Work Text:
“kick ass today. I love you so much ☺︎ call me on your break ♡”
The note sits on the counter, still taped to the lunch box you packed at dawn. You’d slipped out from under Robby’s heavy arm to make it—quiet, careful—then crawled back into the sheets, his warmth swallowing you up until your own alarm dragged you awake. It’s a ritual by now: he leaves first, you follow later.
Only today, he forgot.
Your phone buzzed with his name, apology after apology filling the screen. 'Shit, baby, I left it on the counter. Don’t be mad. I’ll just grab something from the cafeteria. Don’t worry.'
He sounded so guilty over text that you couldn’t help but smile—soft, amused, a little huff of breath through your nose. It wasn’t a big deal. Still, it tugged at you, that image of him sitting in some crowded break room eating bland cafeteria food when you’d already poured your heart into making something just for him.
So you decide. No lectures today. You’ll bring him lunch yourself.
You’ve never seen him in action before—only heard pieces, the impossible things he does on set, the coworkers whose names dot his stories. You’ve painted a picture in your head, but it’s never matched the reality. And as you gather up the lunch box, excitement humming in your chest, you think: maybe today, you’ll finally see what his world looks like.
And maybe you don’t want to admit it, but you got dolled up a little more than usual. It’s silly—considering you’re only going to the hospital—but you couldn’t help yourself. You’re about to meet the people he spends his entire day with, the ones who share his coffee breaks and inside jokes. You want to look like the version of you he’s proud to talk about.
If he talks about you at all.
Robby’s always been private when it comes to that kind of thing. He doesn’t volunteer details, doesn’t gush or overshare. That’s never really bothered you—after all, you keep your relationship close to the chest too. Still, your friends know about him. Some have even met him. There’s no question in yourworld that he exists, that he matters.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
It didn’t start in the hospital at all.
It started on one of those nights when Robby should have been home already—he’d dragged himself through twelve hours in the ER, too wrung out to think straight—but instead of collapsing on his couch like usual, he’d taken the long way back. A different street, a small detour that made no sense except that he didn’t feel like ending the day just yet.
That’s when he saw you.
You were standing in the glow of a late-night corner store, hair mussed from the wind, fumbling with a tote bag that had split open at the seams. Groceries spilled everywhere—apples rolling toward the gutter, a jar threatening to shatter—and you were laughing, half-exasperated, half-defeated, as though the universe was playing a joke on you.
He could’ve kept walking. He should’ve. But something about the sound of your laugh made him stop. Without thinking, he crouched down to catch the jar before it hit the pavement.
“Careful,” he muttered, more gruff than he meant to.
You glanced up, surprised, and then smiled at him. Really smiled, like you were grateful he’d appeared out of nowhere.
And that was it. A tired man on an unplanned route, a uni student with a broken tote bag—and somehow, the world shifted.
Later, Robby would tell himself it was ridiculous, how quickly he noticed you. How a chance encounter could wedge itself into the rhythm of his life. But you still teased him about it sometimes, saying he only liked you because you made him play grocery hero.
He’d never admit it out loud, but maybe you were right.
You figured that was it. A random man helping with your groceries wasn’t the beginning of anything—it was just one of those odd little moments life tosses at you.
So when you spotted him again, weeks later, you froze.
He was standing in the same corner store aisle, shoulders slouched, hands shoved into his coat pockets like even lifting them to grab something from the shelf was too much effort. You recognized him instantly, the sharp tiredness in his face softened by something quieter, something you couldn’t name.
You almost walked past. But then his eyes lifted, met yours, and that small flicker of recognition sparked.
“Hey,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He blinked, then let out a low laugh. “You again. No bags splitting this time?”
“Not yet,” you teased, holding up the heavy-duty tote you’d bought after the fiasco. “I came prepared.”
For a moment, it was just the two of you between shelves of boxed cereal and canned soup, smiling like you shared some inside joke that no one else would ever understand. He didn’t ask for your name, and you didn’t offer it. But as you passed him on your way out, you felt his gaze linger just a second too long—enough to make your skin warm, enough to make you wonder if maybe the universe was nudging you toward him again.
The third time wasn’t cute.
You’d been cooking late—too ambitious with a dull knife—and one slip had sent a deep slice across your palm. It bled faster than you could stop it, soaking through the dish towel you wrapped around your hand. Your first thought was panic; your second was annoyance at yourself. By the time you made it to the ER, the makeshift bandage was damp, crimson seeping through.
