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The fundraiser for the ER shimmered under amber lights, all polite laughter and polished glass. Dennis sat in the corner, nursing a whiskey he’d barely touched. The ice clinked softly, dissolving in time with the room’s hum. His tie felt too tight. His wedding ring, hidden beneath his shirt on a silver chain, felt heavier than ever.
Trinity had disappeared into the crowd smart, radiant, and mercifully unaware of the war raging inside him. Every laugh around him felt like static, like the wrong kind of music.
“Whitaker.” He looked up. Frank Langdon loomed with that too easy smirk. “You look like you’re watching paint dry. Loosen up, man.”
Dennis forced a polite smile. “I’m good, Dr. Langdon.”
Frank gestured to the drink. “That’s the slowest whiskey I’ve ever seen disappear.”
Before Dennis could answer, a voice slid in steady, calm, laced with warning. “Langdon, stop bothering my intern.”
Robby. Dennis’s pulse stuttered.
Langdon chuckled, muttered something about “protective attendings,” and disappeared into the noise. Robby stayed where he was, eyes flicking toward the crowd before settling on Dennis with the faintest smile. “You alright?” he murmured.
Dennis nodded, though the lie felt brittle. “Fine.”
Robby’s lips curved. “Dance with me.”
Dennis blinked. “Robby—”
“Colleague dancing,” he clarified, low enough only Dennis could hear. “No one will think twice.” His hand brushed his sleeve a phantom touch but Dennis felt it everywhere.
The band shifted, a soft song winding through the chatter. A House in Nebraska. It filled the room like a heartbeat too big for the space. Of course it would be that one.
Dennis’s throat closed around a hundred reasons to say no. He said none. He let Robby lead him onto the floor.
The world dimmed. Robby’s hand found the small of his back, steady but trembling slightly a secret in motion. They swayed in time, barely touching. To anyone watching, it was nothing. To Dennis, it was everything.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Dennis whispered.
Robby smiled, small and sad. “Then stop looking back.”
The lyrics spilled over them lonely, reverent, a love that lived in the shadow of distance. Dennis’ chest ached. He could smell Robby’s cologne, feel the ghost of his wedding band under the fabric pressed between them. The chain burned against his skin.
He wanted to tell him he was sorry. For this distance. For every time they’d passed each other in the hall like strangers. For the way their marriage lived only in whispered phone calls and hidden hands beneath bedsheets.
Robby’s thumb brushed against his knuckles. It felt like a confession.
When the song ended, Dennis didn’t move. The crowd’s laughter returned, brittle and bright. Robby’s hand lingered half a second longer than safe. Then he stepped back, eyes searching Dennis’s.
“You good?” Robby asked.
“Yeah,” Dennis lied, again. He turned toward the bathroom before his voice cracked.
Under the harsh fluorescent light, he looked pale. Hollowed. He gripped the sink until his knuckles whitened. The chain around his neck thudded softly against porcelain when he bent forward. He unhooked it, the ring falling into his palm a perfect, damning circle.
He stared at it, throat tight.
And I feel so alone out here
The door creaked.
“This is the men’s room, you know.”
Trinity. She leaned against the doorframe, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “You looked like you were gonna pass out back there.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
She crossed her arms. “Bullshit.”
He hesitated, the ring glinting between his fingers. “You can’t tell anyone,” he said, voice barely audible.
“Tell anyone what?”
He showed her. The ring caught the light like confession. Her breath hitched. “Dennis is that—?”
He nodded. “We got married before I started my rotation. Vegas.” The words trembled out. “We thought it’d be easier if no one knew no gossip, no HR nightmare. But every day feels like erasing us to survive.”
Trinity didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then softly, “You love him.”
“I always have.” His voice cracked. “And I hate that it feels like something I have to hide.”
Trinity’s expression softened. “You don’t have to apologize for loving him, Huckleberry. The world just isn’t as caught up as you are.”
He smiled weakly. “You sound like him.”
“Maybe I’m the smarter twin in this friendship,” she said, nudging him. “Now wash your face. You’ve got mascara vibes without the mascara.”
He laughed quiet, shaking, but real. The ring glimmered against his skin as he slipped it back under his shirt. It rested there, heartbeat against heartbeat, as if reminding him: You’re not alone. Not really. Outside, the song still echoed in fragments through the closed door.
And I feel so alone without you, baby
He exhaled, steady this time. The ache didn’t leave but it changed, softened into something he could live with. He wasn’t alone. Just unseen.