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* * *
Your Pediatrics residency is supposed to be quiet. And so far, it has been quiet and uneventful, beyond the expected chaos of a hospital like PTMC. You have always been driven to care for those who need it most, and children are often the most misunderstood, yet the ones most in need of proper attention.
As I was saying, everything had been uneventful up until that moment. Until that day, when the phone you usually use to receive or make consults with other hospital departments rings, and you decide to pick it up. It is the Emergency Department, calling to request guidance from someone in Pediatrics for a patient who has just been admitted to their unit.
“We’ve got a consult from the ER,” you say, glancing up, looking for someone more experienced to take it. “Who’s up?”
Your Pediatrics attending looks at you for a second, then tilts his head slightly.
“You want it?” he asks, easy confidence in his voice. “Sounds like a good learning case.”
You don’t hesitate.
“That would be great,” you reply, unable to hide the flicker of excitement at the idea of something new.
Then that excitement blends with a hint of insecurity. It is the first time you will go on behalf of Pediatrics to answer a consult from another service.
“Anything I should know?” you ask.
“The ER’s a ranch,” your attending says, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Watch out for the cowboy.”
“Cowboy?”
“You’ll know him when you see him.”
You don’t think much of it. You should have. Because that small, seemingly insignificant decision will become the beginning of the slow, inevitable unraveling of the fragile calm you had built around yourself.
* * *
You have never been to the ER before.
You know it is on the ground floor of the hospital, far from sunlight and crowded with noise, movement, and chaos. Still, it does not scare you. The elevator descends silently, each button lighting up as you move down floor by floor, and the doors open with a soft ding.
Then everything you expected hits you at once, like a whirlwind. The fluorescent lights feel harsher, the monitors sharper, the pace faster. Trying to keep yourself composed, you step in and scan the room, looking for whoever needs you.
No one seems to notice your presence.
“Did someone call Pediatrics?” you ask, raising your voice just enough to be heard.
And then you see him, the ER cowboy. He is across the room, already looking straight at you, like he has been tracking you since the second you walked in.
“That would be me.”
He is a tall man, probably in his fifties, but there is nothing diminished about him. If anything, he carries that age with a kind of sharpened gravity, the kind that pulls attention whether you want it to or not. He is slightly disheveled in a way that reads less like neglect and more like habit, like the ER has been shaping him for years and he has stopped resisting it.
As he walks toward you, you notice the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle evidence of sleepless shifts and accumulated pressure. But somehow, the exhaustion only deepens his presence. His gaze is still precise, a deep, steady brown that seems to take you in without hurry but without missing anything either.
His sleeves are rolled up as if he has not had the time or inclination to lower them, his movements controlled, almost effortless. There is a sense that the room adjusts around him without asking permission, that people move a fraction out of his way without even realizing they are doing it.
And against your better judgment, you feel it. The awareness of him settling in is quiet but undeniable, like the ER itself has just introduced you to a problem you have not been warned about.
Except you have been, by your own attending.
“I’m Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Robby,” he adds, offering you a brief, easy smile. As he speaks, his gaze lingers just a second longer than necessary. “I haven’t seen you around before. Is your attending too lazy to come down?”
A beat passes before you answer.
“No, uh, he said it would be good for my training to come.”
“Good call,” Robby nods, like he’s already sizing you up. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
There is something in the way he says it. He is not dismissive. You can feel that he genuinely wants to test you, like the thrill of the challenge drives his movements, like the satisfaction of solving it is what keeps him going.
The case proves to be more complex than expected.
A young patient presents with persistent fever and abdominal pain, and after a brief assessment, the ER initially labels it as viral gastroenteritis. However, something in your gut does not sit right. In your limited experience, you have learned to trust your instincts, so you request a blood panel and an abdominal ultrasound to rule out appendicitis.
It does not take long for the diagnosis to be confirmed.
You can feel Robby’s eyes on you the entire time, not pressuring or intrusive, but impossible to ignore. His presence unsettles you and draws you in in equal measure.
Not that it is something you intend to admit.