The waiting room buzzed with the usual chaos—too many people, not enough seats. You sat there, cradling your hand, trying not to stare at the streaks of blood on your wrist. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, you’d get stitched up and go home.
And then you heard his voice.
“Last chart?” he muttered to a nurse as he shrugged on his coat. He looked wrecked—eyes shadowed, posture sagging from a long shift. He was halfway out the door when his gaze swept over the room and landed on you.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then: “What the hell—” He was at your side before you could even react, peeling the soaked towel from your palm with hands that had stitched a thousand wounds. His voice was sharp, but his touch was careful. “You call this a bandage?”
Your breath caught. “It’s… functional.”
“It’s lazy,” he corrected, jaw tight. “Come on.”
You should’ve been taken by some other doctor, but he didn’t give anyone the chance. He led you back himself, ignoring the pointed looks from colleagues. And there, under the sterile fluorescent lights, he patched you up—gloves tugged on, brow furrowed, movements quick but meticulous.
“You again,” you teased, trying to cut the tension.
That earned you the faintest huff of laughter, though he didn’t look up. “At this point, I’m starting to think you’re following me.”
“Me? You’re the one showing up everywhere.”
His hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he tied off the last stitch, finally meeting your eyes. And in that look—equal parts exasperation and something gentler—you felt it, the shift. The line you weren’t supposed to cross, and the pull that made you want to anyway.
For a moment too long, his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, as if testing the beat there. He told himself it was nothing, the after-echo of habit. But it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t.
You tilted your head at him, curious, and the smallest smile threatened at the corner of your mouth. That undid him more than the sight of blood ever could.
He cleared his throat, stepped back half a pace, but the air didn’t loosen. His body ached from the weight of the shift behind him, the years behind that, and yet—God, standing here with you, he felt caught. Not old, exactly. Not young, either. Just suspended in a moment he had no business wanting.
“You’re patched up,” he said quietly, though his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Try to be more careful.”
You laughed softly, holding your hand like it was a fragile gift. “Guess I needed the expert touch.”
That laugh—that light in you—was what broke his restraint. Not words. Just the thought, brutal and unshakable: she’s too young for this, too bright, too much. And yet his hand drifted to the counter, fingers brushing for something—anything—to anchor him. What he found instead was the pen he always kept in his pocket, and before he had the chance to stop himself, he scribbled a number onto the corner of your chart.
He folded the paper once, placed it on the edge of the bed without looking at you. It was the only way he could do it—quiet, deniable.
“If you… ever need someone to check the stitches,” he said, low, almost offhand. But his chest tightened because he knew exactly what he’d given you.
And when you slipped the paper into your pocket, eyes lingering on him longer than necessary, he felt the ground tilt under his feet.
And you only made it worse with time. He fell head over heels, unexpectedly letting you cradle his heart like no else before.
He likes that you didn’t recognize him through the hospital. That when you first met, his hands weren’t sticky with other people’s blood, his mind wasn’t triaging ten emergencies at once. You know him as the man off-shift—the one who can actually laugh at himself when he fumbles with his keys, who buys the wrong brand of pasta sauce, who forgets his umbrella and comes home drenched. You didn’t inherit him as the doctor with authority pressed into his posture. You got the man beneath it, stripped of the armor.
And that unnerves him.
He hadn’t realized how malleable he could be under your gaze, how easily your touch softened him. Thirty years of discipline, of walls stacked high, and then there you were—tilting your head, smiling like you could see straight through him. He never thought of himself as someone easily swayed, but he found himself bending without resistance.
Still, you didn’t miss it—the wince. The subtle way his expression tightened when your friends teased about your “very old doctor boyfriend.” The way he shifted when you stood too close to him in public. The distance he sometimes tried to put between you two, as if the years carved between your lives might suddenly open into a canyon too wide to cross.
The age difference sat on him like a stone. He wore it quietly, but you felt it every time his hand hesitated at the small of your back, every time he swallowed down what he wanted to say.
It took coaxing—gentle, patient, insistent coaxing—for him to believe you. That you wanted him. Not in spite of the years, but with them. That the stretch of time between you wasn’t something you tripped over—it was something you walked into willingly.
And eventually, he let himself be coaxed.
He learned to laugh again, really laugh, when you sat cross-legged on the floor and taught him the words your generation seemed to invent daily. Half the time he got them wrong, stringing slang together until you were doubled over, breathless with laughter. He played at being the grumpy old man, but you saw the spark in his eyes—the relief of not having to be grave and careful all the time.
