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11:47pm
Whitaker’s phone felt heavier than it should have.
Not physically—just… morally. Like it knew something he didn’t. Like it was daring him.
The bar was loud in that way that only happened after ten, when the music wasn’t too loud but everyone’s voices were, when laughter carried too far and glasses clinked like punctuation marks. Santos had been there. Whitaker was pretty sure of that. There had been shots—plural—and a conversation about hospital food and someone’s ex and a very passionate argument about whether residents should be allowed to nap in supply closets.
And then Santos had vanished.
Whitaker stared at the empty space beside him, brow furrowed, brain lagging behind the thought. His jacket was still on the back of the chair. Santos wouldn’t leave without it.
Right?
He checked his phone. A text thread he didn’t remember opening.
Whitaker: where did u go
Santos: i told you i was leaving
Whitaker: no u didn’t
Santos: man you were gone
Santos: like. spiritually
Whitaker scoffed, offended. “I’m right here,” he muttered, though no one was listening.
His vision swam a little when he leaned back. He corrected himself too late, elbow knocking against the bar. The bartender glanced over again—this time with concern.
“I’m good,” Whitaker said, holding up a finger that didn’t quite go straight. “Promise.”
The phone buzzed again, but Whitaker wasn’t reading anymore. He was scrolling—muscle memory more than intention. Names blurred together until one didn’t.
Dr. Michael Robby.
His thumb hovered. His brain offered a weak, distant warning. Bad idea. It sounded unconvincing.
Whitaker smiled to himself, a soft, unfocused thing.
“Robby,” he murmured, like the name tasted familiar on his tongue.
He hit call.
The ringing seemed louder than the bar. Each buzz sent a jolt through his chest. He almost hung up—almost—
“Whitaker?” Michael answered, voice sharp with immediate alertness.
Whitaker laughed, breathless. “Hey.”
There was a pause. “Why are you calling me?”
Whitaker squinted at the ceiling like it might supply the answer. “Because… you’re in my phone.”
“That’s not—” Michael exhaled. “Are you drunk?”
Whitaker considered that. Slowly. “Define drunk.”
“Where are you?”
“O’Malley’s,” Whitaker said. “I think.”
Michael was already moving—keys, jacket, that particular kind of silence that meant worry. “Who are you with?”
Whitaker looked around again. The empty stool. His abandoned jacket. “No one,” he said, suddenly smaller. “Santos left.”
“What?”
“She said I was… spiritually gone.” Whitaker giggled, then frowned. “Is that bad?”
Michael didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was tight. “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Whitaker’s chest fluttered. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Michael said. “I’m still coming.”
Whitaker grinned at his phone. “Okay.”
⸻
Michael found him slumped sideways on a barstool, chin resting on his fist, eyes unfocused. Too unsteady. Too vulnerable. Michael’s stomach dropped.
“Whitaker,” he said, placing a hand on his arm.
Whitaker startled, then relaxed immediately when he looked up. “There you are.”
“I told you not to move.”
“I didn’t,” Whitaker protested weakly. “The room did.”
Michael paid the tab, ignored the bartender’s look, and guided Whitaker upright. Whitaker leaned into him without hesitation, weight sagging, trust careless and complete.
“You’re warm,” Whitaker murmured.
Michael stiffened, then adjusted his grip. “Come on.”
Outside, the cold hit Whitaker like a wave. He swayed, laughing, gripping Michael’s coat like an anchor.
“You’re real,” Whitaker said, squinting up at him. “I was worried you were imaginary.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
“Shame,” Whitaker said. “You’d be a nice hallucination.”
Michael said nothing.
The drive was long. Or short. Whitaker couldn’t tell. Streetlights smeared into glowing lines, and Michael’s presence beside him felt steady, grounding, unfairly comforting.
Whitaker turned in the seat, studying him with unfocused intensity. “Do you ever get tired of being… you?”
Michael glanced at him. “What does that mean?”
