Chapter Text
Sundays used to mean something else entirely.
Back then, Dennis would rise before dawn—long before the sun cracked open the horizon—already hearing his mother’s clatter in the kitchen. His father sat at the table with a chipped mug of coffee, speaking in low tones, and Dennis, still half-asleep, matched him sip for sip. Out the window the fields waited, and Rosie—his patient old mare—knew the route by heart. He’d ride her out to check the fences while his brothers wrestled with the tractor, and his father barked at them not to break what they’d already broken a dozen times before.
The mornings always ended the same: a basket of warm eggs carried inside, his mother working them into scrambled clouds so soft they felt like a miracle. They prayed, they ate, and then, one by one, they scattered to prepare for mass.
Church had always been part of him, even when it cut. When he realized he was gay, he thought it might push him away, but it never did. Some sermons sliced like glass, but the rhythm, the ritual, the stillness of prayer—he still craved that. Theology, to him, was never about cleansing. It was about understanding. He wanted to know how people held their faith, why it mattered, what bound them together when money and ambition couldn’t. His professors called him an idealist. Dennis thought of himself as only practical, trying to map the invisible threads that connected people.
And then came Pittsburgh. After COVID, the city loomed like a test he wasn’t sure he’d pass. He feared being swallowed whole—just another farm boy drifting between glass towers. The first thing he searched was church near me, as though belonging could be found on Google Maps. What he found was a reminder that narrow minds weren’t exclusive to small towns. They sprouted everywhere, even under skyscrapers. Still, he went when he could. Even when it hurt, he went, because it was something solid to hold onto when everything else felt like quicksand.
The rest of life was far less forgiving.
The television had lied.
Residency wasn’t rooftop parties and messy romances—it was exhaustion distilled, nights that never ended, mornings when humiliation came sharp and public. Like the time a professor snapped at him for not knowing acetaminophen and paracetamol were the same drug. Those small humiliations stuck like burrs.
His family kept him afloat as best they could, but money was never enough. So Dennis worked—library shifts, laundry service, restaurants, whatever hours he could scavenge. Weeks built from scraps of time until they frayed. Then the rotations shifted farther from campus, the commute bled him dry, and necessity turned him into a trespasser. An empty room, an abandoned hospital floor—that became home, until the day it wasn’t. Getting caught should have ruined him. Instead, it twisted into luck, though he didn’t understand why at the time.
Now Sundays have changed again.
They begin not in borrowed rooms but in his own bed, surrounded by the small belongings that were his and no one else’s. Sometimes Dennis woke to music blasting too loud, just to make his best friend groan. More often, though, he woke tangled in the sheets of Robby’s apartment, the slow ache of a night spent loving without hurry lingering in his bones.
Sundays always meant breakfast out. Robby hated cooking on weekends—“A day of rest, not labor,” he’d grumble—and Dennis never argued. He was always too distracted watching Robby scowl at his coffee as if it had personally betrayed him.
But this Sunday, they weren’t in a café. They were at the mall, weaving past storefronts with cold drinks in hand, the hum of escalators and tinny pop music wrapping around them. Dennis sipped his smoothie, the cold sweetness cutting through the late-summer heat. A sigh slipped out before he could catch it. Robby noticed immediately.
“What was that for?”
Dennis smiled into his straw. “Did I tell you I’m finally getting paid as an intern?”
Robby groaned, finishing the last of his iced coffee and dropping the cup into a trash can they passed. “Only a hundred times. And I’ve told you a hundred times not to expect much. We’re in a recession, love.”
Dennis rolled his eyes. “We’ve been in a recession since I was born. Doesn’t matter. It’s still something. Means I can finally drop the lab shifts. I’ll miss working with Dr. Vance, maybe, but… that place doesn’t exactly hold the best memories.”
His voice trailed off.
Robby reached for his hand. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”
“Yeah, I know.” Denis hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of him being far away. I just hate that Felix and Wesley had to go through all that questioning, all those people prying into their lives, just so the attorney could take the case to Philadelphia.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. He slid an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders, pulling him close. He’d been furious when Ava explained what would happen to Leo, and the memory still soured his expression. “They’ve got a stronger case there. More chance of a real conviction,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Dennis’s forehead.
“I know…” he murmured, then forced a small smile. “Anyway. Ready to help me?”
Robby put on his best face, even though shopping wasn’t exactly his idea of a thrilling plan. But Dennis had insisted they go out. Not anywhere elaborate, he’d said. Just an errand. Something normal. Something casual.
So that’s how they ended up in a department store, surrounded by neat rows of backpacks and the soft wash of ambient music barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. Dennis was already three steps ahead, tugging Robby by the wrist past messenger bags and weekenders.