In return, he insisted on pulling you into his world. He made you sit through the films that shaped his adolescence, quoting lines before the actors did, nudging your shoulder whenever he knew a scene was about to make you laugh. You teased him mercilessly for his taste, but then you caught yourself humming a soundtrack he’d played for you, and his smile lingered long after.
Somewhere in between your slang and his movies, your jokes and his silences, the heaviness cracked open and light filtered through. You found the rhythm of something that wasn’t supposed to work but did. Something tender. Something whole.
And every time you caught him looking at you—like he was still half-convinced he didn’t deserve it—you reminded him again. You wanted him. Just as he was.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The doors of the ER slid open with their tired mechanical sigh, and the air changed at once—antiseptic and metal, the sharp hum of fluorescent lights overhead. You stepped inside, clutching the lunch box tighter against your chest, the little note folded beneath its lid a secret just between you and him.
It was busy, as always—nurses moving quick, voices clipped and purposeful, monitors beeping in rooms just out of sight. You felt the weight of it all, the urgency that belonged to this place, and for a second you wondered if you should even be here. If showing up, dressed a little too nicely and smiling like you belonged, was crossing some line.
But you thought of Robby—how guilty he’d sounded in his texts about forgetting the lunch you’d made, how you wanted to see him in his world for once instead of only meeting in yours. That was enough to carry you forward.
The receptionist looked up as you approached, her expression brisk, ready to field another demand. You softened your voice, offered her your sweetest smile.
“Hi. I’m here for Dr. Robinavitch.”
Her brows arched just slightly.
“Uhmm… he forgot to take his lunch. I’m just here to bring it to him.”
The receptionist’s mouth curved in a little smirk, like she knew more than she let on, and with a casual wave she let you slip through.
The ER swallowed you whole—fluorescent light too bright, the air heavy with disinfectant, every voice clipped and purposeful. You felt small weaving through it all, clutching the box to your chest like a pass. Your pulse quickened, your smile quivered, and you scolded yourself because it was silly. Silly to be nervous. Silly to care so much about stepping into his world uninvited. And yet—your chest tightened at the thought of seeing him earlier than usual, catching him in his element.
A blonde woman looked up from her desk as you approached, eyes sharp but softened by her easy smile. Her badge read Dana. You’d heard of her, in passing—her name always folded into his stories of long nights and impossible shifts.
“Hey, honey. You okay?” she asked, voice kind, like she expected blood or bruises. “You don’t look injured.”
“Oh—yeah, I’m fine,” you rushed out, holding up the lunch box with a little smile. “Just bringing this for Robby. He forgot it today.”
Her expression didn’t shift much. She offered a polite hum, but her eyes stayed blank—no spark of recognition, no teasing grin, nothing to suggest she knew who you were.
You added your name, almost too quickly. “I’m… I’m his girlfriend.”
Dana blinked. Not unkindly, but uncertain, as if she had to file the information somewhere new. “I see. Sorry, I haven’t heard—”
The words pricked more than you expected. Your smile faltered, heart squeezing tight in your chest. Haven’t heard. He talked about Dana often enough for you to know her name, her dry humor, the way she teased him about his posture. But she’d never heard of you.
You smoothed the sting over with another small smile, tucking it down where she couldn’t see. “Do you… know if he’s around? Or when he might be free?”
“I’m not sure… lemme see…” Dana started, flipping through the day’s roster with distracted efficiency.
“Dr. Robby has a girlfriend?”
The voice came from behind, light and curious, and when you turned you saw a girl with a long braid—Mel, eyes bright with the kind of nosiness she probably didn’t mean to let slip. Next to her loomed a taller figure—Langdon, if you weren’t mistaken, hovering with that wide-eyed look that said he’d overheard more than he should have.
You blinked, clutching the lunch box tighter.
Mel’s gaze darted between you and Dana, lips parted like she hadn’t meant to blurt it out but couldn’t help herself. Dana’s brows furrowed, her professional smile fading into something sharper as she studied you again, then Mel, then Langdon. She read the sudden shift in the air, the curiosity crackling between them.
“Alright,” Dana murmured, half to herself, half to the room, “where is he?”
Her eyes began to scan the corridor, like she could summon Robby with a look before this turned into gossip fuel.
Your heart thudded painfully, a strange ache blooming under your ribs. You’d wanted to see him in his world, but not like this—your presence stirring whispers, his coworkers gawking like you were a novelty they’d never heard of.
You squinted, searching through the blur of scrubs and white coats until you caught him a couple bays down. Robby, bent over a chart, the light above him casting shadows into the tired grooves of his face. Even from here, even in the chaos, he was unmistakable—broad shoulders bowed slightly, hair mussed from long hours, his voice low and steady as he spoke to a patient.
