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The thing about hunger is that it stops hurting after a while.
Dennis Whitaker learned that at age eight, when his father locked him in the storm cellar for ‘back talking’ and forgot about him for sixteen hours. He learned it again at twelve, when meals became conditional on Bible memorization and Dennis could never remember the verses quite right. He learned it at seventeen, when he told his parents he wanted to study medicine instead of theology and his mother made him go to bed without supper ‘to think about his disobedience to God’s plan’.
And he’s learning it now, at twenty-six, hour eleven of a fifteen-hour shift at PTMC, running on black coffee and the fumes of adrenaline, his last meal a distant memory that might have been yesterday or might have been three days ago. Time does funny things when you stop eating. It stretches and compresses, becomes liquid, unreliable.
“Whitaker, retractor. Now.”
Dr. Michael Robinavitch’s voice cuts through the fog. Dennis blinks, refocuses on the trauma bay in front of him. Gunshot wound to the abdomen, nineteen year old female, critical. Blood everywhere- on the table, on the floor, on his scrubs (again, always). The monitors scream their warnings. The patient is coding.
Dennis reaches for the retractor. His hand shakes.
“Whitaker.”
He grabs it, holds it steady through sheer force of will. His vision tunnels slightly at the edges, a gray creep that he’s become familiar with over the past few weeks. He just needs to push through. He always pushes through.
Robby’s hands move with practiced precision- clamping, cutting, searching for the bleeder. “Come on, come on,” he mutters. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
The patient’s stats drop. Dennis watches the numbers fall like dominoes- heart rate plummeting, blood pressure tanking, O2 sat diving. He’s seen this before. He knows how it ends.
His hands shake harder. The retractor slips.
“Whitaker, hold it steady!”
He adjusts, grips tighter, but his fingers have gone numb. When did that happen? The gray at the edges of his vision spreads inward, eating the light. The room tilts.
Not now. Please not now.
“I’ve got the bleeder- Whitaker, are you-”
Dennis doesn’t hear the rest. The floor rushes up to meet him, except it doesn’t because someone catches him, strong hands under his arms, lowering him down with surprising gentleness. The last thing he registers is Dr. Jack Abbot’s face above him, dark eyes sharp with concern, and then everything goes black.
He wakes up to the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room and the distinct sensation of an IV in his arm. For a disorienting moment, he doesn’t know which side of the patient-doctor divide he’s on. Then memory crashes back- the trauma bay, the shaking hands, the fall.
“Fuck.” he whispers.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Dennis turns his head too fast, which makes the room spin. Jack Abbot is sitting in the chair beside the bed, still in scrubs from night shift, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looks exhausted but then, Jack always looks exhausted. That’s what happens when you work nights and do SWAT medical calls on the side and probably never sleep.
“What-” Dennis’s voice comes out rough. He swallows, tries again. “What happened?”
“You passed out during a trauma. I caught you before you hit the floor.” Jack’s tone is deliberately neutral. “You’ve been out for about twenty minutes. Dana’s running labs.”
As if summoned, Dana Evans appears in the doorway, tablet in hand, her expression the particular kind of stern that means someone is in serious trouble.
“Welll,” she says, “the good news is you didn’t crack your skull open. The bad news is pretty much everything else.” She taps her tablet. “Glucose of 45. Severe hypoglycemia. Electrolyte imbalanced. Dehydration. Signs of malnutrition.” She looks at Dennis with those sharp charge nurse eyes that see everything. “When’s the last time you ate, Dennis?”
Dennis opens his mouth. Closes it. He genuinely doesn’t know.
The door opens again, and Robby walks in, still in his trauma gown, still flecked with the patient’s blood. His face is carefully blank in that way attending physicians have when they’re furious but trying to maintain professionalism.
“Out,” he says to Dana and Jack. Not a request.
Dana raises an eyebrow but leaves. Jack doesn’t move.
“I said out, Abbot.”
“No.” Jack’s voice is quiet but immovable. “I’m staying.”
Robby and Jack stare at each other for a long moment, some wordless conversation happening in the space between them. Finally, Robby’s shoulders drop slightly.
“Fine. Stay.” He turns to Dennis. “The patient didn’t make it. Bled out before we could repair the damage.” His voice is clinical, detached. Then it cracks slightly. “And you almost joined her on the floor because you decided eating was optional.”
Dennis flinches. “I’m sorry, I-”
“When did you last eat?” Robby interrupts. “And don’t lie to me, Whitaker. I will know.”
The truth sticks in Dennis’s throat. He tries to think back, yesterday? The day before? Time is soup, thick and impossible to navigate.
“I don’t… I don’t remember,” he admits finally.
“Bullshit.” Robby’s hands clench into fists. “Try again.”
Dennis closes his eyes. Rewinds. There was coffee this morning (stolen from the break room). Before that… crackers? Maybe? From the vending machine? When was that? Tuesday? What day is it now?
“Three days,” he whispers. “Maybe four. I had ramen. From the machine in the lobby.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
When Dennis opens his eyes, Robby is staring at him like he’s just spoken a foreign language. Jack’s expression hasn’t changed, but something dark flickers in his eyes - recognition, maybe. Understanding.
“Four days,” Robby repeats, his voice dangerously quiet. “You haven’t eaten in four days, and you thought it was a good idea to assist in a critical trauma?”
