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Michael Robinavitch is probably Jewish.
Michael Robinavitch is an older guy. Not sure by how much, though.
Michael Robinavitch has terrible handwriting.
Those are all the things you know about your supposed soulmate, whose name, in a barely legible chicken scratch, has been written on your wrist since the day you were born.
For a long time, it means nothing. You don’t care.
Then, once you’re old enough to start caring, you start looking.
Michael Robinavitch.
You look for him in elementary school, in summer camps, in middle school, then high school.
You look for him in university, switching majors twice before finally landing on chemistry.
You look for him while training to be a food scientist.
Look for him at Kellogg, where you work long hours and climb quickly, until one too many blow-ups from your boss sends you walking out the door at three a.m., eyes stinging, cardboard box in your arms.
You stop looking after that.
By the time you open the coffee shop, thanks to a hefty loan and a leap of faith, you’ve made peace with the waiting. You figure it will happen when it happens. No use forcing fate.
The figure on the lease nearly makes you cry. But setting up across the street from the hospital seems smart. Turns out, it was.
These days, the only thing that makes you cry is the morning rush.
Under-caffeinated doctors and nurses aren’t the easiest crowd. But they tip well. And they’re mostly kind—if a little high-strung.
You’ve started to learn the rhythm of it all.
The nurses who come in threes before or after their shifts. The EMTs who fly through the door and drop generous tips anyway. The cute male nurse with incredible hair who winks at you like it's a habit.
And the doctors.
The surgeons, sharp in every sense of the word. Always a little too focused, like they’re still halfway in the OR, thinking in clipped instructions and scalpel strokes. Some are rude. Some are ghosts. Some are just too tired to speak. You don’t take it personally.
The neurologists are social, packs of them. One has a thing for puns, tells you the worst jokes you’ve ever heard. You laugh every time. He looks absurdly proud of himself. You sneak an extra cookie into his bag.
The cardiologists are intense. Very serious people, those cardiologists. Always black coffee. Always an extra shot. No cream. No sugar.
And then there are the ER doctors.
Well, one ER doctor.
You notice him on a Wednesday, because of course it’s a Wednesday. Hump day blues. A wet morning drizzle. The espresso machine is acting up, and you’ve just run out of oat milk. He walks in during your first lull, the kind of quiet that doesn’t last. He orders a medium Americano with a caramel drizzle.
You ask if he wants anything to eat. He says no, then changes his mind. He looks exhausted.
“Coming in or going out?” you ask as you reach for a croissant.
“Coming in,” he says, smiling faintly. “Here for the day.”
“Well, if you need a pick-me-up during the day…” You offer your best smile, despite the malfunctioning espresso machine and the five things already going wrong that morning. You hesitate, hand hovering over the pastry. “You want a breakfast wrap instead? Easier to eat one-handed. Less crumb-risk for your patients.”
He laughs. “No, that’s alright.” You wait just another moment, hand hovering over the croissant. He eyes the burrito again carefully, then says, “…Actually, yes. I think - yes. Please.”
You grin and pop the wrap in to warm. By the time it’s ready, a small crowd has formed behind him. All you can do is hand him the wrap with a quick smile before moving on to the next customer.
After that, he comes in twice a week. Every week.
Always the same order. Always the same sleepy smile, like he’s two blinks away from keeling over. You learn to expect him between 6:30 and 6:45. One time he rushes in at 6:55, breathless, and barely has time to grab a drip coffee before vanishing out the door.
You start prepping his breakfast wrap before he even walks in.
"You're spoiling me," he says once, eyes crinkling as you slide the warm burrito across the counter before he’s even opened his mouth.
"You're easy to spoil," you reply, leaning your elbows on the countertop. “Plus, don’t think I didn’t see that ten-dollar bill you slipped into the tip jar.”
“Pleading the fifth on that one.” He grins, raising his coffee cup in a mock salute before heading out.
You laugh, delighted.
It becomes a thing.
You tease him about his absurd hours. He teases you about your playlist.
"More classical?" he once said, pretending to grimace. "How am I supposed to save lives to this?"
You learn he likes caramel, hates scones, and always stands with his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, especially while waiting.