For a beat, your heart softened. This was the man you woke up beside, the man who left coffee cups half-drunk and shirts hanging off the back of chairs. Here, though, he was something sharper, more contained. The Robby you didn’t often get to see.
You didn’t notice Mel’s quick retreat, Langdon shuffling after her with wide eyes. Gossip already on the move. You didn’t notice Dana watching you, trying to decide if she should intervene.
You only saw him.
Then he looked up.
At first, it was casual—his gaze flicking from chart to corridor, just another sweep of the room. But then his eyes caught on you, and everything stilled. His body went rigid, lips parting slightly. That tired groove between his brows deepened, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
Your smile bloomed instinctively, small and hopeful, but you caught the way his expression shifted—surprise, alarm, and something you couldn’t name flashing through him. He straightened, chart clutched a little too tight in his hand, gaze darting past you toward Dana before it came back to you.
Like he wasn’t sure if he should cross the space between you.
But he did move. The chart slapped down on the counter as he muttered something to the nurse beside him, his long strides cutting through the corridor with more urgency than you’d expected. His eyes were locked on you, and though you didn’t notice the whispers trailing in his wake, the sidelong glances of staff who had never seen this side of him, Robby felt every single one.
By the time he reached you, his voice caught rough in his throat. “What are you—what are you doing here? Are you okay?”
He’d never looked at you like this before. Not in bed with his guard down, not in your kitchen with laughter spilling out of him. This was different. There was a strain in his gaze, a flicker of fear you didn’t understand.
Your grip tightened on the lunch box, heart thudding as though you’d committed some unspeakable wrong. “You forgot… your lunch,” you managed, the words small, fragile, like a confession.
And for a second—just a second—you wished you could take it back.
Because in the middle of the chaos, with every pair of eyes lingering, it felt like you’d done the worst thing possible: stepped into a world where maybe you weren’t meant to exist.
“I told you I would just get something from the caf—” he muttered, voice low but edged, frustration bleeding through. The tips of his ears were pink, a tell you knew too well.
You blinked up at him, the sound of his words sinking like a stone in your chest. The truth settled there, heavy and cold.
No one knows about you.
You swallowed hard, forcing a small breath past the lump in your throat. “Right,” you murmured, though you weren’t sure he even heard you.
Your hand brushed his as you passed him the lunch box, a quiet, automatic gesture—one that felt far too intimate now, in this place where intimacy didn’t belong. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to look composed, like you hadn’t just felt something inside you cave in.
And then you turned.
You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. Didn’t trust yourself to. The click of your shoes against the tile was too loud, your vision swimming a little from holding everything in place.
You left without a word, leaving him there with the lunch you’d woken up early to make—and the silence you couldn’t bear to fill.
He stood there for a second too long after she turned, still staring at the space she’d left behind. The sound of her footsteps faded into the noise of the ward—monitors, wheels, voices—and then it was gone.
He let out a breath through his nose, slow, like he could push the whole thing out with the air. He didn’t have time for this. Not now.
There was a patient waiting, a chart half-finished, a dozen things that needed his focus. He was at work. He wasn’t supposed to be standing in the middle of the hallway like some idiot holding a lunch box.
She shouldn’t have come here, he thought, almost convincing himself it was true. Not because he didn’t want to see her—God, he always wanted to see her—but because this wasn’t her world. Not this noise, not these eyes, not the whispers already forming in the corners of the room.
He could feel them. Dana’s uneasy glance, Perlah pretending to type something, Samira still frozen by the nurses’ station. He’d known this would happen eventually—that people would talk. It was why he’d kept her private, why he’d told himself that it wasn’t secrecy, it was protection.
It was easier that way. Cleaner.
He ran a hand down his face, the smell of disinfectant clinging to his skin, and set the lunch box aside on the counter. The small pastel lid looked absurd there, among the paperwork and sterile gauze.
“She means well,” Dana murmured as she passed, tone careful, unreadable.
He didn’t answer. Just nodded once and turned back toward his next bay, the motion clipped and practiced.
Work. That’s what he had to do. Work, and keep his head down. There’d be time to fix it later.
He told himself that. Over and over, until he almost believed it.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The apartment felt too still when you came home. The kind of silence that didn’t comfort, just made everything you’d been holding in press harder against your ribs.
The whole walk back, you’d told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That hospitals are private places, that you probably embarrassed him by showing up unannounced, that anyone would’ve reacted the same. But the words fell flat the moment you kicked off your shoes and caught sight of the mirror by the hall.