As you remove your gloves with precise movements, already preparing to return to Peds, Robby catches up to you.
“Good diagnosis,” he says, an infuriatingly attractive smile on his face, his eyes creasing slightly at the corners. “I hope you come down more often when we call Peds.”
His words send warmth blooming inside your chest. You hate how effortlessly he can do that.
“Thanks, Robinavitch.”
You see the faint crease form between his brows at the use of his full name, but your pulse is already fast enough that you do not trust yourself with the sudden intimacy of calling him Robby. That small barrier of formality will protect your fragile, increasingly unsteady heart.
Or at least, you hope so.
* * *
By the time you return to Pediatrics after that interaction with the devastatingly attractive Dr. Robinavitch, your heartbeat is only just beginning to settle.
You slip into the bathroom for a moment, turning on the tap, letting the cold water run over your hands before splashing some onto your face. You look up at your reflection.
It’s fine. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s not like you’re going to see him every day. It’s not like Pediatrics gets calls from the ER that often… right?
You’re wrong.
After that first encounter, calls from the ER become inconveniently frequent. And every single time, it’s him.
Robby greets you everytime you go downstairs to the ER like your presence there has quietly become part of his routine. Sometimes with his reading glasses sliding halfway down his nose, scanning a chart before looking up at you. Other times with his sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, moving through the chaos like he owns it.
It has always the same result, that tight, unwelcome pull in your chest. You try to ignore it, you really do.
You focus on the cases. On the patients. On keeping things strictly professional. You keep your tone even, your answers precise, your distance carefully measured.
But then he says something just a little too close to teasing. Or looks at you just a second too long. Or thanks you in that low, quiet way that feels more personal than it should. And that’s when you know you’re helpless against his warm eyes and crooked smiles.
That afternoon, you arrive at the ER while he’s still busy in one of the rooms, so you lean against the counter and start reading through the chart for the patient they called Pediatrics about.
“Peds finally decided to grace us with their presence?” Robby’s voice slides in beside you, deep as ever.
You flip the page without really reading it, avoiding his gaze.
“Careful, Robinavitch,” you reply, your tone halfway between teasing and warning. “Keep that attitude up and we might start charging you for consults.”
You can feel him looking at you. When he speaks again, his voice sounds closer now, somewhere near your shoulder.
“Pretty sure you’re already overcharging.”
You glance up without meaning to, only to realize you’ve just made a fatal mistake and gotten trapped in those endless eyes.
“You say that,” you reply, forcing your tone into something light, “but here you are, calling us every time a kid sneezes funny.”
“That kid has a 39.5 fever,” Robby says, tilting his head slightly. “I prefer having a professional pair of eyes next to mine.”
“Look at you,” you tease. “Responsible.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Oh, I’m not,” you say, pushing off the counter. “But I’m pretty sure behind that responsibility speech, you’re just using me to boost your patient satisfaction scores.”
“You caught me,” Robby says, raising his hands in surrender. “Can you blame me? The kids adore you.”
“Only kids?” you ask, with a boldness you have no idea where you found.
Robby raises an eyebrow in surprise, but his smile never leaves his face. Oh, God. You are doomed.
“I suppose not only kids,” he admits.
Then he starts walking toward the room where the sick child is waiting for your evaluation.
Get it together, you scold yourself, following him down the hallway. He’s just an attending. A very annoying, very smug, very—
He glances back at you, just for a second, as if he knows exactly what’s going on inside your head.
“Try to keep up, Peds,” he calls.
You roll your eyes, quickening your pace.
“Try not to need me every five minutes, ER.”
And that’s how the months pass. The Pediatrics phone becomes your lifeline to the ER, a quiet thread pulling you down there more often than necessary, more often than you admit to yourself. The conversations between cases grow longer, stretching just a little more each time, lingering in that space that no longer feels strictly professional.
Robby starts greeting you with coffee. At first it’s occasional. Then it isn’t. He learns your order quickly, like it matters. And you start checking your reflection in the elevator mirror on your way down, smoothing things that don’t need smoothing, telling yourself it’s habit.