And then one morning, he comes in with someone else.
You’ve just gotten the till set up when the door opens and there he is, same sleepy smile, same jacket, same Americano, only this time, he isn’t alone.
The woman beside him is tall, pretty in a striking kind of way. Her skin is glowing despite the bags under her eyes. She has the kind of posture that says she’s used to being listened to. You clock the way she laughs at something he says just before they walk through the door. The way her hand brushes his arm in a familiar gesture.
You smile automatically. Take his order. Hers, too.
When she reaches for her wallet, he stops her. “I’ve got it,” he says casually, like it’s nothing. She rolls her eyes but lets him with a fond smile.
That’s when your stomach does a weird thing.
You recognize that smile. You’ve worn it before, seen your fair share of it on the faces of the people you’ve been with.
You hand them their drinks and the breakfast wrap (extra cheese this time, because he’d said he liked the feta), trying to keep your smile steady.
She thanks you politely. He smiles in that way he always does, soft, a little crooked, but it doesn’t land the same.
They take a seat by the window. Stay for five minutes, talking, sipping coffee, heads bent toward each other.
You try not to look. Fail. You keep glancing up like you have no control over your movements.
That night, while closing up, you find yourself rubbing at the name on your wrist. Maybe… maybe it’s time to start looking again. Michael Robinavitch. Surely he’s out there somewhere. Maybe he’s looking for you, too.
He doesn’t come back for five days.
You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. People go on vacations. People get sick. People even switch jobs. It’s nothing.
It’s not like he is …
… it’s not like he owes you anything.
You’re halfway through opening the register on Monday when the bell above the door jingles.
He looks tired. His hair is a little damp from the rain, his hood on the hoodie actually up for once to try and help him stay dry, to no avail.
You don’t say anything as you start making his drink. “Medium Americano, caramel drizzle?” you ask, not looking up.
“Yeah, and uh -” He pauses, “Breakfast wrap, please.”
“Just be a moment.” You look up with your customer-service smile. “Need to warm it up.”
You don’t realize you’re holding a grudge until the words come out cooler than you mean them to.
He looks, for a moment, like you’ve slapped him in the face, then he chuckles mirthlessly. “Guess I don’t get the VIP treatment anymore, huh?” You look at him, one eyebrow raised, and he shakes his head again. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean -” He scratches his nose. “I just, uh, I’m … I was sick last week. I - uh -”
“You don’t have to call in sick to a coffee shop,” you say, feeling your tone soften. “It’s fine. You feeling better now?”
When you slide the drink across the counter, he hesitates before taking it. Then, way too casually, he adds, “Yeah, well, you know how us bachelors are. Sleep it off, good as new.”
You blink. Is it just you? Or is there a weird shoehorned piece of information in that sentence?
He clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, I -” he pats down his pants, “Shit, I must have left my wallet at home.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Alright, give me a name for the tab then. You can pay me back next time.”
He looks up at you. “You sure?” “Sure.”
You nod, having no intention of starting a tab.
“Robby,” he says with a smile.
“Alright, Robby,” you say, smiling back, heart doing something strange in your chest.
Not Michael, then.
“I’ll pay you back tomorrow. Promise.” He crosses his heart with the coffee cup in hand.
You wave him off with a grin and pretend your smile doesn’t slide right off your face the moment the door closes behind him.
He’s back later in the day, a rare appearance that you aren’t expecting. He’s there with a younger man who has a look of profound, theatrical suffering on his face. “Honestly, Robby, I don’t know why I have to -”
“You lost the bet. Come on now,” he says, a patient grin on his face. “Langdon, I didn’t take you for one to weasel out of a bet.”
“I’m not, I’m not.” The guy waves easily and grins at you. “Hey, I’ll get a BLT and whatever this guy is having.” He jerks his thumb at Robby.
“And he’s going to settle my tab from this morning,” Robby says and flashes you a smile. “I’ll get whatever you think is best.”
“I didn’t think they let you out of the hospital during your shifts,” you respond and decide to give him a falafel wrap. You made a batch of falafels last night on a whim because you got a special order of tahini and had to try some. But you misjudged your appetite, and anyway, now there are half a dozen falafel wraps on the menu.
