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Dennis is having a terrible, no good, very bad day.
Well, instead of day, he means shift. But it's the same difference really.
Somehow in the first three hours, he’s had seven scrub changes—a record high for him, as Santos so kindly points out.
When seven turns to eight, Dr. Robby takes pity on him and sends him to triage. Which is arguably a worse punishment than if Dennis had been pissed on again. This is only further solidified when a patient in the waiting room throws up on him, covering him from sternum to toe.
Lucky for them, they are elevated from triage to a trauma room for their likely concussion.
On his way to the scrub exchange, Dr. Robby takes a glance at him, eyes crinkling with his smile. “Not your day, is it, Dr. Whitaker?”
And screw him because his damn hand reaches out to clasp him on the shoulder, almost making Dennis’ shit luck worth it, only for Dr. Robby to wince and take a step back before it collides with the patient’s lunch.
“Definitely not,” Whitaker sighs.
He’s met with Mohan’s sympathetic face as he continues on his way. But while he’s nodding at her, trying to express his disbelief, he nearly collides with Langdon, who jumps back, knocking a water bottle off the desk behind him.
Dennis watches as he reaches out to steady it, only for him to overcompensate and send the rest of it flooding over Dennis.
A small part of him wonders if he did it on purpose—some sort of payback for becoming Robby’s “new golden boy” as Trinity says, or maybe it’s his way of getting the man’s attention. But Dennis doubts it based on the way Langdon genuinely apologizes.
Behind him, Dr. Robby snickers. He’s cut off by Dana when she asks, “Don’t you have patients to get to?” And with a pointed look, he’s scurrying off to a room.
Dana sends Dennis a wink before yelling at Langdon to do the same.
He gives her a small look of thanks as he finally gets to the bathroom, snagging a gown on the way since he’s already gone through all his undershirts. He washes off what he can before stripping out of his scrubs and tying the gown. He only hopes he doesn’t run into Santos or Javadi or literally anyone who will send off the final confirmation to Ahmad to start a betting board.
He can already picture it. How many scrub changes? How will the next one be contaminated? And either What will be the worst one? or Which one will break Whitaker’s spirit?
He figures the last two will have the same answer.
Fate or God or whatever might be looking over him nowadays must be on his side because he gets his new pair of scrubs somehow in his size without issue.
On his way back, he gets called into a STEMI and manages to not get anything on his scrubs or lose the patient. He even gets a genuine smile rather than a teasing one from Dr. Robby.
All things considered, Dennis thinks things are looking up.
Of course, that piece of hope is the final nail in his coffin.
And it’s so dumb. Just… so stupid how it all goes down.
An incoming patient with a questionable object inserted and lost in their rectum comes in, squirming on the gurney uncomfortably enough for a small bottle to slip out of their pocket unnoticed by the others.
It’s especially unnoticed by the second set of paramedics rushing in a victim with a GSW to the leg. Barely anyone notices the little bump on the way to trauma room two—not when the patient goes asystole, and there’s a rush to start CPR and shouts for epinephrine.
When the second round of epinephrine is in, by some miracle, they get a normal sinus rhythm back. Dr. Robby makes eye contact with Dennis as he stops his compressions, and the monitor continues beeping. He holds his fists up towards the younger man, his eyes twinkling when Dennis’ fists connect with his.
There are instructions thrown out, and Whitaker follows easily, but nothing can stop him from riding the high that comes from Robby’s validation—his own personal drug. So much so that he doesn’t watch where he’s stepping as he’s leaving the room with a bounce to his step that collides with a small pool of slick liquid.
Both his feet go out from under him, and he feels his head hit the ground with a sickening thud that immediately makes him nauseous. He rolls to his side, eyes falling on a busted open bottle of lube of all things. He groans and is hefted on his feet by Mohan, who calls out for anyone nearby.
He tries to wave her and Mel off, but they insist on getting him to a room, especially when he dry heaves. And really, it’s because he got the wind knocked out of him a bit, but he can’t get that out when he can barely catch his breath.
Mel clips on a finger sensor connected to a pulse oximeter monitor, which he tries to yank off, only to be greeted by the sight of Dr. Mohan’s murderous gaze. He very reluctantly lies back and reminds himself to never get on her bad side.
He carefully follows the doctor’s finger, eyes shifting smoothly from left to right and up and down. He feels oddly triumphant when he passes this part of her exam and is more than ready for the next.
“How are—”
“I feel fine. No nausea, blurry vision, LOC, drowsiness, or hearing problems. Slight headache, but that’s been present since I clocked in.”
“What—”
“October nineteenth, twenty-twenty-six. Monday. Approximately twelve in the afternoon of the worst shift of my life.”
Mohan raises her eyebrows at him.
“Sorry,” Dennis apologizes, even though he doesn’t feel entirely sorry. “Am I good?”