“I forgot.” Dennis says, which is the truth. He did forget. It’s easy to forget when hunger stops feeling like anything at all.
“You forgot.” Robby runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in bloody spikes. “Jesus Christ, Whitaker. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I needed to show up for my shift,” Dennis snaps, surprising himself with the anger. “I was thinking I have student loans in default and parents who won’t speak to me and if I screw this up, I lose everything. I was thinking I don’t have the luxury of taking care of myself when I can barely afford to exist.”
The words hang in the air, too honest, too raw. Dennis wants to take them back, but they’re out now, bleeding all over the sterile hospital room.
Robby and Jack exchange another look. This time, Dennis catches something in it, a shared history, an understanding that goes deeper than colleagues.
“You’re off the schedule.” Robby says finally. “Minimum seventy-two hours. You need clearance from psych and nutrition before you come back.”
“I can’t-” Dennis starts.
“Not negotiable.” Robby’s voice has shifted into attending-giving-orders mode. “And someone needs to monitor you. Make sure you actually eat. Make sure you don’t collapse again.”
“I’ll stay with him.” Jack says. Not an offer. A statement.
Robby nods. “My place. We’ve got more room.”
“Wait.” Dennis says, looking between them. “Your place? Together?”
Jack’s mouth quirks slightly. “Yeah. Together.”
Oh. Oh. Dennis’s brain tries to process this new information and fails. Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot. Together. He’d never noticed, never suspected, but now that he’s looking for it, he can see it- the way they move around each other like planets in orbit, the shorthand communication, the tension that’s not quite professional.
“I can’t impose,” Dennis says weakly.
“You’re not imposing.” Robby says. “You’re accepting help. There’s a difference.” He softens slightly. “Look, Whitaker. Dennis. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I know it’s more than just forgetting to eat. And I know what it’s like to be barely holding on. So let us help you. Please.”
The ‘please’ breaks something in Dennis’s chest. He nods, too tired to argue, too empty to fight.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay..”
Robby’s apartment in Shadyside is nothing like Dennis expected. It’s lived-in, comfortable in a way that speaks of actual habitation rather than just a place to sleep between shifts. Bookshelves overflow with medical texts and paperback thrillers. The couch is old leather, cracked and soft. The coffee table is covered in medical journals and what looks like a half-finished crossword puzzle.
Jack’s presence is everywhere too, military preciseness in the way the shoes are lined up by the door, a prosthetic maintenance kit on the side table, a SWAT medical bag in the corner.
Dennis stands in the middle of the living room feeling like an intruder, his backpack (containing all his worldly possessions, three changes of clothes, a toothbrush and his medical textbooks) hanging heavy on his shoulders.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Robby says, shrugging off his jacket. “You can take the guest room. There’s clean sheets already on the bed.”
“I can take the couch,” Dennis offers.
“Guest room.” Robby repeats firmly. “You’re going to be here for at least three days. You get an actual bed.”
Jack had disappeared into the kitchen. Dennis can hear cabinets opening, the sound of running water. “I should-” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “I don’t want to intrude. You two probably want privacy, and I’m-”
“Stop.” Robby steps close, not quite touching but near enough that Dennis can spell the hospital antiseptic clinging to his scrubs. “Listen to me. You’re not an intrusion. You’re not a burden. You’re a person who needs help, and we’re people who want to help you. Can you try and accept that?”
Dennis’s throat tightens. He nods, not trusting his voice.
“Good.” Robby’s expression softens. “Now go shower. You’ve got patient blood in your hair. I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
The shower is hot and endless, and Dennis stands under the spray until the water runs clear, until he can’t smell the trauma bay anymore. When he emerges, there's a stack of clothes on the bathroom counter, sweatpants and a t-shirt, both too big (Robby’s, he guesses) and a note in unfamiliar handwriting, Food in 20 minutes - J.
He dresses slowly, his body feeling strange and disconnected. In the mirror, he looks like a stranger, too thin, shadows under his eyes like bruises, cheekbones too prominent. When did that happen? He used to look healthy. He used to look like himself.
He doesn’t remember when that changed.
When he emerges from the bathroom, Jack is setting plates on the small dining table. The food is simple: scrambled eggs, toast, sliced strawberries. Small portions. Non-threatening.
Dennis’s stomach clenches at the sight of it.
“Sit,” Jack says, not unkindly.
Dennis sits. Robby appears from the bedroom in clean clothes, hair still damp, and takes the seat across from him. Jack sits beside Dennis, close enough that their elbows almost touch.
They’re both watching him. Waiting.
Dennis stares at the plate. The eggs are perfectly golden. The toast is cut into triangles. The strawberries are bright red, fresh. It looks like the kind of meal someone makes when they care.
His chest aches.
“I’m not hungry.” he says, which is true. He hasn’t felt hungry in weeks. Months, maybe.
“I know,” Robby says gently. “You’re going to eat anyway. Three bites. That’s all we’re asking.”
Three bites. It sounds simple. It sounds impossible.
Dennis picks up the fork. His hand shakes. He manages to get some egg onto it, raises it to his mouth, and stops. The voice in his head - his father’s voice, always his father’s voice - whispers, You don’t deserve this. You’re wasteful. Gluttonous. How dare you take food when you’ve done nothing to earn it.