“Not usually,” the younger guy grins. “But uh, we have some coverage today.” You don’t miss the way both of them keep glancing at their phones, though, as if expecting a call any time now. “Frank Langdon, by the way. I’ve been getting coffee from you for a while and haven’t had the chance to visit.”
“Oh, you’ve been making that poor boy pick up your coffee,” you grin. There’s a young man, very polite, always a little hesitant, who comes in on a lot of mornings reading a list of items off his phone.
“Whittaker?” he shrugs. “Just making sure he gets the full intern experience.”
As you hand over the food and drinks, Frank leans in a little closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “I have to admit, I was hoping he’d be able to describe the brilliant barista, but the kid has no poetry in his soul. He completely failed to do you justice.”
Beside him, Robby, who has been relaxed, suddenly stiffens. He makes a sound like he’s strangling a cough.
Charmed despite yourself, you grin at Frank. “Well, aren’t you smooth? I bet you get high patient satisfaction scores, Doctor.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Frank winks.
Robby shifts, his shoulder bumping Frank’s in a small, deliberate movement. “Frank,” he says, and his voice, usually so mild, is suddenly laced with steel. “Weren’t you just texting your wife about what she wanted for dinner?”
The question hangs in the air, sharp and pointed.
“What? Oh—yeah,” Frank responds easily, taking a step back. The charm doesn’t falter, but it’s pulled back momentarily. “Speaking of, do you guys happen to be open late? I could grab some sandwiches on my way out.”
“I close at four,” you say. You know you could make more money staying open, but if you get any less sleep than you already do, there will surely be dire consequences.
Frank opens his mouth, about to say something, but before he can get his words out, Robby’s hand dives into his pocket.
His posture snaps from tense to urgent. “Dana’s texting,” he says, his eyes glancing at the phone screen. “Trauma alert. We have to go, Langdon. Now.”
Frank instinctively pats his own pockets, a confused frown creasing his brow. “What? She didn’t text me - ”
“Well, she texted me. Let’s move,” Robby cuts him off, his voice carrying the clipped authority of a doctor in a crisis. He’s already in motion, grabbing the bag of food from the counter with one hand and steering Frank toward the door with the other. “Sorry,” he mutters in your general direction, not quite making eye contact as he propels his bewildered colleague forward.
The bell above the door jingles frantically as they burst out. Frank is still looking down at his phone, utterly baffled, as Robby practically shoves him onto the sidewalk.
Just as the door is about to swing shut, Robby stops it with his foot. He turns back, his frantic ER-doctor mask falling away for a split second. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you see a flash of pure apology mixed with a startling amount of frustration.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “I, uh - I’ll see you later.”
The moment hangs there, charged and strange, before he gives a final, tight nod and disappears, letting the door close with a definitive click.
You raise a hand and give a small, belated wave to the empty door, a slightly perplexed smile spreading across your face.
Well, okay then.
You spend the next hour replaying the scene in your head while serving the dregs of the lunch crowd. The memory of Robby's pointed glare at Frank, followed by that last, apologetic glance at you, is a very confusing combination.
By four o'clock, the shop is empty. The afternoon sun streams through the front window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It is time to prep for tomorrow. You flip the sign to closed and head into the small kitchen in the back, tying your apron tighter. On the prep list: a new batch of caramel sauce.
You have the sugar, butter, and cream melting in a heavy-bottomed saucepan on the gas stove. It is a familiar, meditative process. The scent of caramelizing sugar is a comforting constant in your life. Lost in thought, you reach for the salt, your mind once again drifting to a certain ER doctor's flustered expression.
That's when it happens.
Your sleeve, looser than you realize, catches the handle of a small pot of water you’ve set to boil. In a horrifying, slow-motion moment, the pot tips. You cry out, a sharp, involuntary sound, as scalding water cascades directly over your left forearm.
The pain is immediate and shocking, a white-hot, searing agony that steals your breath. You stumble back, clutching your arm, your heart hammering against your ribs. You yank the faucet to cold and shove your arm under the stream, hissing through your teeth as the frigid water hits the angry, reddening skin. It does little to quell the deep, fiery throb.
