And hell, if Robby was going to get all up in Jack’s business, he could return the favor. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on shift today?”

Jack actually felt Robby tense against him. “I told you I was leaving today.”

Which didn’t actually answer his question. “As the priests liked to remind me, a lie by omission is still a sin,” he drawled.

The idea of bossing you around is almost tempting enough to lure me from the beach.

The email was from Brian Price, who'd done his residency at PTMC before covid, then sailed straight into a cushy gig at Cedars thanks to family connections and Adamson's recommendation. Robby had quietly hated him, happy to see him go.

Brian's email included a forwarded job listing, seeking a temporary Chief of Emergency Medicine for PTMC, to start July 4th, Robby's last day before his sabbatical. Jack had been expecting Gloria to ask him to step up.

He'd heard nothing from her. And now this, as good as announcing the news: they were bringing in an external hire.

Dana shot him a meaningful look. “She up and says to me that Robby can’t stand to be alone, has got the TV on in his bedroom all night.”

Jack scoffed. “No, he doesn’t.”

Dana stilled, her blue eyes locking onto his. And just like that, it went from an idle comment to a moment. A moment that expanded, curling into something weighty, settling leaden in Jack’s gut. “That right?” she muttered, and there was a whole epic journey packed into those two words, going from how would you know all the way to how did I not know.

Fuck.

Jack flashed a grin, but didn’t let himself get distracted. “Fun message I got today. It seems that someone rode his midlife crisis to work while conspicuously not wearing a helmet.”

Underneath his hand, Robby stilled, his heart beating faster than normal. “What?” he asked, but that was a stall, Robby playing for time to decide on his approach. Which was cute, really, but Jack knew all his tricks.

So he just nodded, mocking. “Yeah. See the thing is, when you do shit, I hear about it.”

Darnell nodded, glancing over Robby like he was trying to place him in the hierarchy of important to ignorable and it could go either way. “What’s this?”

“MSF FNG,” Jack shot back. Whatever that meant, he sounded amused.

Darnell scoffed and looked to Robby, expression going decidedly unimpressed. “Oh, yeah? You here to find yourself? Have an adventure? Do something hard?” he asked, each question more mocking than the last.

And there was that question again, like it was haunting Robby. He stifled his instinct to bite back and kept it simple: “I’m here to help.”

“You tell him to take the lonely new guy out, you tell me to take the lonely workaholic out, so neither of us can refuse because we’re doing it for someone else. A perfect snare.”

Adamson’s expression warmed even further, like he was fighting off a smile, a battle he didn’t mind losing. “What a way to look at it.”

Jack grinned at the non-denial denial. “Sure, Dr. Adamson. I’ll show your protégé a good time.”

“Tell me something that brings you comfort.”

“Something that brings me comfort?” Robby shot back, his tone mocking the frivolity of it, because he never was one to just follow directions.

“Yes,” Gene said, eternally unfazed. “It can be the smallest thing, whatever comes to mind.”

What came to mind was: Pens games, the trails at Frick Park, the rare book collection in the Oliver Room at Carnegie Main, a cortado at Sage Caffe. But what he said was: “Jack.”

…wait. Shit.

“So hot,” the other woman agreed, shooting a quick glance out at Jack. “Those arms. Have mercy.”

Robby hid a smile. Jack was gonna love hearing about this.

Her friend made an agreeing sort of noise. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be so real with you: the leg kinda freaks me out.”

And Robby froze, a ripple of offense sweeping him.

Jack just laughed and shoved him a little harder into the door, a visceral, physical reminder: he was in control now. He expected Robby to bitch him out, sharp like he got when cornered—

Except instead Robby slumped, his breath out almost relief, like all the fight had drained from him. He didn’t say anything, just took a few shaky breaths, body shivering under Jack’s—

…oh.

“If you really want to know, the hot new thing is an app called findr. It’s for bougie professionals who like to pretend they’re elevated while slobbering all over each other, so entirely your speed.”

At that, Robby lost his war with self-control and did flip her off.