“My old one’s basically a suitcase now,” Dennis said, scrunching his nose at a row of stiff canvas options. “I swear it aged five years in six months.”
“You could’ve just ordered one online,” Robby said, lifting a brow. “Mr. ‘Just use Amazon, baby…’ ” He pitched his voice high in a mocking impression.
“I could’ve,” Dennis replied smoothly, not even glancing back. “But I wanted to do something normal. With you.”
Robby didn’t argue with that. He just let himself be tugged along. Dennis combed through the racks with casual intensity, pulling zippers, testing straps, muttering critiques under his breath. Most of the bags were trying too hard—faux leather so shiny it looked plastic, neon linings that hurt to look at, branding that screamed EXTREME DURABILITY in fonts better suited for an energy drink.
He gave a particularly loud sigh in front of a grey one with fourteen compartments and a dangling carabiner. “Why do they all look like they’re designed for camping in a war zone?”
Robby leaned against a display, arms crossed, and deadpanned, “It’s for all the extra trauma interns are expected to carry.”
“Very funny,” Dennis muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.
Robby smirked, content to watch him fuss. His eyes eventually drifted—not toward the backpacks, but somewhere inward, that soft, distracted look that meant his thoughts had wandered somewhere Dennis couldn’t quite see.
After a minute Dennis turned, holding up two options. One black. One navy with a tan buckle “Okay. Finalists. You’re the tie-breaker.”
Robby blinked back into focus. “The black.”
Dennis groaned. “Predictable.”
“And classic.”
“Classic is just boring with good PR,” Dennis said, slinging the black bag over his shoulder and bouncing it once. He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Black wins. My gay little heart wanted the navy, but my spine voted for utility.”
Robby stepped forward and adjusted the strap so it sat right. “Utility usually wins.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
“You’ll thank me when your textbooks don’t destroy your posture.”
Dennis smiled despite himself and slipped his fingers through Robby’s without saying anything. The quiet gesture had weight, grounding them both.
“Need anything else?” Robby asked after a moment.
“Some undershirts, maybe a hoodie…” Dennis started.
Robby groaned. “You stole all of mine. I literally had to order replacements.”
Dennis grinned. “I plead the fifth.” He leaned in and kissed him quick, nipping his bottom lip before pulling back. “Okay, fine. No hoodies.”
“Are you serious?”
“Hey, some people think it’s sexy when their boyfriend wears their clothes.”
“Yeah, well, some people’s boyfriends at least leave a few behind ,” Robby shot back, raising a brow.
“Fine…” Dennis smirked. “I’ll give you back, like… two.”
“Two? Out of, what, eight?”
“Generosity is one of my many virtues.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you didn’t deny the sexy part,” Dennis teased.
“Dennis…”
“No flirting in public?” Dennis sighed theatrically. “Tragic. Anyway—I also need socks. Mine have mysteriously disappeared.”
“You mean you don’t do laundry.”
“I mean the sock dimension is hungry.”
“The sock dimension is just your dryer.”
“Same difference. Feed me socks.”
Robby laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Good thing you like impossible,” Dennis said, nudging him with his shoulder before tugging him toward the escalators.
Dennis nodded slowly, but the frown didn’t quite leave his face. “Okay. I just…” He hesitated. “I don’t like the idea of you walking around with something in your head that you’re not saying.”
Robby didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward a storefront window displaying discount luggage and mannequins in last-season jeans.
“I’ll be fine,” he said eventually, voice quiet but firm.
Dennis didn’t push. He just adjusted the bag in his hand and tightened his hold on Robby’s fingers.
Robby just shook his head as they sifted through packs of ankle cuts and cotton blends, Dennis holding up ridiculous novelty prints with bad puns that made him laugh and Robby groan. Eventually, they settled on some basics—black, grey, a few white—and made their way toward the registers.
The line was short, the hum of conversation low and easy. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and detergent, a little too clean, like a held breath.
Dennis shifted the things into one hand and squeezed Robby’s fingers with the other. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“You dragged me,” Robby said lightly.
“Still,” Dennis said. “You’re here.”
That made Robby look over—really look. The fluorescent lights caught the angle of Dennis’s jaw, and for a second, Robby seemed a little too still for a department store on a Sunday.
Dennis tilted his head. “Hey. You okay?”
Robby nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“You,” Robby said. Then, after a beat: “Tomorrow.”
Dennis smiled, softer now. “I’ll be okay.”
“I know,” Robby said, but his voice came quiet, almost unsure.
Dennis stepped closer, shoulder brushing his. “You’ll have my back, right?”
“Always.”
That seemed to settle something in both of them.