Tears of pain and frustration well in your eyes. You look at your arm. The skin is already blistering, an ugly patchwork of red and white. This isn't a minor kitchen burn you can treat with the sad aloe plant in your bathroom. This is bad.
"Okay," you breathe, your voice shaky. "Okay."
There is no way you can finish prepping. There is no way you can open tomorrow. With your good hand, you fumble to turn off the stove and set the pot with the caramel sauce away from the still-hot element. You scribble a hasty "Closed due to emergency" sign, your handwriting, normally a neat cursive, now showing jagged edges due to the pain. You glance at your right wrist as you write. The scrawled signature is still there, safe on your skin. Well, at least you haven’t managed to burn that.
The sign is taped onto the front door; it takes you two tries to do it with just one hand. Every step across the asphalt parking lot that separates your small shop from the sprawling emergency department is agony.
The outside air, warm just moments ago, feels abrasive against your skin. You cradle your injured arm against your stomach as if it were a wounded animal.
The automatic doors of the Emergency Department slide open with a soft whoosh, admitting you into a world of bright fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic and anxiety in the waiting room, and the low hum of organized chaos. You walk tentatively towards the registration desk, your coffee-stained apron still tied around your waist, feeling deeply out of place.
A woman with kind eyes and a messy ponytail looks up from her computer, and you recognize her instantly. She is a three-Americanos-a-shift nurse, always with a joke about being fueled by your coffee.
Her professional demeanor softens with recognition. "Hey! Isn't it a little late for a delivery?" she asks, her eyes crinkling. Then, her gaze falls to the arm you are clutching, and her expression shifts immediately to one of focused concern. "Whoa, what happened to you?"
"Kitchen accident," you manage to say, the words feeling thick in your mouth. "Stupid, clumsy... pot of boiling water."
She leans over the counter to get a better look, and you lift the ice pack you’ve wrapped around your arm. Her assessment is swift and practiced. She clicks her tongue in sympathy. "Ouch. That's a nasty burn. Let's get you registered." She works quickly, her fingers flying across the keyboard, asking you the standard questions with a gentle efficiency. When she is done, she gives you a reassuring look.
"Alright, have a seat," she says, nodding towards the waiting area. "It’s thankfully not too bad in here today,” she knocks on the wooden tabletop as she says it, almost reflexively. “Come in, I'll get one of the residents to take a look at you as soon as they're free. Don't you worry. We’ll take care of you.”
A nurse shows you to an empty bed, and you feel kind of guilty about it, like you’re skipping the line. As the curtain is drawn, you catch a glimpse of the ER floor. You see a string of familiar faces, nurses you serve every morning, a resident who always orders black coffee then downs it like she hates it. Then, in the distance, you spot Robby and Frank bent over a patient, their focus absolute amidst the blare of angry monitors. You are in their world now.
You vow to give them each some extra baked goods the next time they make it into your shop.
“Oh hey.” The curtains around you open and a familiar face walks in. The woman Robby came in with a week ago. “You’re from the coffee shop.” She gives you a friendly smile. You nod, thinking she might forgive you for not mustering up a smile given the pain in your arm.
"I'm Dr. Collins," she says. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by your lack of response. "Let's have a look at that arm."
Dr. Collins is gentle but efficient. Her hands are cool and her touch is light as she assesses the damage, her expression one of focused professionalism.
"Pretty significant partial-thickness burn," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. "Second-degree. We'll need to clean it thoroughly and get it dressed properly. I'll prescribe a silver sulfadiazine cream to prevent infection." Her calm, clinical explanation is soothing, and you feel a small bit of the tension leave your shoulders. “One of the nurses will set you up with care instructions, okay?”
Once the physical exam is done, she turns to the small computer on wheels parked in the corner of the cubicle, waking the screen with a tap. "I just need to review your chart quickly," she explains, her eyes scanning the screen. "Make sure there are no allergies or..."
She trails off.
You watch as her entire demeanor shifts. Her professional efficiency evaporates, replaced by a sudden, stark stillness. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. She leans closer to the screen, as if disbelieving what she is reading. Her gaze flicks from the monitor, to your face, then back to the monitor. The silence in the small cubicle stretches, becoming heavy and awkward.