“Dennis.” Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, warm and steady. “You’re allowed to eat. You know that, right?”
Does he? Dennis isn’t sure. Food has always been conditional in his life, dependent on good behaviour, correct bible verses, unquestioning obedience. Even after he left home, even after medical school, the rules remained embedded in his nervous system. Eat only when you’ve earned it. Eat only when you deserve it. Eat only when-
“Three bites,” Robby repeats. “You can do this.”
Dennis forces the fork to his mouth. The eggs taste like nothing at first, then everything. Salt and butter and something that might be care. He swallows. His throat works around the texture, struggling.
Two more bites. He can do two more bites.
Except halfway through the second bite, tears start streaming down his face. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. The eggs are good. The people are kind. Everything should be fine. But it’s not fine. Nothing is fine. He’s twenty-six years old and crying over scrambled eggs in his attending physician’s apartment because he forgot how to be human.
“Hey.” Robby’s voice cuts through the spiral. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to finish.”
“I’m sorry,” Dennis chokes out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why-”
“Don’t apologize.” Jack’s hand is still on his shoulder, grounding him. “You’re doing great. Two bites is good. That’s enough for now.”
But it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing ever feels like enough.
They don’t make him eat more. They just sit with him while he falls apart, while tears drip into his eggs and his whole body shakes with the effort of holding himself together.
Eventually the crying stops. Dennis feels hollowed out, exhausted in a way that goes deeper than lack of sleep. “The guest room is ready when you are.” Robby says quietly. “We’ll try again in the morning.”
Dennis nods, stands on shaky legs and lets Robby guide him down the hall to a small bedroom with pale blue walls and a bed that looks impossibly soft. He collapses onto it without bothering to get under the covers as sleep drags him under like a riptide.
He wakes up at 2 am to the sound of voices in the kitchen. For a moment, he’s back in Nebraska, eight years old listening to his parents argue about whether he’d earned dinner. Then reality snaps back, Pittsburgh, Robby and Jack’s apartment, the aftermath of his collapse.
Dennis gets up quietly, padding down the hallways in bare feet. The kitchen light is on, casting a warm glow. Through the doorway, he can see Jack sitting at the table, prosthetic off, massaging his residual limb. Robby is making tea, his back to the room.
“-can’t force him.” Jack is saying, his voice low. “Trust me, I’ve been where he is. After the IED, after I lost my leg and half my unit, I couldn’t eat for weeks. Everything tasted like ash. The guilt-”
“I know about guilt.” Robby interrupts softly. “After Adamson died. After COVID. I understand.”
Jack looks up at him. “So what do we do?”
“We keep trying. Small meals, consistent. We don’t push too hard, but we don’t let him give up either.” Robby pours two mugs of tea, and sets one in front of Jack. “And we figure out what the hell happened to make him think he doesn’t deserve to eat.”
Dennis must make a sound, because both of them turn toward the doorway. He freezes, caught.
“Can’t sleep?” Jack asks, unsurprised.
Dennis shakes his head. “Nightmares.”
“Join the club.” Jack gestures to the empty chair. “Tea?”
Dennis hesitates, then enters the kitchen. Robby is already pouring a third mug. They settle into a strange triangle. Dennis across from Jack, Robby at the head of the table. For a while, no one speaks. The silence is surprisingly comfortable, broken only by the clink of mugs and the distant sound of traffic outside.
“Afghanistan,” Jack says finally, still massaging his leg. “2019. The IED took out our convoy. I lost my leg and six good men.” He looks at Dennis. “For months after, I couldn’t eat. I couldn't sleep. Kept thinking- why did I survive when they didn’t? What made me special? What made me worth saving?”
Dennis’s throat tightens. “What changed?”
“Time. Therapy. Someone forced me to keep going even when I wanted to quit.” Jack’s smile is crooked. “And eventually, I realized that surviving wasn’t a privilege I had to earn. It was just… what happened? And I could either honor my guys by living, or dishonor them by wasting the life they gave me.”
Robby is staring into his tea, expression distant. “Dr. Adamson died during COVID. March 2021. He was my mentor, my… he was like a father to me.” His voice cracks slightly. “I watched him code in the ER. Watched him die in the place he’d worked for forty years, surrounded by people in hazmat suits instead of the people who loved him. And afterwards, I couldn’t-” He stops, swallows hard. “I stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Started drinking too much. Ended up on the roof of this hospital at 2 am wondering if jumping would hurt less than staying.”
“What stopped you?” Dennis whispers.
Robby’s eyes cut to Jack. “Someone talked me down. He reminded me that I was allowed to grieve without destroying myself in the process.”
The air in the kitchen feels heavy with shared trauma, with understanding that goes beyond words. Dennis looks at these two men, broken in their own ways, scarred and surviving and feels something crack wide open in his chest.
“My parents cut me off,” he heard himself say. “Years ago. When I told them I was leaving the theology program to go to medical school. They said I was abandoning God’s plan. That I was selfish and sinful and-” He can’t finish. The words his father used are too ugly, too poisonous.
Jack’s expression darkens. Robby’s hands tighten around his mug.
“They sent me one last check,” Dennis continues, staring at his hands. “Five hundred dollars and a note that said I was on my own. They’d raised me in the faith and I’d chosen to spit on everything they taught me. They haven’t spoken to me since.”