Whitaker shrugged, the motion clumsy. “You’re always so… together.”
Michael laughed once, humorless. “You’re not seeing the whole picture.”
At the apartment, Michael guided him inside, shoes kicked off, keys tossed aside. Whitaker wandered like a ghost, fingers brushing walls, eyes catching on details.
“You live here,” he said, wonder-struck. “This is your… place.”
“Yes,” Michael said carefully. “Sit down.”
Whitaker did—for a moment. Then he stood again.
Michael turned just in time to see Whitaker staring at his forearms.
“You have tattoos,” Whitaker said.
Michael froze.
The sleeves were rolled up. He hadn’t noticed. Ink—dark, faded in places—caught the light.
Whitaker stepped closer. Too close.
“These are…” He frowned, trying to focus. “Old.”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Whitaker—”
“They’re older than me,” Whitaker said softly, realization blooming slow and heavy. “That’s wild.”
He reached out—not quite touching, but close enough that Michael felt it anyway.
“You never talk about them,” Whitaker murmured. “You hide them.”
Michael’s voice came out lower than he intended. “You’re drunk.”
Whitaker tilted his head, eyes glassy but intent. “Yeah. That’s why I’m saying this.”
Michael swallowed.
Whitaker smiled—not mischievous, not coy. Just honest. Unfiltered. “They’re beautiful.”
The word hung between them, dangerous.
Michael stepped back. “You need water.”
Whitaker blinked, swayed, then laughed. “Bossy.”
Michael handed him a glass. Their fingers brushed. Whitaker didn’t pull away.
“I didn’t mean to call you,” Whitaker said suddenly, quieter. “I just… wanted you.”
The air shifted.
Michael held very still. “Whitaker.”
“I know,” Whitaker said, eyes drooping. “I know.”
He curled onto the couch, exhaustion crashing down hard. Within minutes, he was asleep—breathing slow, face soft, utterly unaware of the mess he’d left behind.
Michael stood there for a long time, staring at the tattoos on his own arms like they’d betrayed him.
Some lines, once crossed, didn’t disappear when the night ended.
⸻
3:25am
The first thing Whitaker registered was heat.
The second was wrongness.
His stomach twisted sharply, violently, like it had only just remembered what alcohol was and decided to punish him for it. He lurched upright with a gasp that scraped his throat raw, heart hammering, mouth already filling with something sour and urgent.
“No—no, no—” he muttered, words thick and clumsy as he stumbled off the couch.
The apartment was dark, unfamiliar shapes blurring together. He didn’t remember standing, didn’t remember finding the hallway—only the overwhelming need to move, now, now, before it was too late.
He barely made it.
Whitaker braced his hands on the edge of the kitchen sink just as his stomach heaved. The sound was ugly, wet, echoing too loudly in the quiet apartment. His knees hit the cabinet beneath the sink, hard enough to hurt, but he barely noticed. He gagged again, whole body folding in on itself, breath hitching uselessly between waves.
Footsteps.
“Whitaker.”
Robby’s voice cut through the haze immediately—sharp with concern, fully awake in a way Whitaker definitely was not. A hand appeared at his back, steady and warm, holding him upright when another retch wracked through him.
“It’s okay,” Robby said, already reaching for the faucet, turning it on low so the sound wasn’t overwhelming. “I’ve got you.”
Whitaker groaned, forehead dropping against the cool metal of the sink. “I’m sorry,” he slurred, words barely making it past his tongue.
“I don’t care,” Robby replied instantly. “Just breathe.”
Another wave hit. Robby didn’t flinch—just kept his hand firm between Whitaker’s shoulder blades, grounding, present. He murmured quiet instructions like Whitaker was a patient instead of a mess of a resident hunched over his kitchen sink at two in the morning.
When it finally passed, Whitaker sagged forward, trembling, eyes half-closed. His mouth tasted awful. His head throbbed in slow, punishing pulses.
Robby grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and held it near Whitaker’s lips. “Small sips.”