"Is... is everything okay?" you ask, a new kind of anxiety beginning to prickle at you.
Dr. Collins blinks, as if snapping out of a trance. She offers you a smile that doesn’t really make you feel any better. "Yes, of course. Everything's fine." The words sound hollow. "Excuse me, I just need to -”
She takes two steps and reaches for the phone on the wall.
"Robby? It's Collins. I need a consult in bay three."
You swallow, feeling a lump in your throat. Hasn’t she said it was straightforward? Why does she need a consult? It’s just a burn, isn’t it?
"Yeah, a second-degree thermal on the forearm," she continues. She’s looking at the ground, her body tense. “I just need -” She pauses as Robby says something on the other side. “Yes I know how to -” Whatever mood Robby is in, he does not seem all that patient. She keeps getting cut off. “No, I know - I just -”
You can feel the frustration radiating off her from where you’re sitting. She looks up and rolls her eyes, as if commiserating with you. You offer her a small, sympathetic smile.
“It’s the owner of the coffee shop from across the street,” she finally says, the words leaving her mouth quickly. “Are you - yeah? Okay then.” She hangs up with a sigh.
“Men,” she says, the word like a curse.
“Um, I -” You start, “Should I be worried? Because I thought this was….”
“No, no, it’s all fine.” She gives you a gentle smile and pats you on the shoulder. “It’s just standard procedure, you know? Getting an attending to sign off on treatment.”
“Oh, right.” You nod like you know anything about standard procedures in the ER. “Sure.”
“Can I get you anything?” she asks. “You want anything to drink?”
“Uh -” Before you can answer, the curtains swing open and Robby bursts in. He’s frowning already, looking you over then glancing at Collins.
“What happened?” Robby asks, putting gloves on and picking up your arm gently. “Ouch.”
“Yeah,” you smile ruefully, suddenly feeling like tearing up a little. “It’s a bit of a bitch.”
Next to him, Collins reiterates all the things she just told you and goes over the prescriptions. Robby nods. “Yeah that all sounds good,” he says without looking at her at all, his entire attention focused on your arm. “You gonna be okay? Anybody you want us to call?”
You shake your head. “Nah.”
“No? Husband? Boyfriend?” Collins asks, and you don’t miss the way Robby straightens just a little bit.
“No, I’m just -” You shake your head. “It’s fine. My emergency contact is my bestie, but she’s like a two-hour drive away, so …it’s fine.”
“Alright then,” Collins says. She glances at you and then at Robby and shakes her head like she’s disappointed. “Dr. Robby, I just need you to sign the prescription.”
Robby lets go of your arm gently and smiles at you, patting your hand once before he gets up. “How long have you been an R4, Dr. Collins?” he asks, his voice dry. But he goes up to the terminal anyway. “You know you can sign prescriptions yourself, right? Do you need me to take over this case for you?”
“Just the prescription’s fine,” she says flatly, sounding like she’s maybe running out of patience herself, and crosses her arms to watch him.
You’re not sure what’s going on between the two of them. But between the painkillers they’ve fed you and the adrenaline wearing out, you are too tired and loopy to figure it out. You watch as he goes up to the terminal and clicks a bunch of stuff, then he freezes, nearly the same way Collins did before.
“Is everything okay?” you ask. What the hell is in your chart? You haven’t set foot in a hospital since you were a kid with a 40-degree fever that had scared your parents. You hadn’t been a model patient back then, sneaking away from the bed in search of late-night snacks when you had to stay overnight for observation.
Is that in your chart?
“Uh, yeah.” Robby blinks at the screen then looks down. “It’s all fine. Sorry, just -” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake himself out of something. “Going to print off your prescription, okay? You - you can grab it at the front desk and fill it at any pharmacy.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Are you sure - are you sure everything’s okay? I mean, if there’s something -”
“No, no. Everything’s fine,” Robby smiles. “I -”
“Robby, they need you in South 14,” a nurse pops in, then does a double take when he sees you. It’s the cute one that always winks at you when he picks up his order. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, burn,” you raise your arm and wave a little, the painkiller having dulled the pain.