You looked… nice today. Too nice. Hair done, the soft gloss still on your lips. All that effort for ten seconds of him looking at you like you’d done something wrong.
You tried not to think about the way Dana had blinked in confusion, or how Mel had said 'Dr. Robby has a girlfriend?' like the idea didn’t quite fit. But your brain wouldn’t stop looping it. Each piece, each small detail, clicking together in a way that made your stomach twist.
No one knows about you.
You’d never thought about it too hard before. You didn’t push him to post you, or tell his coworkers, or blend your worlds. You told yourself you liked the privacy. The quiet bubble you two lived in. It made what you had feel sacred.
But now, it just felt like a secret.
You sank onto the couch, tugging your knees to your chest. Maybe he was ashamed. Maybe you were too young, too loud, too out of place in his life. Maybe he didn’t want people asking questions he didn’t want to answer.
You hated how easy it was to turn everything back on yourself.
And you hated that part of you still wanted him to text. To say something that would undo that look in his eyes.
The phone stayed silent.
It was nearing midnight when Robby finally turned the key in the lock. The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV in the living room. He stepped in quietly—not because he thought you were asleep (he doubted you were), but because he didn’t want the sound of him coming in to carry any expectation.
The door clicked shut behind him. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, the air in his lungs tasting faintly of antiseptic and coffee. His hand lingered at the hook by the door after hanging up his keys, knuckles whitening as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was still half in the hospital—every sound in the apartment warped into a phantom of the ER: monitors beeping, stretchers rolling, his name being called from somewhere just out of view.
But the image that haunted him most wasn’t from work. It was you, standing in that corridor—too bright under fluorescent light, too soft for that place. You’d looked so out of place among the scrubs and urgency, clutching that damn lunch box like it meant something. And to him, it did. That was the problem.
“You’re late,” you said from the couch.
Your voice was calm, and that calmness was worse than anger.
He looked up. The TV flickered across your face, sharp in contrast—jaw tight, eyes rimmed with fatigue. You hadn’t changed. You were still in the same clothes you’d left in, legs tucked under you, one hand fidgeting absently with the hem of your sleeve. Your hair looked like you’d run your fingers through it a dozen times trying to think of the right words.
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “We had a pile-up. I—” He stopped. The excuses sounded mechanical even to him. You didn’t need protocol; you needed honesty.
But honesty felt dangerous tonight.
“Long day,” he said instead, dropping his bag to the floor.
“Right.” You nodded, eyes flicking toward the muted TV. “I figured.”
The silence stretched between you, fragile and humming. He hated how formal it sounded—how this space that used to feel like sanctuary suddenly felt like a waiting room.
“About earlier…” he started, but his tongue pressed hard to his molars, catching the rest.
You let out a soft laugh—small, breathy, exhausted. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
He frowned. “No, you don’t.”
“Robby.” The way you said his name made him freeze. There was something final in it—like a boundary, or a warning. You looked up at him then, your eyes not quite tearful, just… dulled, resigned. The kind of hurt that’s already learned not to ask for answers.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t a good version of the truth. There was only the one that sounded cruel: because he’d kept it that way.
“I just…” he tried. “It’s not like that. Work is—”
“Busy,” you finished for him, tone quiet but cutting. “I know.”
The clock ticked. The fridge hummed. The city outside sighed through the open window. The small sounds filled the space where love used to.
He reached out finally, hesitating—his hand hovered near your shoulder, then fell away before it reached you. He couldn’t tell if it was restraint or cowardice.
You stood up, brushing past him with a softness that hurt more than any sharp word could. “You should get some sleep,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t turn around when you walked away. Didn’t move when the bedroom door clicked shut.
He just stood there in the half-light, staring at the empty space where you’d been, the faint scent of you lingering in the air. And for the first time that day, the noise in his head went silent—leaving only the quiet, heavy thought that this, somehow, felt worse than any loss he’d seen at work.
Robby held you tighter that night. Not possessive, not desperate—just heavy with the kind of tiredness that came from guilt and not knowing how to say things right. He’d meant to ask if you wanted him there when he came in, meant to offer the couch, but you’d already been asleep. And the truth was, he didn’t have the heart to ask. Not when he was afraid of the answer.
So he’d slipped into bed slowly, careful not to wake you. You were turned away, hair spread across the pillow, your breathing steady. The room smelled faintly like you and the faint sweetness of your lotion—something that usually comforted him but now made his chest tight.