“Jesus.” Robby breathes.
“Growing up, food was- it was a weapon. A control mechanism.” The words pour out now, unstoppable. “If I misbehaved, I didn’t eat. If I couldn’t recite my bible verses, I went to bed hungry. My father used to say that gluttony was a sin and I needed to learn self-denial.” Dennis laughs, bitter. “I got really good at self-denial.”
Jack’s jaw is tight. “That’s not discipline. That’s abuse.”
“I know.” Dennis does know, intellectually. He’s read the literature on childhood trauma, on food insecurity, on the long-term effects of parentification and religious abuse. But knowing doesn’t make the programming go away. “But I can’t- I can’t turn it off. The voice in my head that says I don’t deserve to eat unless I’ve earned it. Unless I’m good enough. And I’m never good enough.”
Robby reaches across the table, covers Dennis’s hand with his own. “You’re enough. Just as you are. You don’t have to earn the right to exist.”
Dennis wants to believe him. God, he wants to believe him so badly it hurts. “I don’t know how to accept that,” he admits.
“Then we’ll teach you.” Jack says simply. “One meal at a time.”
They sit together in the kitchen as the night bleeds toward dawn, three broken people trying to piece each other back together. And for the first time in longer than Dennis can remember, he doesn’t quite feel so alone.
The mandatory psychiatric evaluation happens on day 2.
Dr. Jefferson’s office is in the hospital’s administrative wing, decorated with the kind of soothing neutrality that’s supposed to make people comfortable but mostly just makes Dennis anxious. Framed nature photographs. A white noise machine. Tissues strategically placed on every surface.
Dr. Jefferson herself is in her fifties, with kind eyes and the sort of direct manner that suggests she doesn’t have time for bullshit. “So,” she says, settling into her chair with a notepad. “You collapsed during a shift due to severe hypoglycemia and malnutrition. Walk me through how we got here.”
Dennis does. He talks about medical school, about the student loans that feel like drowning, about living in room 847 of the abandoned eight floor because he couldn’t afford rent. He talks about sending money home to his parents before they cut him off, about the ingrained patterns of food restriction, about how easy it was to just… forget.
Dr. Jefferson takes notes, asks clarifying questions, doesn’t react with horror or pity. Just clinical interest. “Have you ever been diagnosed with an eating disorder?” she asks.
“No.” Dennis fidgets with the hem of his borrowed sweatshirt (Jack’s, smells like detergent and something woodsy). “I don’t- it’s not about wanting to be thin. It’s not about body image.”
“Eating disorders aren’t always about appearance.” Dr. Jefferson says. “ARFID, Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder is characterized by food restriction that isn’t motivated by body image concerns. It’s often driven by anxiety, trauma, sensory issues, or in your case, a complicated relationship with food shaped by childhood abuse.”
The word abuse sits heavy in the room. Dennis has never called it that before. Discipline. Punishment. Consequences for sin. But not abuse.
“I’m also seeing signs of depression and PTSD.” Dr. Jefferson continues. “Medical trauma, specifically. Dennis, when you lose a patient, what goes through your mind?”
“That I failed them. That I should have been better, faster, smarter.” The words come automatically. “That I don’t deserve to eat or sleep or rest until I can be good enough to not let it happen again.”
“And you understand that’s an impossible standard.”
“Intellectually, yes.”
“But emotionally?”
Dennis is quiet.
Dr. Jefferson sets down her pen. “Here’s what I’m going to recommend. Weekly therapy sessions with me or another provider. Consultation with our nutritionist to develop a sustainable meal plan. Continues monitoring from Dr. Robinavitch and Dr. Abbot. And medication. I’d like to start you on SSRI for the depression and anxiety.”
“I can’t afford-” Dennis starts.
“Hospital employee assistance program covers it. You’re a medical student on rotation, you qualify.” She tears off a prescription sheet, hands it to him. “Start with 25mg of sertraline, we’ll increase it if needed. And Dennis? Recovery isn’t linear. You’re going to have bad days. Days where you can’t eat, where the guilt is overwhelming. That’s normal. The goal isn’t perfection. It’s progress.”
Dennis takes the prescription with shaking hands. “What if I can’t do this?”
“Then you keep trying anyway. That’s all any of us can do.”
Day 3 brings the nutritionist appointment and grocery shopping with Robby.
The nutritionist, Anie, is younger than Dennis expected, probably early thirties, with a sleeve of tattoos and a no-nonsense attitude.
“Okay,” she says, reviewing his food journal (three days of dare: two bites of eggs, half a bowl of oatmeal, crackers, tea, more crackers). “We’re working with food insecurity trauma, religious trauma around food, and anxiety-driven restriction. That’s a lot, but it’s manageable.”
She designs a meal plan that’s low-pressure. Three small meals a day, two snacks, focus on foods that feel safe. Permission to eat less on hard days. Permission to eat more on good days. No rules about ‘good’ or ‘bad’ foods. “The goal is to rebuild your relationship with food,” she explains. “Right now, food is punishment. We need to make it neutral. Eventually, maybe even positive.”
Dennis nods, taking notes, trying to ignore the voice in his head that says he doesn’t deserve this kindness.