“Ah shit, does that mean no coffee tomorrow?” he asks. But then he turns to Robby. “Robby, seriously, South 14.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m there,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. He turns back to you before he leaves. “Listen, I -”
“Robby!” the nurse snaps sharply. Outside the curtains, you can hear the angry beeping of machines.
“Yeah, okay.” Robby turns. “Fill that prescription,” he says to you before leaving.
Collins takes care of you after that. She ushers you gently to the front desk, where she asks the charge nurse to give you the prescription. The nurse, an older, blonde, no-nonsense woman who likes vanilla lattes and chocolate croissants, gives you a kind smile.
“You sure you don’t want us to fill that for you? We’ve got a pharmacy right here,” she says, holding the prescription but not quite sliding it over to you. “It’d be no trouble. And no -”
“Dana,” Collins cuts in. “Robby asked that she fill it.”
“Robby did?” Dana looks at Collins, and something passes between the two women. She looks down at the prescription and makes a choked-off noise. “Okay, yeah. Here you go, sweetie.”
You take it and glance at it, not really seeing anything strange on it. You tuck it into your pocket. “Thanks.”
“Make sure you -” Collins starts to say, but Dana clears her throat meaningfully. “Make sure you take it easy,” she finishes, a clear departure from what she had wanted to say.
You nod and smile at them, walking out of the ER with a slightly strange feeling in your stomach.
There’s no line at the pharmacy, thank God. You go up to the counter and pull out the prescription while you wait, scanning the piece of paper. The prescription itself is printed, your name at the top, two lines of medication whose names are too long for you to pronounce in the middle.
“Hey, how can I help you?” You look up at the pharmacist grinning at you. “Drop off?”
“Uh, yeah.” You hand over the prescription. “Thanks.”
“Mhm.” He looks at the script and starts typing. “Don’t usually get prescriptions out of the ER. They didn’t want to fill it for you there?”
“Um, I don’t—” You lick your lips. Why are they so dry? Jesus. “They told me to do it,” you mumble.
“Alright.” The pharmacist smiles. He reads off your name and your birthday and you nod, confirming that those are correct. Then he squints at the screen. “Michael Robinavitch, is that your doctor?”
“What?” you ask, your brain doing something strange, like it’s just been shocked by electrodes. “Sorry, what did you—?”
“Michael Robinavitch,” he says, looking at you. “Is that your doctor or the ER doctor?”
“That’s—” You can’t breathe, you can feel your heart picking up. “Uh - Can I… can I see the prescription again?”
“Sure.” He gives you a strange look but passes the paper back to you. You look down, your heart racing.
You don’t know how you missed it before. There it was, black and white, printed on the paper. Prescribing doctor: Michael Robinavitch. And at the bottom of the prescription, the messy, jagged scrawl you know better than your own. The way the 'M' loops aggressively, the 't' that is never quite crossed, the final 'h' that trails off into nothing. Yeah, that’s your signature.
Well, not your signature. His signature. But it’s the one that’s on your wrist. So it’s kind of yours.
Shit.
Robby, Robby, Robby. You had thought it’d be short for Robert. Robin, maybe. It never occurred to you -
“Hey, you okay?” the pharmacist asks in a concerned tone. “Do you—do you still want to fill the prescription?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Your voice sounds slightly hysterical even to your own ears. You slide the prescription across the counter to the pharmacist again and have to force your fingers to loosen their grip on it when the pharmacist reaches for it. “That’s, uh, that’s the ER doctor,” you say lamely, answering his question from what seems like a lifetime ago.
“Gotcha.” He smiles at you. “It'll be half an hour.”
You walk home in a slight daze. The painkillers have started to wear off by the time you get into the apartment, conveniently located just above your coffee shop, and you sit on your couch in a daze.
He saw your name. That’s why he reacted. Shit, that’s why Dr. Collins reacted the way she did. Why - why didn’t he say anything?
Maybe he doesn’t want you to know.
But no, because he’d… he’d surely broken some kind of normal procedure with the prescription. He told you to fill it. You try to think back to the moment, the look on his face, half hopeful, half pleading when he asked you, implored you, to fill the prescription.
Because he wanted you to see his signature? But wouldn’t it have been easier if he’d just said something?