He hesitated before reaching out. Then, quietly, he wrapped an arm around you, sliding his hand over your waist until his palm rested against your stomach. You stirred, but didn’t move away. He took that as permission, even if it wasn’t.
He buried his face into your hair, the strands brushing against his lips. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something.
When morning came, the light spilling through the blinds painted everything in soft gold. You were still sleeping, curled up on your side, his arm still draped over you. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like last night hadn’t happened.
But the apartment was quieter than usual. No sound of coffee brewing, no hum of you moving around the kitchen. He glanced at the clock—he was already running late—but still stayed there for a minute longer, watching your face. You looked so calm, so far away from the awkward silence of last night.
Eventually, he pulled himself out of bed, moving quietly so he wouldn’t wake you. He got dressed in the half-dark, a tshirt that hasn't been ironed and his belt unbuckled.
In the kitchen, the counter was empty. No lunch box, no note with a little smiley face and the words kick ass today. He didn’t expect it, but the absence still caught him off guard.
He stood there for a moment, just looking at the empty space where it usually sat. The smallest, most ordinary part of his morning routine—gone.
He sighed, grabbed his keys, and lingered by the door for a few seconds. He could go wake you up, say something simple—see you tonight, have a good day, I’m sorry. But he didn’t.
He didn’t want to risk hearing the same quiet tone from last night.
So he just left, closing the door softly behind him, hoping the sound didn’t wake you.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You were the one to come home later that night. No text, no call—just the quiet scrape of your key turning in the lock. Normally, you’d let him know when you were heading back, send a be there soon or a miss you, but tonight you didn’t. He hadn’t messaged you yesterday, and that silence had lingered longer than you wanted to admit. So you’d matched it, letting the hours slip away.
It wasn’t even planned—you’d just said yes when your friends invited you out. A few drinks, loud music, a crowd that didn’t know you as anyone’s girlfriend. You laughed more than you’d expected to, danced a little, let the buzz of people fill in the empty spaces you hadn’t realized had formed.
When you walked in, it was already late. The apartment was dim except for the soft kitchen light. You could hear him moving—slow, tired, the sound of someone who was already halfway to sleep.
He appeared in the hallway just as you were kicking your shoes off. His hair was slightly mussed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, pajamas hanging loose on his frame. He looked… gentle. Homey. It made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.
“Hey,” he breathed, voice low and a little rough.
You looked up at him and forced a small smile—tight, polite, like you were both pretending to be normal. The sight of him, standing there so softly domestic, made you want to crawl into his arms and apologize for everything you hadn’t done wrong.
But you didn’t.
You stepped past him, pulling open the fridge just to do something with your hands. There was food waiting for you—he’d made sure of it, as always. The gesture should’ve warmed you, but instead it turned your stomach. You suddenly didn’t feel hungry at all.
“Pretty, you should eat,” he said gently, voice careful, testing the air between you.
“I need to catch my breath,” you said instead, pulling out a bottle of water. “Me and my friends went for a couple drinks since we were sorta celebrating passing this really shitty exam we had earlier this week and—”
You stopped yourself. The words felt light and clumsy in your mouth, too young. You glanced at him—the lines on his face deeper in the low light, his calm composure unshaken—and for the first time in a while, your life felt small next to his. University lectures, shared apartments, half-burned dinners… it all seemed childish, almost embarrassing.
You hated that thought. You’d never felt weird about the age gap before. But tonight, after everything, it sat between you like a quiet fact neither of you wanted to look at too closely.
“Did you have fun?” he asked softly.
You nodded, forcing another smile. “Yeah,” you breathed. His eyes—tired but still warm—found yours, and you had to look away. You shut the fridge, the sound sharper than it should’ve been.
“I’m gonna go shower quickly,” you said, voice light, almost practiced. “You can head to bed.”
He hesitated, shifting his weight slightly, as if he wanted to say something else—something small and kind, something that might’ve bridged the distance—but you were already walking down the hall.
“Sweetheart,” he calls out, voice soft enough that it almost doesn’t reach you.
You stop halfway down the hall, your hand still curled around the edge of the bathroom door. The word lands in your chest like something tender and familiar, but it hurts now, too — a reminder of all the space that’s crept in between.
You turn to look at him. He’s still standing by the counter, one hand resting against it for balance, like even speaking your name out loud might knock something loose inside him. His glasses catch the kitchen light, his hair a little mussed, pajama shirt wrinkled at the collar.
And in that quiet, he exhales — a slow, deliberate breath, the kind that usually means he’s trying to choose his words carefully.
But he doesn’t. The words just come.