Afterward, Robby drives him to the grocery store. It’s a Giant Eagle in Shadyside, bright and overwhelming with its endless aisles of choices.
“Pick five things you actually like.” Robby says, grabbing a cart. “Not what you think you should eat. But what you want.”
Dennis stands frozen in the produce section. Want. He genuinely cannot remember the last time he ate something because he wanted it, not because it was cheap or available or necessary. “I don’t know,” he admits.
Robby considers this, then starts picking things off shelves. “Okay. Let’s try this- I’ll suggest things, you tell me yes or no. No judgment.”
They end up with: good coffee, sourdough bread, strawberries, peanut butter (comfort food from before everything went wrong), instant ramen (reminds him of late nights in undergrad when things were simpler), greek yogurt, hummus, chocolate (Dennis hesitates so long that Robby just put it in the cart anyway).
At checkout, Dennis sees the total and his chest constricts. Eighty-three dollars. That’s- that’s too much, he can’t afford this, he shouldn’t have picked the good coffee, he should have-
“I’m buying.” Robby says, pulling out his credit card before Dennis can protest. “Don’t argue.”
“I can’t let you-”
“You can, and you will.” Robby’s voice is firm but not unkind. “Dennis, Jack and I make an attending salary. You’re a student living off loans. Let us help. Please.”
The please again. Dennis’s defenses crumble. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“You’re welcome.” Robby loads the bags into the cart. “Now let’s go home. Jack’s making dinner and if we’re late he gets grumpy.”
Home. The word settles somewhere in Dennis’s chest, warm and fragile.
That night, Jack makes spaghetti with meat sauce. The kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes and something that might be safe.
They eat together at the small table. Jack and Robby flanking Dennis like bookends, close enough to touch. Dennis manages half a bowl before his stomach rebels, but it’s more than yesterday and both men notice.
“Good job.” Jack says quietly.
Dennis wants to argue that eating half a bowl of pasta isn’t an accomplishment but the genuine pride in Jack’s expression stops him.
After dinner, they migrate to the living room. Some unspoken agreement has formed. Dennis on the couch, Robby and Jack on either side of him, the TV playing something mindless (a cooking show, ironically). It’s comfortable in a way that feels dangerous, like Dennis is being lulled into believing he belongs here.
Halfway through the episode, Robby’s hand lands on Dennis’s shoulder. A casual touch, grounding. On his other side, Jack’s arm stretches along the back of the couch, not quite touching but close enough that Dennis can feel the warmth. “Can I ask you something?” he says during a commercial break.
“Shoot.” Jack replies.
“How long have you two been…?” he gestures vaguely between them.
Robby and Jack exchange a look.
“Officially? About six months.” Robby says. “Unofficially? Since Jack talked me off the roof a few years ago.”
“The night after Dr. Adamson died,” Jack adds. “I found Robby on the hospital roof at 2 am. Spent three hours convincing him that jumping wasn’t the answer.”
“And then you kept showing up.” Robby says softly. “At my apartment. At the hospital. Wouldn’t let me self-destruct in peace.”
“Someone had to.” Jack’s smile is crooked. “You were doing a pretty good job of drinking yourself to death.”
“And you were doing a pretty good job of working yourself to death between the ER and SWAT calls.”
“So we made a deal. I’d cut back on shifts if he’d cut back on whiskey.”
“Did it work?” Dennis asks.
“Mostly.” Robby admits. “We still have bad days. But we have them together now.”
The implication hangs in the air. You could have them with us too.
Dennis isn’t sure what to do with that. These are his attendings. His mentors. The power dynamic alone makes this complicated, let alone whatever’s growing between the three of them- this strange intimacy born from crisis and care. “I don’t want to mess this up,” he says quietly. “What you two have. It’s good, and I’m just-”
“You’re not messing anything up.” Jack interrupts. “You’re here because we want you here.”
“But why?” The question bursts out. “I’m a disaster. I’m broken. I can barely feed myself. Why would you want-”
“Because we’re disasters too.” Robby says simply. “And maybe broken people are better at understanding each other.” His hand tightens on Dennis’s shoulder. “You’re not a burden, Dennis. You’re not an obligation. You’re someone we care about.”
The word care does something to Dennis’s chest. Makes it hard to breathe.
“I don’t know how to accept that,” he admits.
“Then we’ll teach you that too.” Jack says, echoing his words from two nights ago.
They watch the rest of the cooking show in silence, but it’s the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty. Dennis falls asleep there on the couch, bracketed by warmth on both sides and for the first time in months, he doesn’t have nightmares.
Day 10 brings the first major setback.
Dennis has a therapy session with Dr. Jefferson where they dig into his childhood, the storm cellar, the missed meals, the way his father would quote Proverbs while denying him dinner. “He who works his land will have abundant food but he who chases fantasies lacks judgment.”
By the time he leaves the session, he’s shaking. The memories are too close, too vivid. He can still smell the storm cellar’s damp earth, still feel the hollow ache of going to bed hungry while his parents ate dinner upstairs. He goes back home (when did he start thinking of it as home?) and can’t eat. Refuses dinner. Locks himself in the bathroom because being in a small enclosed space feels right somehow, feels like what he deserves.
Jack finds him there twenty minutes later sitting on the bathroom floor with his knees pulled to his chest. “Hey.” He says softly from outside the door. “You don’t have to come out. But I'm staying right here.”