You sigh, leaning back on your couch. Your thoughts are going around in circles, none of them useful, giving you virtually no clarity. What are you supposed to do now? Is he expecting you to contact him? Are you… are you supposed to say something the next time you see him at the -
- shit, the shop. You groan. There’s probably a ton of clean-up, and if you want to open, you’ll probably have to go and redo the prep now. You glance at the clock; no. No way that’s happening.
You go to bed with a whirlwind of thoughts still swirling in your mind. Your head hits the pillow, and even though it feels like your messed-up jumble of emotions will keep you up all night, you end up falling asleep quickly into a dreamless sleep.
When you first stir sometime mid-morning, the light outside your window is already bright and unforgiving. A quick trip to the bathroom is all you manage before the heavy, dreamless exhaustion pulls you back under the covers.
It’s the growl of your own stomach that finally wakes you properly in the afternoon. You feel groggy and gross, your hair a tangled mess and your mouth tasting like sour milk. Peeling yourself out of bed, you move on autopilot in search of caffeine and food. You manage a shower, awkwardly holding your bandaged arm out of the hot spray, the plastic wrap you’ve taped around it crinkling with every movement. By the time you’ve scarfed down two slices of peanut butter and banana toast over the kitchen sink, the combination of sugar and caffeine has cleared enough of the fog that you feel like a proper human again.
You wander downstairs. The air in the shop is still and stale, holding the faint, ghost-like scent of yesterday’s burnt sugar and panic. The afternoon sun streams through the front window, illuminating a constellation of dust motes dancing over the silent, gleaming espresso machine.
With a deep sigh, you retrieve the apron and tie it around your waist. You resolve to think through your problem and be productive at the same time.
Well, not really a problem, per se. Maybe a… predicament? Situation? Definitely not a problem.
You attack the kitchen with a determined energy despite really only having one useful arm, the clatter of the saucepan in the sink echoing in the quiet room. You scrub the stove until it shines, the sharp, clean scent of lemon cleanser chasing away the last vestiges of the caramel.
With a clean slate, you can finally prep.
You begin the scones, your hand moving through a practiced, meditative rhythm. Everything is a little more awkward with only one arm, but you manage to do it anyway. You cut cold, hard cubes of butter into the flour, rubbing them in with your fingertips until the mixture feels like coarse, cool sand. The rich, fatty scent of the butter begins to bloom. You whisk eggs and buttermilk in a chilled glass bowl, the liquid sloshing and spilling over. You somehow manage to pour it into the flour to create a shaggy, sticky mass. As you gently knead the dough on the floured countertop, your mind drifts. Michael. The name feels foreign and yet deeply familiar on your mind.
He saw your name. He knew.
You are just starting to think about shaping the scones with one arm when there’s a sharp knock at the door. You ignore it, probably just some under-caffeinated nurse trying their luck despite the sign. You frown at the dough in front of you, wondering whether you could get away with misshapen scones.
Another knock, no less persistent. You sigh and turn to the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you mutter as you wipe the last of the buttery dough on your apron.
You stop just short of the door when you see who it is.
Robby stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the silence stretching between you until it feels taut enough to snap. Your brain, which has been running a frantic marathon of "what-ifs," screeches to a halt. All the scenarios you have imagined, bumping into him during his coffee run, awkwardly thanking him, maybe going over to the ER yourself under the guise of bringing food to the staff, evaporate in the face of his actual presence on your doorstep.
He is the first to break the silence, pulling one hand from his pocket to rub at the back of his neck.
“Hi,” he says, his voice a little rough. “Sorry, I know you’re closed. I saw the lights on and… I probably should have waited. Or called. Uh, sorry.”
He winces, as if he knows he’s rambling. You just blink, your hand still resting on the door. “You don’t have my number,” you say, feeling kind of dumb.
“I—” He looks down, a little embarrassed. “I pulled it from your chart.”
“Oh.” You frown. “That doesn’t seem—” ethical , you were about to say. ‘Legal’ would have been the other option.
“Sorry,” he winces. “I can - I can lose it, if you -”
“Robby,” you cut him off, the name coming out as a soft breath.