He’s not good at moments like this. Never has been. But you’re standing there, eyes tired and soft and half-defensive, and he feels it — that pulse of panic that comes with loving something he doesn’t quite believe he deserves.
He doesn’t know how to explain it: the fear that hits him when he sees you walk through the door with the night still clinging to you, cheeks flushed from the cold, laughter still hanging somewhere behind your eyes. That kind of life feels far from him now — the bar lights, the noise, the music too loud to talk over. The kind of night that makes you feel infinite.
And you are infinite to him. That’s the problem.
Because he knows, in that quiet, heavy way that years teach you, that he’s not. That one day you’ll wake up and this — him — won’t make sense anymore. He’ll still be here, slow and steady and ordinary, and you’ll still be full of beginnings.
He swallows hard, the silence pressing at the back of his throat. His heart aches in that stupid, human way — for how beautiful you are when you’re just existing, for how alive you look when you’re out there in the world without him.
And yet, standing here now, he feels like he doesn’t quite fit into your story.
He’s scared — scared of how much space you take up in him, how you’ve managed to slide into every quiet part of his day without him noticing. Scared that he’s already imagining a future where he doesn’t belong.
He exhales, long and uneven, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I wasn’t trying to be mean,” he says finally, eyes flicking up to you, then down again. “It’s just… I didn’t think you’d ever find out.”
That lands heavier than he expects, and you can tell by the way he flinches that he hears it too.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes out. “It’s just—people don’t ask about my life. They don’t care. No one ever does. It’s easier that way, you know? You keep things separate, you don’t have to explain yourself.” He swallows, shoulders tightening. “I didn’t think it mattered if they knew about you. I thought… it was ours. Private. Not a secret, just—” he hesitates, wincing, “—something I didn’t have to defend.”
You blink slowly, not sure if that’s supposed to make you feel better.
He sighs, frustrated with himself. “It’s stupid. I just never pictured you and… them overlapping. I go to work, I do my shift, I come home to you. Those are different worlds. And maybe—maybe that’s cowardly, but it made sense in my head.”
His voice dips lower. “You have your friends, your life, the things that make you light up. I don’t have that anymore. Work is what I have. It’s the one place I know what to say, what to do. And if I start bringing you into that, suddenly I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to fit you in there.”
He takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I guess I didn’t want to think about it. About explaining why someone like you would even want to be with me.”
The words hang there, vulnerable and ugly.
“I wasn’t hiding you,” he finishes, quieter now, “I just didn’t think I’d get to keep this long enough for anyone to need to know.”
You sigh, leaning back against the wall, the plaster cool against your shoulder. Your arms cross on instinct — not defensive, just tired. It’s easier to hold yourself when he can’t seem to. He looks at you like he’s waiting for the verdict, eyes raw, mouth parted, breath shallow. You know he wasn’t being cruel. He’s never cruel. Just cowardly. Maybe even thoughtless. But sometimes those feel like the same thing.
“I don’t…” you start, voice thinner than you mean it to be. “I don’t expect to be the topic of your conversations, Robby.”
You brush a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trembling. “I don’t expect you to walk around with a necklace with the first letter of my name, or tell everyone you’re madly in love. I just thought people knew of me — like I know of them. You spend your entire days with these people. I just…” you trail off, exhaling through your nose. “I just thought I existed somewhere in your world.”
He opens his mouth, but you talk over him — not out of anger, just out of exhaustion.
“You know my friends,” you remind him softly. “They know about you — the age difference, the fact you work insane hours, all of it. And no one cares. I never had to hide you.” You look at him now, really look, and your voice cracks around the edges. “It just seems like you’re ashamed of me.”
His face falls instantly. “I’m not ashamed—”
Your lips quiver. You stare at the floor because it’s safer than his eyes. “Didn’t anyone catch on that you have someone?” you ask, quieter now, but the hurt makes every word sting. “With the stupid lunches I make, and the stupid notes I leave in them? Who did they think made those? Who else would write you little reminders to drink water or drive safe or—”
He swallows hard. “I always ate my lunches in the car.”
The words are soft, almost apologetic, but they hit like a slap. You blink once. Twice. Then again. You’re not sure why that hurts as much as it does — maybe because it’s proof that he’d gone out of his way to erase you. To make sure no trace of you seeped into that other part of his life.
Your throat tightens. “Michael,” you whisper — his name suddenly too heavy, too formal for someone like him.
He takes a step closer, hands raised slightly — like if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish. “It’s not— it wasn’t about hiding you,” he starts, voice strained. “I didn’t even think they’d notice. It’s work, it’s… it’s loud, and messy, and I didn’t want it to touch this. You.”