Whitaker tried. Most of it spilled down his chin instead. Robby wiped it away with a paper towel, movements gentle, practiced, like this wasn’t crossing any lines at all.
“You’re still pretty out of it,” Robby said quietly, more observation than judgment.
Whitaker nodded, though it felt like his head weighed a thousand pounds. “Floor’s moving.”
“I know,” Robby said. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safer.”
He guided Whitaker down the hallway, one arm around his waist when Whitaker swayed too hard to correct himself. Whitaker didn’t protest. He barely registered the fact that Robby opened a door and ushered him inside.
“This is my bed,” Robby said, easing him down onto clean sheets. “You’re sleeping here.”
Whitaker frowned faintly, eyes fluttering. “What about you?”
“I’ll manage.”
Robby disappeared briefly and returned with an oversized hoodie—soft, worn, unmistakably his. He helped Whitaker out of his rumpled clothes with clinical care, no hesitation, no awkwardness. Slid the hoodie over Whitaker’s head.
It swallowed him.
The sleeves hung past his hands. The hem brushed his thighs. It smelled like clean laundry and something familiar—soap, coffee, Robby.
Whitaker curled instinctively into the mattress, fingers tangling in the fabric. “This is… nice,” he murmured.
Robby hesitated just a second longer than necessary. Then he pulled the blanket up around Whitaker’s shoulders.
“Try to sleep,” he said softly. “I’m right here.”
Whitaker was already drifting, consciousness slipping like water through his fingers. He didn’t hear Robby settle into the chair beside the bed. Didn’t feel the careful way Robby brushed hair out of his eyes.
By morning, Whitaker wouldn’t remember the kindness. Or the fact that Robby had stayed awake for hours, listening to his breathing, making sure it stayed steady.
⸻
10:57am
Morning came in pieces.
Not light—pain.
It started behind Whitaker’s eyes, a deep, relentless throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His mouth tasted like regret and acid and something vaguely metallic. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. His stomach rolled, unsettled but mercifully empty.
He groaned and tried to roll over.
That’s when he froze.
The sheets were wrong.
Too soft. Too clean. They didn’t smell like his detergent or his apartment or the faint antiseptic he’d grown used to. They smelled like soap and coffee and something grounding—something that made his chest tighten for reasons he didn’t yet understand.
Whitaker’s eyes snapped open.
White ceiling. Not his.
Panic hit fast and sharp, slicing through the haze of the hangover. He pushed himself upright too quickly and immediately regretted it, vision swimming as his head screamed in protest.
“Shit—” he gasped, clutching at his temples.
His clothes were wrong too.
He looked down and saw an oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, sleeves dangling past his hands. Not his. Definitely not his. His heart kicked hard against his ribs as the night before crashed back in fragments—bar lights, Santos leaving, the phone in his hand, a voice saying stay there, I’m coming.
“Oh my god,” Whitaker whispered.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, breathing shallow, trying to ground himself. Think. Don’t spiral. You’re not hurt. You’re not—
The smell of food drifted in from somewhere down the hall.
Bacon. Toast. Something buttery.
And coffee.
Footsteps approached. Calm. Unhurried.
Whitaker’s stomach dropped.
Robby appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower, holding a mug in one hand and looking infuriatingly composed.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re awake.”
Whitaker stared at him like he’d just materialized out of thin air. “Why am I in your bed.”
Robby paused, clearly clocking the panic immediately. “Okay,” he said evenly. “You’re sober. That’s good. How bad is your head?”
“That is not—” Whitaker swallowed hard. “Robby- Dr. Robby! Why am I here?”
“You were sick last night,” Robby said. “You made it to the sink. Barely. I didn’t think leaving you alone on the couch was safe.”
Whitaker dragged a hand down his face, mortified. “I threw up.”
“Yes.”
“In your kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“And you—” He gestured helplessly at the hoodie. “This?”
“You didn’t want to sleep in your clothes,” Robby said simply. “I gave you something clean.”