Before she can answer, Dr. Robby steps into the room, hands coming up to the back of his neck as he stares at Dennis. “What happened here?”
“He slipped outside. Assessing for a concussion now,” Mel states.
“Patient is alert and—”
“Patient can hear you,” Dennis complains, already feeling flustered from being in the presence of the older man.
“—his vitals are stable. BP…” Mohan trails off, staring at the screen behind him.
“What?” Dennis asks, glancing at the monitor. His blood pressure looks fine, a bit elevated but understandable from the tail end of adrenaline following his fall. And other than that, he’s… Oh. He frowns at his BPM of 114. That’s… unusually high for him.
Mohan looks back at Robby. “I swear his BP has been in the normal range with his pulse at eighty-five during most of my assessment.”
“Order a CT,” Robby says.
“I don’t need…”
He trails off when he gives Whitaker a stern look that makes his stomach flip. Yessir.
He risks a glance at his monitor, seeing the number rise again, and oh. Oh. Oh no.
Box breathing exercises. That’s what he can do. Breathe in for seven. Hold for seven. Don’t think about his boss for seven. Breathe out for seven. Wait.
“Dr. Robby, you’re needed in trauma four,” Jesse says, peeking into the room.
“CT,” Robby demands, pointing at him as he steps out.
He sighs and lies back on the bed carefully so he doesn't put pressure on the growing bump on his head. This is so completely embarrassing; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever recover.
Mel steps out, promising to check back in while she can, leaving Dennis with Mohan, who orders the CT.
“Don’t you think this is a bit excessive?”
She glances at him and shrugs. “Can’t argue with the boss.”
At the mere mention of him, Dennis sees his heart rate spike. He fights the urge to take off the damn pulseox. Instead, he asks, “How soon until I can get that CT scan?”
“Do you want my honest answer or the optimistic answer?”
Dennis runs his hands over his face. “That’s enough of an answer, thank you.”
“I’ll come check on you when I can and send a nurse when you’re clear for the CT.” She gives him a brief squeeze of his wrist and gently says, “Take the breather. You deserve it.”
“Thanks,” he says, feeling tired suddenly. Unfortunately, he thinks they might do something insane like intubate him if he tries to take a nap while he has a “concussion.” He wonders if anyone will kill him if he tries to get someone to sneak him his phone. He thinks it might be worth the lecture about reduced screentime in the event of a head trauma.
He’s mid sneak out plot when Trinity pops up. She slips into the room with an ice pack and a smirk that doesn’t entirely reach her eyes. “How’s our Huckleberry doing? Suffering from heatstroke from shoveling too much hay?”
“Suffering from boredom.”
Her eyes scan the monitor, taking note of his vitals simultaneously nonchalantly and quickly, as if she doesn’t want him to know that she might care about him. “What do you say? Should we blow this joint?”
“If I could, I would. I’m not sure who would kill me first. Dr. Mohan or Dr. Robby.”
Trinity’s usual glint of mischief returns to her eyes as she hands him the ice pack. “Definitely, Dr. Robby. Couldn’t have his favorite squeeze toy run away,”
Breathe, Dennis. Breathe.
Trinity’s eyes flicker to the screen, a pinch forming between her brows.
Fuck.
Dennis presses the ice pack onto the bump forming on his head, hoping that it will explain the rise in numbers. But with impeccably awful timing, Dr. Robby chooses that moment to enter the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands. “How are we doing in here?”
Santo’s eyebrows climb up her face as she stares at the monitor. “Uh, patient’s heart rate is suddenly spiking.”
Fuck his life. Truly.
Robby steps closer to the monitor and reaches out, resting a hand on Dennis’ shoulder. “Breathe.”
Like anytime Dr Robby gives him a command, Dennis immediately follows, but it doesn’t help. He’s pretty sure he’s having damn heart palpitations.
“It does that sometimes,” he explains lamely.
It does not help the worry in the older man’s eyes. He rushes off muttering, “Where is the damn status on that CT? God help me, I will—” The door closes effectively cutting him off.
Dennis doesn’t dare to glance at Santos. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t.”
She doesn’t listen, the smile growing on her face. “I fucking knew it.” She jabs him in the arm, sharp enough to get a high ow out of Dennis. “You lied!”
“I did not.” He definitely did.
Santos’ gaze shifts from giddy to cautiously on edge. “What? Did you not trust me?”
“That’s not—”
“Not cool, Huckleberry. I wouldn’t spread shit like that.”
Dennis sits up, hands steepled together in some sort of odd prayer or plea. “I know you wouldn’t. But, really, I don’t have feelings for Dr. Robby.”
That smirk reappears. “I never said anything about feelings or Dr. Robby.” He tries to deny it, but she points at his monitor. “Ha! Your heart is a horrible liar.” She stares at him for longer than any person should stare at someone. The humor doesn’t leave her face, but she lightly questions, “Is this denial like an internalized homophobia thing from your religious upbringing?”