Dennis doesn’t respond. Can’t. The words are stuck behind his teeth along with everything else. The shame, the guilt, the certainty that he’s failing at recovery just like he fails at everything else.
An hour passes. Dennis can hear Jack shifting position outside the door, the soft sound of his prosthetic adjusting. He’s probably in pain, sitting on the floor can’t be comfortable with his residual limb but he doesn’t leave.
Eventually, Dennis unlocks the door.
Jack is exactly where Dennis expected, sitting against the wall, prosthetic off, clearly uncomfortable but determined. He looks up when the door opens. “Hi.” he says.
“Hi.” Dennis’s voice is rough. “Your leg hurts..”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You shouldn’t have to-”
“I wanted to.” Jack pats the floor beside him. “Sit with me?”
Dennis sinks down next to him, shoulders touching. They sit in the hallway in silence, backs against the wall, like two soldiers in a foxhole. “I had a bad therapy session...” he says finally.
“Yeah. I figured.”
“Talked about my dad. About- about the punishments.”
Jack doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a granola bar. Offers it without comment. Dennis stares at it. “I can’t.”
“You can. You don’t have to finish it. Just try.”
Dennis takes the bar with shaking hands. Unwraps it. The first bite tastes like sawdust, but he swallows anyway. Then another bite. And another. Halfway through, he starts crying again, quiet, exhausted tears that he doesn’t have the energy to hide. Jack’s arm comes around his shoulders, pulls him in close. Dennis ends up with his face pressed against Jack’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of hospital soap and something uniquely him, while he falls apart over a granola bar in a hallway.
“You’re doing so good,” Jack murmurs. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are.”
Dennis wants to believe him. He’s trying so hard to believe him.
When Robby gets home from his shift an hour later, he finds them still in the hallway. Jack with his arm around Dennis, Dennis with the empty granola bar wrapper clutched in his fist like a trophy. Robby takes one look and sinks down on Dennis’s other side, sandwiching him between them. “Bad day?” he asks.
Dennis nods against Jack’s shoulder.
“Okay. We’ll get through it. Together.”
And they do.
By week 3, small intimacies have become routine.
Robby’s hand on Dennis’s shoulder during difficult meals. Jack pulling Dennis against his side during movie nights. Dennis falling asleep with his head in Robby’s lap while Jack reads medical journals. The boundaries between mentor/student, caregiver/patient, friend/something more have blurred beyond recognition.
No one has named it yet. But it’s there.
Week 3 also brings the mandatory weight check with Dana.
Dennis steps on the scale with his eyes closed, heart hammering. When Dana reads out the number, he’s gained seven pounds.
Seven pounds.
It should be good news. It is good news. But all Dennis can feel is the loss of control, the certainty that he’s failing at the one thing he could manage. He spends the rest of the day staring at himself in the mirror, pulling at his clothes, trying to see if he looks different. Trying to see if he looks like a failure.
Robby finds him there that evening, standing in front of the bathroom mirror in just his boxers, examining every inch of himself with critical eyes. “What’s going on?” Robby asks from the doorway.
“I gained weight.” The words come out flat.
“I know. Dana told me. That’s good, Dennis. That’s what we wanted.”
“I feel out of control.” Dennis can’t look away from his reflection. “Like I’m failing at the one thing I was good at.”
Robby is quiet for a moment. Then he steps into the bathroom, stands beside Dennis so they’re both reflected in the mirror. “You were never in control,” he says gently. “You were starving. That’s what you would call control.”
“It felt like control.”
“I know. But it was killing you.” Robby’s hand lands on Dennis’s shoulder. “Look at yourself. Actually, look. What do you see?”
Dennis forces himself to look. Really look. “I see someone who’s… less thin than before.”
“I see someone who’s alive,” Robby counters. “Someone whose eyes don’t look hollow anymore. Someone who can make it through a full shift without collapsing.” His voice softens. “I see someone who's doing his best.”
Dennis’s throat tightens. “What if I can’t do this? What if I relapse?”
“Then we catch you and start again. You will have bad days again, where you can't eat because the guilt is eating you alive. But that's how it works. Recovery isn't a linear path like most people think. And we’ll be here for those days too.”
“Why?” The question comes out broken. “Why do you guys care so much…?”
Robby turns Dennis to face him, hands gentle on his shoulders. “Because you matter. To me. To Jack. You matter and watching you destroy yourself was destroying us too.”
The words hang between them, heavy with meaning.
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Dennis whispers. “Both of you. And I don’t know if that’s real or if I’m just confused because you’re taking care of me.”
Robby’s expression softens. “It’s real, Dennis. And for the record, we’ve been falling for you too.”
“But I’m your student. The power dynamic-”
“It’s complicated. I know.” Robby’s thumb brushes Dennis’s collarbone. “We can’t act on this while you’re still on rotation. That’s a line we can’t cross. But after? When you’re a resident and we’re just colleagues?” His smile is small, hopeful. “We can figure it out then.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, we will take care of each other. We keep you healthy. And we don’t pretend we don’t feel what we feel.”