Ellis actually laughed. “The vision,” she said again, dark eyes dancing. “findr,” she said again, like he might have forgotten. “Go fuck away the raincloud, Robby. For everybody’s sake, but mostly mine,” she drawled as she sauntered away.

Robby finally piped up: “Kind of a shame, though. Guy seemed like your type.”

Jack felt himself wanting to bristle, quickly controlling it. Because what the fuck. They’d been entirely wrapped up in each other in the year since Pittfest, Robby finally going to therapy, letting them get more serious than the fuckbuddy deal they’d had going before that. Jack had thought things were going well. “I have a type?” he challenged, raising his eyebrows.

“Please, I’m fifty-three years old,” he said, dismissive. “I’ve had every type of sex there is.”

They were grabbing an early dinner before Jack went in for his shift, Robby on his day off. Robby telling tales on his day off, it seemed. Jack was practically required to scoff at him. “Like hell you have.”

Robby leveled him with a look. “And how would you know?”

“Because I know you. And you have never once given up control.”

Jack looked from the intern picture to Robby again, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. “Jesus, this is like a recipe.” He gestured between the picture and Robby, young and old. “It’s like twink plus seasoning equals daddy. Fuck,” he said, a kind of helpless note to it. Then he walked out, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Robby’s head.

What did that mean?

Jack was poised for a beautiful three-pointer when Jake spoke, “So, hey, what’s it feel like to get fucked?”

The surprise of it scattered his focus for an instant, but figuring that was what Jake wanted, Jack let muscle memory pull him through, releasing the basketball—and getting nothing but net, fuck yeah.

Then he looked over at Jake and tipped his head, nonchalant. “Vulnerable.”

Gifting someone a stethoscope at a milestone was very traditional, he knew, but some traditions should be observed. They kept you anchored to something greater than yourself. And this one was just…warm. Jack always thought of the people who’d given him his steths—Colonel Jacquemin, who’d gifted him his first Littmann when he finished residency, or Lizzie, who’d given him his current Littmann III when Adamson hired him as an attending. It was a reminder of the people who loved you, believed in you, helped you along the way, a physical token of those you carried with you.

Sure, maybe it wasn’t exactly Jack’s place to give one to Robby, more properly the domain of family or mentors. If Adamson had lived to retire, he would’ve gifted Robby a steth to celebrate his promotion, Jack was sure. Robby’s family was gone, so that wasn’t an option, and Jack would be damned if Robby’s elevation to one of the highest posts in their field would go uncelebrated.

Robby sagged a little, another tiny rush of air out. Jack pretended not to notice any of it even as it slid through him, his hypothesis gaining evidence, firming in his mind.

No, Jack didn’t think anyone ever touched Robby.

He was going to change that.

The job offer came out of nowhere. Centennial Hospital, a tier 1 trauma center in Colorado, wanted him to take over for their retiring chief attending. They’d heard the same rumors as everyone about PTMC—how it’d be taken over, transformed, the ED shut down. Didn’t Jack want to get ahead of it and find himself a new gig, head of the department, master of his own fate? And the money, of course. Lots and lots of money.

Jack promptly told them to fuck off.

“IPA,” Robby called again, a reminder.

“For that, I’m getting you a Bavarian wheat beer, you prissy fuck.” But Jack bypassed the respectable Penn Pilsner and grabbed a pack of their hopped-to-shit IPA, hating himself a little for giving in…but it would make Robby smile.

The door banged open, spinning Jack around, senses instantly on alert as a guy rushed in, black bandana tied around his face, pistol pointing at Sal as he shouted. “Open the register! Now!”

Robby gets some therapy homework. It’s a lot harder to get through it than he would’ve thought, but he gets there in the end—and, perhaps not surprisingly, Jack Abbot ends up being the answer.

As she walked away, another text came in, Robby unable to help checking.

you blushing for me?

…oh. Oh, that absolute asshole. Jack knew exactly what he was doing, sending shit that would turn him on.

I’m fucking working here, Robby sent back, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He’d just…not look.