Whitaker’s ears burned. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and loaded. Whitaker’s brain was catching up now—lining things up in ways that made his chest tighten uncomfortably.
Robby set the mug down on the nightstand. “You don’t have to get up yet. But I made food. Hangover food.”
Whitaker blinked. “You… made me breakfast.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “I’m not a monster.”
Whitaker huffed a weak, humorless laugh and let himself sink back against the pillows. The movement jostled his skull and he winced.
“Okay,” Robby said immediately. “Too much.”
“I’m fine,” Whitaker lied.
Robby crossed the room without hesitation and pressed two fingers gently to Whitaker’s wrist, checking his pulse like it was the most natural thing in the world. Whitaker held still, breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and something worse.
“You’re hydrated,” Robby said. “No fever. You keeping things down now?”
Whitaker nodded. “I think so.”
Robby straightened slowly, studying him. Really studying him.
“This version of you,” he said carefully, “is very different from last night.”
Whitaker swallowed. “I don’t remember everything.”
“I figured.”
That didn’t help.
They moved to the kitchen eventually—slowly, Whitaker wrapped in the hoodie like a shield, Robby hovering just close enough to catch him if he swayed. Whitaker sat at the table, staring at the plate Robby set in front of him like it might explode.
“Eat,” Robby said. “Then we’ll talk.”
Whitaker winced. “That bad?”
“Yes.”
Whitaker forced down a few bites, the grease and salt helping more than he wanted to admit. The quiet stretched again, but it was different now—less frantic, more tense.
Finally, Whitaker set his fork down. “Okay,” he said softly. “We should talk.”
Robby leaned back against the counter, arms crossed—not defensive, but contained. “Agreed.”
Whitaker took a breath. “I crossed lines.”
“You were intoxicated.”
“I still crossed them.”
Robby nodded once. “Yes.”
Whitaker’s hands twisted in the sleeves of the hoodie. “I don’t remember everything I said. But I remember enough to know I shouldn’t have called you. Or said… things.”
“You didn’t do anything unforgivable,” Robby said. “But it did force us to confront something we’ve been avoiding.”
Whitaker looked up sharply. “So it’s not just in my head.”
Robby hesitated. That was answer enough.
“There’s tension,” Robby said carefully. “At work. Between us. It’s been there for a while.”
Whitaker laughed quietly, humorless. “Great. I love being right about the worst possible thing.”
“This is exactly why it’s a problem,” Robby continued. “I’m your attending. I’m responsible for you. For your training. Your safety.”
“And last night?” Whitaker asked. “What was that?”
Robby met his gaze, steady. “That was me making sure you didn’t get hurt.”
Whitaker nodded slowly. “And the rest?”
Robby exhaled. “The rest is… complicated.”
Whitaker’s chest tightened. “I don’t want to be a liability. Or a mistake. Or some rumor.”
“You’re not,” Robby said firmly. “But we need boundaries. Clear ones.”
Whitaker swallowed. “Even if—”
“Especially if,” Robby cut in gently.
Silence again. Not empty. Heavy with things unsaid.
“So what are we?” Whitaker asked finally, voice quiet but steady.
Robby considered him for a long moment. “Right now?” he said. “We’re two people who care more than they should in a situation that doesn’t allow for it.”
Whitaker nodded, eyes stinging. “That sucks.”
“Yes,” Robby agreed softly. “It does.”
They sat there like that for a while—no touching, no dramatics. Just honesty, fragile and necessary.
Eventually, Robby spoke again. “You’re not in trouble. We’ll keep this professional at work. If you need space, say so.”
Whitaker managed a small, tired smile. “I don’t need space. I just need… clarity.”
Robby nodded. “Then we’ll take this one day at a time.”
Whitaker looked down at the hoodie, fingers tightening briefly in the fabric.
“Can I keep this?” he asked quietly.
Robby’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “You can.”
Some things, at least, didn’t need to be taken away.