace your steps, but all you can remember is the heat of him pressed against you, the way his hand had settled around your waist. “Do you know how many brownstones are? They’re all brownstones!"
"Okay," Dana sighs. "Okay, so we don't have a last name, we don't have a phone number, and we don't have an address."
"I am cursed." you declare miserably. "I finally found a guy who is gorgeous, thinks I'm hilarious and buys me syrupy drinks, and I literally ghosted him."
Dana laughs, “Ok, I am not awake enough for your crisis my love.” She sighs, “Call me in like, four hours, and we can do brunch and talk about it, ok?”
You spend an entire week seriously contemplating staking out the pub.
You spend hours on Google Maps, trying to trace a three-to-four block radius around the bar to locate a generic brick brownstone with a sagging window lintel. You are miserable.
Dana wants you to go out with her Michael, and you shut that down so fast.
There can be no other date that compares, you know this.
So you mope about your office, generally being a dark cloud until one of your colleagues hesitantly points out that the spire you’re sketching is kind of … brooding.
You wish you were the kind of person who could throw themselves into their work and forget about the woes of their personal life. But you’re not. So instead of focusing on the looming deadlines, you spend your afternoon idling at your desk, trying to recall the kisses you had shared.
It’s the incessant buzzing of your phone that pulls you out of it. You pick it up, ready to hang up without answering, but you freeze. The caller ID says Lincoln Elementary.
You answer, and your heart immediately drops. You are the emergency contact for Dana’s eight-year-old daughter, Marianne, and you had hoped to never get a call from her school.
Over the phone, the school nurse informs you that Marianne took a spill off the monkey bars. They suspect a broken arm. They’ve been trying to reach Dana but they can’t seem to reach her.
"I'm on my way," you say, grabbing your purse. "Her mom is probably just tied up at work. No worries, are they going to the children’s hospital? I’ll meet her."
"The PTMC," the school nurse says apologetically, “Children’s ER is overflowing, and the nurse there said they’ll see her quicker at the PTMC.”
“Ok, ok. I’m on my way.”
You drop everything and rush to the hospital. By the time you navigate the chaotic emergency room and find her curtained cubicle, you’ve already sent off two texts to Dana, one to tell her you’re going, and another to tell her you’ve arrived. Marianne, when you see her, is sitting on the exam bed, cradling her splinted arm against her chest, her face tear-streaked and pale. A young woman smiles at you, she tells you her name is Dr. Santos. She seems really frazzled, but she takes a deep breath and explains the situation to you in a calm, soothing voice.
You lose track of the explanation as soon as you hear her say that Marianne is mostly ok and they’re just waiting for the xray results.
"Hey, sweetie," you breathe out, rushing to her good side and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm right here. Mom's stuck at work, but I've got you."
Marianne sniffles, leaning her head against your hip as you wrap an arm around her small shoulders. You spend the next ten minutes calming her down, whispering jokes and promising her the biggest ice cream sundae in the city once she gets her cast. Dana would probably be unhappy with that, but whatever, you’re not her mom, you’re the fun aunt.
Dr. Santos comes back into the room after a while, she goes straight to the computer and starts typing. "We're just waiting on the attending to come do a final check on the x-rays and set the treatment plan, okay? He'll be right in."
"Thank you," you say.
Less than a minute later, the curtain pulls back.
"Alright, let's see this monkey bar champion," a deep voice says. You feel like somebody punched you in the stomach.
The last time you had heard that voice, he had been groaning your name in between open-mouthed kisses, whispering about how perfect you were.
You feel all of your blood rush to your face, and you’re uncomfortably aware that there’s an eight year old sitting right next to you.
He steps into the cubicle wearing blue scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck, looking down at a chart on his tablet.
“Alright, everything looks good,” He says, still focused on the chart, “I think we just need to -” He looks up and freezes. “Uh -”
“All good, boss?” Dr. Santos calls out from near the computer.
"Um," you squeak.
"Yeah, uh -," he blinks then breathes out, his voice a little hoarse, “Yeah, just the cast, then you should be good to go.”
Marianne, oblivious to any tension in the room, looks at him with a frown, “Can I choose the color of my cast?” she asks, her little brow furrowing.
“Sure thing, champ.” Dr. Santos says, “What do you think, we got all the colors of the rainbow.”
“Orange.” She says immediately and you cringe, knowing it’s going to clash with pretty much her entire carefully curated wardrobe from Dana.
“Orange it is,” Dr. Santos laughs, turning away to gather the supplies.
Robby clears his throat and steps closer to the bed to examine the temporary splint. He is very deliberately avoiding making eye contact with you now, keeping his gaze fixed on Marianne's arm.
"Well," he says, his voice a little tight as he checks the circulation in her fingers. You think he’s talking to you, but it’s hard to tell given his refusal to look in your general direction "I don't need to explain the warning signs of compartment syndrome to you, obviously. I'm sure you see enough of these playground wipeouts over at the Children's."
You blink, completely thrown off. Your brain is still short-circuiting from the fact that the man who had completely wrecked you in bed a week ago is currently standing in front of you in scrubs. "Um - what?"
Robby turns to you, a dry smile on his face, “Oh, they didn’t teach you that in school? Pretty sure Dana knows this.”
“Uh -” You feel like your brain can’t process the words he’s saying. You know something is missing, but you can’t make it click.
Marianne, because she’s heard you say this to her a billion times, pipes up in the correcting tone only an eight-year-old can muster. "They don’t teach that in engineering school, second mom is not actually good at much else other than drawing plans.”