The rest of the residents and staff get used to seeing you around. You get used to seeing him. Or at least, you try to pretend it's completely casual, nothing beyond the bounds of a strictly professional relationship.
But it doesn't work. Because no matter how hard you try, there's always that pull in your chest. That persistent urge to stand just a little closer, to stay just a little longer, to keep the conversation going even when there's no real reason to.
“Thanks, Robby,” you say one day, distracted, already turning back to your notes.
The silence that follows is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Not even a scalpel, a plastic knife would do. That's how dense it is.
It's the first time you've called him Robby. You hadn't even realized it. The name slipped out before you could stop it, and now he's...
He's staring at you. Not with his usual raised eyebrow and look of surprise, either. Instead, there's something warm in his expression. Something almost fond.
“Wow,” Robby says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I'm gonna start thinking you finally like me.”
You straighten up, forcing your composure back into place.
“Don't get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” he replies easily.
* * *
All doctors have at least one patient they’re not supposed to get attached to.
One patient who, if they lose them, will ruin them completely. And yet, they still get attached, giving in to the affection they carry inside, the same affection they so desperately want to give. And when the inevitable end comes for that patient, the grief is almost as overwhelming as the guilt.
That’s what happens to you that day, when you’re called to the ER because one of your regular patients has been admitted.
The moment you hear his name, you already know. He’s your weak spot, just a cheerful, charming child with a fatal destiny. There can’t possibly be someone, a God or anything out there, allowing this to happen, you think as you step into the brightly lit room. The beeping of the monitors is deafening, and you’re met with chaotic, clumsy movement all around you.
By the time you arrive, they’re already on the second round of resuscitation. Robby is completely immersed in the task, sweat rolling down his forehead, scrubs wrinkled, hands firm and steady as they move rhythmically against the helpless child’s chest.
You step in, gloves in hand, determiend to do something. To do anything. A dozen voices speak to you at once, but the only one you truly hear is the one in the back of your head, screaming at you to save him at all costs.
But nothing that happens in the next few seconds is enough. You are not enough. And when everything goes silent at once, when someone calls the time of death, you know it’s over.
As you remove your gloves in a mechanical motion, your gaze meets Robby’s. He had been leading the resuscitation before you arrived. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes search yours, search into you. You look away and move to leave the room.
Right now, you can’t handle anyone seeing you like this, and least of all Robby. You silently thank him for everything he did, for how hard he tried, and step back out into the corridor.
“Where are you going?” Robby asks, falling into step beside you.
“Back to Peds,” you reply. “I have patients waiting.”
“They can wait ten minutes,” Robby says. “You should take a break.”
“I’m fine.”
You quicken your pace, but he catches up again and blocks your path.
“You’re not.”
The second I’m fine gets stuck in your throat. Damn it. The silence that follows is answer enough for him about how you’re really feeling.
Then Robby does something unexpected. He reaches out and takes your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours in a firm but gentle grip, giving a small pull toward him. You stare at your intertwined hands in disbelief, a sudden shiver running through your chest, right where an inexorable emptiness has settled.
Seconds later, he starts walking toward the ambulance bay, taking you with him. You don’t stop to check if anyone is watching the two of you leave, hand in hand.
* * *
The cold Pittsburgh air in February cuts straight through you, down to the bone, but the warmth of Robby’s hand wrapped around yours softens the chill. The ambulance bay is strangely empty, quiet in a way that feels almost unreal after the chaos inside. Robby lets go of your hand, turning to face you, concern unmistakable on his face. He doesn’t usually let his emotions show like that, and yet now he is.
Robby then waits. Patiently, not forcing it, not filling the silence. You know you could stand here without saying a word for as long as it takes, and he wouldn’t push you. He would just stay. Right there, beside you.
The thought tightens something in your chest. An inconvenient, inevitable pressure that settles deep and heavy, telling you that what you feel for the man standing in front of you, the ER attending, goes beyond professional respect. And beyond simple attraction.
That’s why you decide to speak.