It’s not a perfect solution. But it’s honest. And Dennis has had so little honesty in his life that it feels like oxygen. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
Robby leans in slowly, giving Dennis time to pull away. He doesn’t. The kiss is soft, chaste, over almost before it begins. But it’s enough. When they break apart, Jack is standing in the hallway, watching with an expression Dennis can’t quite read. “I didn’t mean to-” he starts.
“Don’t apologize.” Jack limps into the bathroom, his prosthetic must bother him after another long shift. “I’m not jealous. We’re not- this isn’t a competition.”
“Then what is it?” Dennis asks.
Jack looks at Robby, then back to Dennis. “It’s three people who care about each other trying to figure out how to make that work.” He reaches out, cups Dennis’s face with careful hands. “Is this okay?”
Dennis nods, breathless.
Jack kisses him too. Different from Robby’s kiss, more intense, like he’s been holding back for months and finally has permission to let go. When they break apart, Dennis is shaking. “We’re doing this,” he says, half question, half statement.
“Yeah,” Robby confirms. “We’re doing this.”
It’s not a solution to everything. Dennis is still in recovery, still has bad days, still struggles with every meal. But he’s not facing it alone anymore. And that makes all the difference.
Week 6 brings clearance to return to work.
Dr. Jefferson and Anie both sign off. Dennis has gained fifteen pounds (still underweight, but improving), his labs are better, he’s attending therapy twice weekly and mostly sticking to his meal plan. He’s cleared for reduced shifts (ten hours maximum) with mandatory meal breaks.
The first shift back, Dennis is terrified.
He stands in the locked room at 6:45 am, staring at his reflection in his clean scrubs and wants to run. What if he can’t do this? What if the stress triggers restriction again? What if he fails?
Robby finds him there, frozen. “Hey,” he says softly. “You good?”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can. And I’ll be here. We’re on the same shift.”
“You arranged that.”
“Damn right I did.” Robby’s smile is quick. “Come on. Let’s go save some lives.”
The shift is… manageable. Busy but not overwhelming. Dennis assists on a few traumas, does intake on minor injuries, and helps with a pediatric asthma attack. At hour six his stomach growls, actually growls, and honest to god hunger cue. He goes to the break room, pulls out the lunch Jack packed (sandwich, apple, chips and a note. Proud of you. Kick today’s ass. - J), and eats.
Santos walks in halfway through his sandwich, takes one look at him actually eating and nods approvingly. “Good to see you taking care of yourself, Huckleberry,” she says, grabbing coffee.
“Thanks, Santos.”
She pauses at the food. “For what it’s worth? You look better. Healthier. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” It’s the closest thing to open affection he’s ever gotten from Santos, and it makes his chest warm.
The rest of the shift passes without incident. By the end, Dennis is exhausted but satisfied. He didn’t collapse. He ate. He survived. It feels like a victory.
Week 7 brings a close call.
Bad shift. Multiple traumas, including a pediatric code that Dennis leads. A seven year old hit by a car. They work him for forty minutes, pushing every drug, trying every intervention but the kid doesn’t make it. Dennis calls time of death with a voice that doesn’t sound like his own.
Afterward, he goes through the motions, documentation, talking to the family, debriefing with Robby. But inside, he’s screaming.
He comes home (it’s home now, officially- he moved his meager possessions into the guest room two weeks ago) and can’t eat dinner. The guilt is overwhelming. A child died, and Dennis is supposed to just… eat? Like everything’s fine? He tries to explain this to Jack and Robby but the words won’t come. He just shakes his head when they offer food, retreats to his room, curls up on the bed.
An hour later, both of them appear in his doorway.
“We’re not leaving.” Robby says.
“And we’re not making you eat right now.” Jack adds. “But we are staying with you.”
They climb onto the bed on either side of Dennis. Robby at his back, Jack in front, creating a protective cocoon. No one speaks. They just hold him while he cries for a child he couldn’t save.
Around midnight, Jack goes to the kitchen and comes back with hot chocolate. Doesn’t say anything, just hands Dennis the mug. He drinks it slowly. Then, because Jack is watching with those patient eyes, he eats a piece of toast. It’s not enough. But it’s something.
“The kid’s name was Miles.” Dennis says finally. “Seven years old. His mom said he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up.”
“I’m sorry.” Robby murmurs against his shoulder.
“Me too.”
They sleep like that. Tangled together, three broken people holding each other through the dark.
Week 8 brings an unexpected visitor.
Dennis is at the apartment (his day off) when the buzzer rings. He’s not expecting anyone. Jack is on shift and Robby is doing paperwork at the hospital. When he answers, his mother’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Denny? It’s mom. Can we talk?”
His blood turns to ice. He hasn’t spoken to his parents in years. Not since the check and the note and the silence. He should tell her to leave. He should protect himself. Instead, he buzzes her up.
She looks older than he remembers, more gray in her hair, new lines around her mouth. She’s wearing her ‘going to town’ clothes, the good dress she saves for church and special occasions. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, hovering in the doorway.
“Hi.” Dennis doesn’t invite her in. Can’t.
They stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment. “I heard you were in the hospital.” she says finally. “Someone from our church saw the admission. They said you collapsed. That you were-” she struggles with the word. “Malnourished.”
“Yeah.”
“Denny, I-” her voice cracks. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know things were so bad.”
The anger rises fast and hard. “You didn’t know because you cut me off? You stopped talking to me. You made it very clear I was on my own.”