You don’t move. The clock ticks in the kitchen. The hum of the fridge feels louder than both of you.
“I thought,” he continues, swallowing, “it wasn’t important whether they knew. I figured it didn’t matter. You know me. They don’t.”
You huff out a laugh — small, humorless. “That’s the problem, Robby. You thought it didn’t matter.”
He runs a hand through his hair, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “You’re young. I know how it looks. I just didn’t want anyone turning this into gossip or—”
“Or what?” you ask quietly. “You didn’t want them to think you were pathetic for being with me?”
He winces. That’s exactly what he didn’t want, and you both know it.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. He looks older under the kitchen light. Smaller, somehow. The kind of man who’s spent years cleaning up other people’s mistakes but doesn’t know what to do with his own.
You sigh, rubbing at your wrist. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” you whisper.
He shakes his head quickly. “You didn’t. You never—” He exhales sharply, jaw tight. “I just didn’t think it through.”
You take a few slow breaths, trying to steady yourself before speaking.
“You can’t let your insecurity control the way that you live, Robby,” you say finally, your voice low but certain. Embarrassment and shame churn in your stomach, a sick mix of love and humiliation, but you push through it. You never thought you’d be the kind of girl who made lunches for her boyfriend — neat little boxes with notes, like something out of a life you didn’t believe in. And now, standing here, you feel foolish for ever thinking that kind of care could mean something to someone who treated it like a secret.
“I don’t know how to drill it into your head that I’m here to stay,” you continue, blinking through the tears that spill no matter how much you will them not to. “It’s like you’re making me not real.”
The words hang there, heavy, and he feels them like a punch.
You — you’ve never been the type to circle around the point. He realizes that’s what he both loves and fears about you. You face things directly, unflinching, while he’s built a life out of avoiding the sharp edges — a man too practiced in sidestepping emotion, in softening truths until they lose shape.
Maybe it isn’t an age thing after all, he thinks. Maybe it’s just you.
Because even when you’re standing there trembling, red-eyed and exhausted, you’re the one telling the truth. And he’s the one still trying to figure out how to live with it.
He runs a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. There’s so much he wants to say, but every word feels too small, too flimsy for what you deserve.
“I didn’t mean to hide you,” he murmurs. “I just… I didn’t think. I thought it wasn’t something people needed to know, and it never crossed my mind that it would hurt you like this.”
You stare at him for a long moment, searching his expression for anything real. “That’s the problem, Robby. You didn’t think. You never do when it comes to this.”
Your voice doesn’t rise, but it lands like a stone between you. He flinches slightly, not because it’s harsh, but because it’s true.
He takes a step toward you — slowly, as if approaching something fragile. “It’s not about being ashamed of you,” he says. “You have to know that. God, you have to know that.” His tone cracks on the words, eyes desperate, pleading for you to see past the mess of it. “I just didn’t want people talking. I didn’t want them asking questions, or looking at me like—” He stops himself, swallowing hard. “Like I was taking advantage of you. You’re younger, you’re—”
“Alive?” you interrupt softly. “Younger doesn’t mean clueless, Robby. It just means I’m not tired yet.”
That catches him. He lets out a sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh — and drags his fingers through his hair. “You make it sound like I’m ancient.”
“You make it sound like you’ve already decided the ending,” you say, voice smaller now.
He looks at you then, really looks — your arms crossed, your breath uneven, the faint streaks of tears drying on your cheeks. It hits him that you’ve given him everything: your patience, your joy, the small, everyday gestures he’s treated like things that could wait.
He steps closer until you’re only a breath apart.
“I don’t want to be this way with you,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want to make you feel small. I just… don’t know how to be seen. Not the way you see me.”
You don’t answer. You just let him hold your gaze, let him sit in that discomfort, that truth. Then finally, your voice breaks through the stillness:
“Then learn.”
It’s not angry, not forgiving — just honest. A simple command that leaves no room for excuses.
And something in him softens. He nods, slow, defeated, but almost relieved. Like he’s been waiting for someone to tell him to grow up, to stop hiding behind his own fears.
When he reaches for your hand this time, you don’t pull away. You let him. His palm is warm, trembling slightly.
For a moment, neither of you speak — you just stand there, in the low light of the kitchen, two people who have run out of pretense. The air between you hums with something fragile but real.
Maybe love isn’t the grand gesture or the confession. Maybe it’s this — the uncomfortable, necessary act of staying, of being seen even when it hurts.