“I couldn’t do anything.”
“There was nothing to be done,” Robby replies. “If you couldn’t do it, no one could have.”
“But…”
“There is no but that changes it,” Robby says gently. “It wasn’t your fault. You don’t get to carry that. The grief is already heavy enough without adding guilt to it.”
“I know,” you answer, your voice breaking slightly. “It still hurts.”
“Yes,” he says softly. “It still hurts.”
You swallow hard. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t help getting attached to my patients.”
“Never apologize for feeling something, or for feeling too much,” he says. “Your patients are lucky to have you.”
And that’s when the tears spill over. Fuck. Now I’m crying in front of Robby, you scold yourself immediately. I must look like an idiot.
Still, he can’t see it yet. Your gaze stays fixed on the ground, refusing to lift. But Robby’s last words keep echoing in your head.
Your patients are lucky to have you.
“Do you really think that?” you stammer.
“Of course I do.”
Moved by the tenderness in his voice, you slowly lift your head. That’s when he sees the tears sliding down your cheeks.
And that’s when he pulls you into him.
“Come here.”
The warmth that had wrapped around your hand now spreads through your whole body as Robby draws you closer and holds you. His arms close around you, steady and secure, and his familiar scent, clean soap with something warmer underneath, fills your senses, sending your pulse racing.
You go still against his chest, as if that might keep him from pulling away, from changing his mind.
He doesn’t.
Instead, one of his hands, resting against your back, moves up to your head, fingers brushing gently through your hair in a quiet gesture that feels far more intimate than it should.
“I’ve got you.”
You should say something. Actually, not just say something, you should step back. Instead, you cling to him, fingers twisting in the fabric of his scrubs, your breathing uneven, trying to anchor yourself to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Are you feeling better?” Robby asks quietly.
“Yes, I am,” you answer, your voice hoarse but calmer. “Although I probably look terrible.”
He leans back just enough to look at you properly. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, catching a tear you had missed.
“That’s unfair,” Robby says softly. “Even with your eyes swollen and red from crying, you look as beautiful as ever.”
Your heart skips a beat. Robby holds your gaze, his hand still resting against your cheek for a moment too long, like he’s only just realizing what he’s said. Then, slowly, he pulls it away.
The silence that follows, the warmth fading from your skin, his dark, steady eyes on yours… it’s enough to completely undo you.
Before you can think better of it, you rise onto your toes and press your lips to his. The kiss is immediate. Urgent. A little unsteady, like something that’s been building for too long and finally breaks loose. All the restraint, all the almosts, collapsing into that single moment.
Robby responds almost instantly. When you feel him kiss you back, just as fiercely, something in your chest tightens too fast, too much, like it might burst. Your knees threaten to give. As if he senses it, his arms come around you again, pulling you in, holding you steady against him without breaking the kiss.
For a second, there’s nothing else. No hospital. No noise. No consequences. Just him.
Then reality catches up. Your hands drop from him, your breath unsteady, your thoughts crashing into each other.
“Shit—” you whisper, stepping back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
But you do. You’ve done it, because this is something you’ve wanted for a long time.
Your words come out rushed, defensive, like you’re trying to undo something that clearly can’t be undone. Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. At least, not like this. And definetely not here. Not now.
You shake your head slightly, avoiding his eyes now.
“I shouldn’t have—” you start again, but the sentence falls apart before it finishes. Because even as you try to take it back, you can still feel it.
“Hey,” Robby replies, his voice completely calm. “It’s okay.”
Just as you’re thinking about what to say next, a familiar voice interrupts between you. You instinctively step back, since you were still standing very close to him.
“Dr. Robby,” the nurse in charge of the ER says, “they need you in Trauma Two.”
Robby straightens at Dana’s order, and before heading back inside the hospital, he gives you a look that shimmers with concern and tenderness.
“I’ll find you later.”
* * *
The rest of the shift passes through you, but you barely register it. You handle every consultation mechanically, as if it were a textbook, giving the expected answers and pushing each minute forward until it’s over.