“Michael,” he says, just as softly. He meets your eyes, and the nervousness is still there, but underneath it is a steady, serious gaze. “My name is Michael.”
You swallow, your heart thudding a heavy, deliberate rhythm against your ribs. “Michael Robinavitch,” you say, breathing the name out loud for the first time in years.
A flicker of relief crosses his face, so quick you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him so intently. “You saw the prescription.” It isn’t a question.
You nod, unable to form any more words. The gesture feels monumental.
“Good,” he breathes out, sounding relieved. He looks past you, into the warm, clean space of your shop, then back at you. “Can I… would it be okay if I came in for a minute? Or we can talk out here. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I just… I didn’t want to wait until my next shift.”
You step back, pulling the door open wider in a silent invitation. He gives you a small, grateful smile and walks inside, the bell above the door chiming softly, ironically announcing his arrival. He stops in the middle of the floor, looking a little lost now that he is inside.
You close the door, shutting out the rest of the world. It is just the two of you now, surrounded by the scent of coffee and sugar and the low hum of the coolers.
“I saw your name on the chart,” he begins, turning to face you fully. His hands are back in his pockets, a useless attempt to hide how much they are trembling. “And I completely froze. Collins, Dr. Collins, she knew. She’d recognized it from… anyway,” He lets out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I -”
He looks at you, his eyes bright with something close to awe, and whispers your name. It sounds like a prayer on his tongue, and you close your eyes, unable to bear the surge of emotion that’s welling up inside you.
“I’ve been looking for you for thirty-seven years,” he says, his voice thick. “Thirty-seven years, I—”
You open your eyes again and look at him. He’s watching you with an expression that nearly breaks your heart. He looks so hopeful, so optimistic, but at the same time so careful. Like he is ready for the inevitable rejection.
“Michael,” you say, and you step forward, pressing your flour-dusted hand flat against his chest. You can feel the frantic, hopeful beat of his heart under your palm. The contact stops whatever he was about to say next. “I have been thinking about kissing you since I was nine, Michael Robinavitch, whoever you were. But I… I’ve been thinking about kissing you , Robby, for the last couple of weeks, and I—”
He doesn’t need you to finish the sentence; he probably can see that you’ve lost the thread. He steps forward, leans down, and kisses you.
The first touch of his lips is impossibly soft, a tentative question. Your hand tightens on the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. In response, a current of heat sparks between you, and the gentle pressure of the kiss deepens, becoming something more.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you to him as the kiss turns hungry. It’s hot and consuming, a conversation where words have failed, telling a story of thirty-seven years of waiting, of searching, of hoping. You forget the ache in your arm, the flour on your clothes, the quiet hum of the coolers. There is only the firm, warm press of his mouth on yours, the taste of him, the feeling of finally, finally being found.
You break apart with a shared, ragged gasp, both of you breathless. You can feel the phantom touch of his lips on yours, a warm, tingling imprint.
“I—” he says, and honest to God giggles. “Sorry, I—I’m just.” He laughs again, sounding… happy. “I didn’t realize—fuck -”
“Are you…ok?” You peer up at him, a little concerned, worried you might have broken him.
“I’m good. Sorry,” he says, grinning so wide it looks like his face might hurt. “Sorry, I’m just—fuck, I’m… so fucking happy.”
You grin too; it's hard not to when somebody says that to you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. You look at him, feeling warmth radiate out from your chest.
“My apartment’s right upstairs,” you say, pressing into him for a second before pulling back. “You want to come up?”
“Shit, yeah,” he says immediately. “Yes. Please.”
You laugh, feeling like you’re floating, feeling like you’re light as a feather. You hold his hand and start bringing him upstairs with you. He pauses, and you turn around to look at him. He’s staring at your wrist.
“Oh, fuck, that’s—” He shakes his head.
“Yeah,” you say. “Terrible signature, by the way. It took me forever to figure out what your name was.”
He pulls his sleeve back a little, and you see your signature, an elegant, loopy thing, written in a confident hand across his wrist. “Sorry, not as pretty as yours.”
You grin. “Should have known you were a doctor just by the signature.” You shake your head, then tug on his arm. “Come on, Dr. Robby. Come upstairs with me.”
He grins and follows you without complaint.