“Your father thought tough love was the right approach. That you needed to see the consequences of your choices.”
“My choices?” Dennis laughs, bitter. “I chose to become a doctor. To help people. And Dad punished me for it the same way he punished me for everything by taking away food, by making me feel worthless.”
His mother flinches. “It wasn’t- he was trying to teach you discipline.”
“He was abusing me!” The words come out louder than Dennis intends. “He locked me in the storm cellar. He denied me meals. He made food conditional on obedience and perfection and I was a child, Mom. I was a child who couldn’t meet impossible standards, and he starved me for it.”
Silence. His mother’s face has gone pale.
“And you let him.” Dennis continues, quieter now. “You stood by and let it happen. So no, I don’t want to hear about tough love or discipline or God’s plan. I nearly died because I learned so well not to eat unless I’d earned it.”
“Dennis-”
“You should go.”
“Please, let me-”
“Go.”
She leaves. Dennis closes the door and slides down the wall, shaking with adrenaline and rage and grief for a childhood he’ll never get back. That’s how Robby finds him an hour later, sitting on the floor, crying. “What happened?” he asks, sinking down beside him.
Dennis tells him everything. When he’s done, Robby pulls him close. “I’m sorry,” he says fiercely. “I’m sorry they did that to you. I’m sorry they made you think you had to earn the right to exist.”
“She wanted to apologize, I think. But it’s too late. The damage is done.”
“Maybe. But you survived anyway. Despite them. And you’re here now, and you’re healing and they don’t get to come in between that.”
Dennis leans into Robby’s warmth, let himself be held.
When Jack gets home from his shift, he takes one look at them and joins the pile without asking questions. They stay like that until the sun sets, three people choosing each other over and over again.
Epilogue: Three months later
Dennis wakes up to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and the warm weight of another person’s arm across his waist. For a moment, he’s disoriented, then the memory settles. Jack and Robby’s bed. He’s had a nightmare and ended up here. Robby is on his other side, still asleep, one hand fisted in Dennis’s shirt like he’s afraid he will disappear.
It’s been three months since his collapse. Dennis has gained twenty two pounds (healthy weight range now, Anie confirmed). He still has hard days- meals he can’t finish, guilt spirals when he loses patients, moments when his father’s voice echoes too loud but he has tools now. Therapy. Medication. Support.
And he has this, two people who love him, who refuse to let him self-destruct.
The rotation at PTMC ended last week. Dennis is officially a resident now, which means the power dynamic that kept them from fully acknowledging what they were building had shifted. They’re colleagues now. Equals.
Dennis carefully extracts himself from the bed, trying not to wake either of them. Fails immediately as Jack’s eyes open alert in that combat medic way that never fully turns off. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning. Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t. Awake now.” Jack sits up, wincing slightly. “You making coffee?”
“I was thinking about making breakfast, actually.”
Jack’s eyebrows rise. Dennis cooking voluntarily is still new enough to be noteworthy.
In the kitchen, Dennis pulls out ingredients; eggs, cheese and vegetables for omelets. Cooking has become easier over the past few months. Not easy, exactly but less fraught. He’s learning to see food as fuel, as comfort, as care instead of punishment.
Jack emerges from the bedroom, followed shortly by Robby. They move around each other with practiced ease. Jack starting coffee, Robby setting the table and Dennis cooking. It’s domestic in a way that makes Dennis’s chest ache with something that might be happiness.
They eat together, all three of them at the small table that’s become the center of their makeshift family. Dennis finished his omelet, all of it without spiraling after. “I got a letter from my mom yesterday,” he says, setting down his fork. “She wants to try again. Apologized for- for everything. Said she and dad are getting counseling.”
“How do you feel about that?” Robby asks carefully.
Dennis considers. “I don’t know if I can forgive them. Maybe eventually. But I don’t have to rush it.”
“No, you don't." Jack confirms.
“For now, I’m focusing on this.” Dennis gestures between the three of them. “On us. On being healthy. The rest can wait.”
Robby reaches across the table, laces his fingers with Dennis’s. “We’re proud of you. You know that right? How far you’ve come?”
Dennis does know. Finally, impossibly, he knows.
They clean up breakfast together, then migrate to the couch for their Sunday morning ritual; coffee, crossword puzzle and comfortable silence. Dennis ends up in the middle (he’s always in the middle, he runs cold and they both run warm), Robby’s arm around his shoulders, Jack’s hand resting in his knee.
“I love you.” Dennis says to both of them. Not the first time, but it still feels new, fragile. “Both of you. I need you to know that.”
“We know,” Robby says, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We love you too.”
“Even when you steal all the blankets.” Jack adds, which makes Dennis laugh.
It’s not perfect. Dennis still has bad days, still fights his demons, still struggles with meals sometimes. But he’s not fighting alone anymore. He has Jack, who understands what it means to survive when others didn’t, who taught him that living is its own form of resistance. He has Robby, who understands grief and guilt, who showed him that healing isn’t linear but it’s possible.
And he has himself- slowly learning that he deserves to exist, to eat, to take up space in the world.
The road ahead is long. Recovery will take years, maybe forever. But Dennis is starting to believe he has years. He has a future. And for now, sitting between two people who love him full and warm and safe, and that’s enough.