You are sure you blush bright red. You say that to her, at least twice an hour when she pesters you to make her fancy baked goods or sew up her ripped stuffed animals. But hearing it repeated back to you in front of the man you slept with a week ago, who is currently staring at you like you grew a second head, is a different experience entirely.
Robby freezes. The clipboard in his hand lowers slightly. He looks down at Marianne, and then, very slowly, his gaze rises to meet yours.
"I thought you said -” Robby’s eyes narrow, then something like frustration flashes across his face. His jaw clenches so hard a muscle ticks in his cheek. It stays there for a moment, then he schools his expression back into something vaguely neutral. “Ok, well uh, Dr. Santos can give you the aftercare instructions then.”
Without another word, and without looking at you again, he turns on his heel and strides out of the curtained cubicle.
Panic seizes you. You look at Marianne, who is absolutely no help and is now fixated on flipping through a battered copy of some kids book you’d never heard of.
"Marianne, sweetie, I'll be right back," you say, “I just have a quick question for your doctor.”
“Oh, I can answer any questions -” Dr. Santos helpfully says, but you pretend you don’t hear her and slip through the curtain to jog out into the bustling ER hallway. You spot his broad shoulders a few yards away, heading fast toward a set of double doors.
"Hey! Wait!" you call out, practically jogging to catch up to him. You grab his elbow just before he pushes through the doors.
He stops, turning to face you. He looks pointedly down at your hand wrapped around his bicep until you let go, awkwardly dropping your arm to your side.
“Um, hi….” You say awkwardly, suddenly losing a bit of your nerve. “So, fun fact. My best friend, who I went to school with…is Dana.” You pause, and he at least seems willing to stop to hear you out, “Dana Winters. We’d known each other since undergrad and …um, she was trying to set me up with her colleague Michael?” You can’t help the uptick at the end of the sentence even though it wasn’t a question. “Who, I guess, maybe stood me up…”
Robby stares at you, his brow deeply furrowed. "Dana Winters.”
“Yeah,” You give him a sheepish smile. “I’m guessing you also know a Dana?”
“Mhm,” He nods towards the desk sitting in the middle of the ER, “Dana Evans, over there.”
You look, and you see a woman in her in her fifties, commanding the central station with the kind of effortless terrifying authority that you’ve always wished you had. She has her hair pulled back, reading glasses perched at the end of her nose, and is currently directing two scrambling residents with a single, sharp point of her pen.
You blink. Then you blink again.
Suddenly, the weirdly stilted conversation from the pub comes crashing back into your brain.
"Oh my god," you breathe out, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. "But - but I said I went to school with Dana. She’s - I mean -" You don’t know exactly how to put it delicately, but you’d have to have skipped a whole lot of grades to even be in school at the same time as her.
“Well -” Robby scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably, “I did say you looked too young for it. But you seemed kind of offended and I didn’t want to … ruin my chances.”
“Oh my god.” You cover your face out of sheer mortification.
He chuckles, stepping closer. The magnetic pull from a week ago roars right back to life in the middle of the fluorescent-lit corridor. "Okay. So that explains that.” He pauses, then studies you, “But... I woke up, and you weren't there."
"I was trying to be breezy," you admit miserably, your cheeks burning. "I left a note. I told you to call me!"
"You never gave me your number," he murmurs, reaching out. His knuckles brush lightly against your flushed cheek.
"I thought you already had it!" you whine. The embarrassment you felt at the whole mess surging up once again.
His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Well, for the record... I've spent the last week wishing I did." He glances back toward the ER floor, then looks down at you again, his voice dropping an octave. "So... second mom?"
"Dana and I have been best friends since college," you explain, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I helped raise Marianne. So, you know…"
"Okay," Robby murmurs, stepping directly into your space. His thumb strokes a slow, familiar circle against your jaw. "So... there's not going to be a husband coming at me with a crowbar if I kiss you right now?"
You look up at him, breathless, feeling the ghost of his hands on your waist from the other night.
"No," you whisper. "Definitely not."
He smiles, that slow handsome grin that set your heart fluttering the first night, and then he tangles his hand in the hair at the nape of your neck and kisses you, hard and deep, right there in the hospital corridor.
When he pulls back, you can definitely see nurses goggling behind him. Two of the women have their heads bent together, whispering rapidly back and forth.
You don’t feel nearly as embarrassed as you thought you would.
“Can I come find you later?” He asks. There’s beeping all around, you’re pretty sure he’s needed elsewhere to do important things.
“Yes, definitely.” You nod, your hand still gripping his bicep.
“If you have to leave before I can find you -” He starts, and shakes his head, amused. “Please, leave your number for me?”
“Yeah, yes. Definitely.” You nod again.
He squeezes your neck gently, and you do your best not to melt in the corridor right there. You turn around, and there’s a grinning nurse who is looking at you like she can’t wait to drag all the secrets from you.
“Princess, can you -” Robby clears his throat and steps back from you, like he’s maybe just now realizing you’ve been having this conversation in public under the scrutiny of his colleagues.
“Yup, VIP, I got her.” The nurse who you guess is Princess winks at Robby and puts an arm around you, “Come on, hon. I’ve got some questions for you.”
You go with her easily, though half-way back to Marianne you couldn’t quite resist the urge to turn around and look for him again. He’s talking to two other people who look like they are too young to be doctors, and you watch as he turns to peer in your direction before turning back to the two of them.
Later, when Marianne asks why you are “grinning like those hyenas in the Lion King”, you pretend you have no idea what she’s talking about.