The cashier waved them forward. Dennis handed over the socks and the bag, tapped his card at the reader. There wasn’t much more to say—just the sound of a receipt printing, the rustle of plastic, a shared bag between them.
As they stepped back into the fading sunlight, Dennis leaned into Robby’s side, bumping him gently.
“It was a stupid little errand,” he said, “but… I’m really glad we did it.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Robby replied, and though the words were simple, the way he said them was not. “Nothing’s stupid when I’m with you.”
Dennis laced their fingers again, and this time, he didn’t let go.
They moved down the mall’s wide corridor. The crowd had thinned, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, and the warm scent of soft pretzels drifted from a kiosk. Dennis shifted the shopping bag from one hand to the other and glanced at Robby, hopeful.
“Wanna grab something to eat? My treat. That Thai place on the corner—I think you’d actually like it.”
Robby’s smile was small, but his eyes were distant. He shook his head gently. “I’m really tired.”
Dennis’s face dropped—just for a second. Not dramatic, but enough that Robby noticed. Still, Dennis recovered with a crooked smile.
“Well,” he said, voice lowering into that teasing lilt he knew Robby liked, “we could just go to your place. I could help take your mind off everything…”
The tone was warm, familiar. The kind of playful invitation that usually worked.
But Robby only leaned in, kissed him lightly on the forehead. Sweet, affectionate—but final. “That does sound good,” he murmured, “but I’m that tired too.”
Dennis pulled back just enough to search his face. “You okay?”
Robby let out a soft huff through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Just…”
“Tired,” Dennis finished for him.
“Yeah.”
“You never say no,” Dennis said gently, a little concern edging in now. “Not even that one time we both passed out halfway through—you still wanted to start something.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Robby said. His tone wasn’t defensive, just steady.
“Trinity’s in a bad mood, and I don’t want to be on her target vision…” Dennis tried again, pitching it like a joke but still hoping Robby would let him tag along. His boyfriend didn’t bite—or pretended not to.
Robby only nodded. “Call me when you get home.”
Dennis gave a small nod, then hesitated.
“Baby, are you really okay?”
“I’m sure,” Robby said. “You don’t have to worry.”
“I do, though,” Dennis said simply. “I worry because I love you. That’s my job—worry.”
Robby’s expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing just a little. “I love you too. You don’t have to worry, okay?”
Dennis leaned in and kissed him—not shyly, not with the half-glance-around he used to do when they were in public. Slower than necessary, less about heat and more about reassurance. Each time it got easier. Now, it just felt right.
When he pulled back, Robby smiled—not big, but real.
Dennis grinned, stepping back with a playful mock salute. “See you tomorrow, Chief.”
Robby rolled his eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Dennis said, walking backward, still grinning. “Better rest up. You’re gonna need the energy. And hey—call me if you can’t sleep.”
Robby watched him disappear down the corridor, the bag bouncing at his side. The grin lingered in the air after he was gone, then thinned into silence.
The mall felt too bright, too loud.
By the time he reached the parking garage, the shift was complete. Dim concrete swallowed the noise, leaving only the buzz of fluorescent lights and the stale scent of oil. A family passed behind him, their laughter sharp against the emptiness, then gone.
He unlocked his car with a tap. The click echoed like a sigh. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he shut the door gently, the kind of careful quiet that comes when you’re too tired to take on even the sound of your own life.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wheel, hands slack in his lap.
Dennis’s words whispered back: Call me if you can’t sleep.
But he didn’t reach for his phone.
The Friday email was still there, a stone in his stomach. Six lines of cold language, flagged confidential, from some administrator’s name he barely recognized. Nothing explicit. Nothing actionable. Just enough to remind him that not everyone had let go. That someone, somewhere, still had their eye on him—and on Dennis.
It had wrecked his weekend.
He hadn’t told Dennis. Not with the way Dennis had smiled in the break room, not when he’d talked about Christmas and graduation and doing something “normal.” Robby couldn’t take that from him. Not yet.
But tomorrow was Dennis’s first day back in the ER. The wrong word, the wrong look, even the wrong whisper could undo everything—Dennis’s footing, the team’s trust, Robby’s job.
Robby pressed his palms hard to his eyes. He needed to keep it together. One day. Just one smooth, steady day. No cracks.
Lifting his head, he stared through the windshield. The painted lines blurred slightly at the edges. He rolled his shoulders back, blew out a slow breath.
You’re fine. You can handle this. You’ve handled worse.
But the heaviness under his ribs didn’t move.
He turned the key. The engine roared too loud in the stillness, filling the car with a sound that felt almost violent.
“Just get through tomorrow,” he muttered.
The words stayed in the cabin with him, heavier than the silence.
And tomorrow, he knew, was only the beginning.