Luckily, even the longest days eventually end. You head toward the elevator when it opens, and it isn’t empty. Robby has come up to Pediatrics, and you know for certain no one from your department called the ER. He came for you.
He looks at you with the same concern he had when he was called away earlier, and steps out of the elevator toward you.
“Can we… talk?”
Even with him standing a few feet away, you can still remember the warmth that had flooded you in his arms, and the sweetness of his lips when you kissed him.
“About a patient?” you ask lightly.
You’re not entirely sure why you say it, it’s obvious that it isn’t. But God, you just want to escape the humiliation of having kissed him impulsively in the ambulance bay.
He gives you a look, his hands in his pockets like he’s restraining himself from doing something reckless.
“Not exactly.”
The silence tightens between you, and it’s Robby who speaks again, though he doesn’t dare take another step closer.
“There’s a café still open two blocks down,” Robby says. “Or we could just walk. I don’t… I don’t want to have this conversation in a corridor.”
The hesitation in his voice is new. No smugness, no teasing, none of the familiar playful back-and-forth you usually fall into. You’ve really messed this up, you think.
“Sounds good,” you say, and follow him back toward the elevator.
The walk to the café isn’t tense, really. The silence between you is strangely comfortable, though you silently pray your racing heartbeat, still reacting to the fear of his rejection, doesn’t reach his ears.
“First of all,” Robby says, breaking the silence as you walk a few blocks away from the hospital, “how are you doing? You know… about the patient.”
“I’m doing better,” you admit honestly. “The guilt is… fading, little by little. I’m trying not to blame myself too much. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“It’s okay,” he says gently. “What matters is that you’re better.”
You nod, but your chest tightens anyway.
“Robby, I—”
“Yeah?”
“About earlier…” you hesitate, then push through. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to mess things up. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He exhales softly, something almost amused but mostly soft.
“You really can’t stop saying sorry, can't you?” Robby says. “I’d at least prefer it if you didn’t apologize for something I wanted too.”
You blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little shy, like the words don’t come as easily as everything else usually does for him.
“I’ve been trying not to think about you all day,” Robby admits. “Not to think about the fact that I wanted to kiss you. But honestly, I found myself finding reasons to look for you. To talk to you, to make you smile and pretend that was enough. It wasn’t. What I feel didn’t go away. I just... didn’t think you felt the same. And I was fine with just making sure you were okay when you needed me.”
You remain rooted to the spot, completely silent as you process everything Robby has just told you. Part of you still can't quite believe any of this is real.
Maybe apologizing for kissing him hadn't been necessary after all.
“Do you really want me?” Robby asks, voice lower now, stripped of its usual certainty. “Do you really want this? Because I’m older than you, and I’m a mess, and—”
You don’t let him finish.
You grab him by the shirt and pull him toward you. This time, the kiss lands with full intention and stripped of chaos. This time, it isn't rushed. It's sweet and certain, carrying all the weight and steadiness of your feelings for him.
His reaction is immediate anyway. His hands find you like they did the first time you kissed him, but this time, something shifts. You feel it in the way his shoulders loosen, in the way he exhales softly against your lips, as if something he's been holding back finally gives way.
You kiss him again and again, slow and tender, making your point without words. When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes full of life.
“You know,” Robby murmurs, his voice rougher now, “I wouldn’t mind if you kept doing that. Kissing me out of nowhere.”
“Then get used to it,” you reply.
Your fingers are still curled lightly in his shirt, keeping him close.
“Robby… I want this. I want you,” you say, steady despite the way your heart is racing. “And I’m not going to let you down. I don’t care if you’re older or a mess.”
Something in his expression falters at that.
“Yeah?” Robby asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
“You’re too good for me.”
You shake your head, a small breath escaping you.
“You’re good too,” you say. “So you better start believing it.”
That earns you a quiet, almost disbelieving huff of a laugh.
“Well,” Robby says, glancing at your lips before meeting your eyes again, “your kisses are definitely helping with that.”
You smile, feeling your heart set alight.
“Happy to help.”