“What? No.” When she raises her eyebrows, he gives her a flat look and repeats, “No. This is about self-preservation and praying or wishing something into existence. Or non-existence.”
“Huh?”
He glances to the hall and drops his voice low enough that he’s not sure if even Trinity can hear. “If I don’t acknowledge my feelings for Dr. Robby, then I don’t have them.”
“Aren’t you acknowledging them by trying not to acknowledge them?”
He frowns and drops his head back, wincing when the bump hits the cot. “Fuck,” he mutters, not sure if it’s about the pain or Santos’ reality check. Probably both.
There’s commotion in the hallway, and Santos punches his arm, gently enough that he knows it’s her way of showing that she’ll keep his secret. “Back to the action. Don’t have a heart attack over the man.”
He rolls his eyes. If he can survive working consistent twelve-hour shifts with the man, he can survive a few check-ins.
He takes that back the next time Dr. Robby steps into the room with a bottle of Advil.
Dennis frowns at him but accepts the pills.
“Dr. Mohan mentioned a headache in your chart.”
“It was there before the concussion.”
He nods. “I know. You’ve been rubbing your temples since the start of your shift.”
He noticed that?
Oh no. Heart, please don’t betray him now.
Luckily, Robby doesn’t glance at the monitor as he takes a seat next to him. Dennis nearly blurts out that there's no need because his patient satisfaction scores are through the roof when it comes to him, then he starts thinking maybe Dr. Robby was right to order a CT.
“Do you happen to know what you slipped in? We wouldn’t want anyone else getting hurt.”
As he mentions it, Dennis suddenly feels the wet presence of that damn lube on his back and somehow the sleeve of his shirt that Dr. Robby is staring at. He tries to hide it, not wanting to downgrade from damp scrubs to a scratchy paper hospital gown. “Uh, promise not to tell anyone else?”
Robby gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure they’ve heard it all.”
“Lube.”
“What?”
“I slipped in lube.” His heart rate is definitely not at a normal sinus rhythm. “I think it was from the patient with the foreign object in his um… rectum. Something slipped out of their pocket when they came in.”
Robby stares at him incredulously. He pats his thighs before standing up. “You just made me a much richer man.”
Dennis frowns. “What do you mean?”
He winces, and a strange bashful look crosses his face. “Forget I said anything.” With that, he rushes off.
So, Dennis might actually have a concussion because what the fuck was that?
He tries to wave down nearly anyone to ask what Robby meant, but there seems to be a sudden increase in high-priority traumas. He hopes he didn’t somehow jinx anything.
Eventually, Dana stops by and gives him a sympathetic, “Hey, kid.”
“Do you know why Dr. Robby would be richer because of me?”
A look of bewilderment crosses her face. “How long have you been holding that in?”
“Sorry,” he says, genuinely embarrassed at the way he blurted that out. “He just said something about me making him a richer man after I told him that I slipped in… a substance.”
Maybe it’s seeing him in the hospital bed or the genuine flush that spreads over his face, but Dana takes pity on him. “They started another betting board. Pretty sure Robby won whatever ruined this pair of scrubs. Speaking of, do you want me to grab you a new pair?”
Dennis barely gets an answer out. There’s a lot of stuttering and thank yous and a yes somewhere in there. But he’s mainly out of whack from learning that Dr. Robby somehow bet that lube would contaminate his scrubs. As in, Robby thought about him and lube within the same thought.
“Do you happen to know when that CT will be available?”
“Not sure, kid. But take a few breaths—your heart rate is all over the place.”
There’s something in the way she looks at him that makes him think she knows, but he doesn’t press her about it. That’s not a conversation he’s ready for any time soon.
He grabs a gown from under the bed and strips down once Dana pulls the curtain and steps onto the other side. He pulls it back when he’s done and hands her the clothes with a genuine, “Thank you.”
“Welcome, kid.”
He gets back on the bed and clips the monitor back onto his finger, calming the commotion.
Still, Dr. Robby appears a few minutes after Dana leaves. “Everything good in here?”
“Yep,” he says, obnoxiously popping the p and wishing he hadn’t as soon as it’s out.
Robby’s eyes trail down his body, and he fights back a fond grin. “Did you get anything else on you?”
Jesus, he needs to stop.
“No, Dana took my scrubs for me.”
Dr. Robby nods and takes a step closer to him, laying a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “Try not to ruin this one.”
He’s trying to kill him. Or maybe Whitaker is completely unconscious and unable to escape this weird coma dream.
The man’s eyes land on the monitor that Dennis is sure is giving away all his secrets. His finger travels up his throat, pressing against his carotid pulse. It only makes things worse.
Dennis sees it in Dr. Robby’s eyes, a moment of realization. He carefully steps back, face blank as he informs him, “I’ll send someone to take you up for your CT.” He’s out of the room and probably headed straight to HR.
God, Dennis is so screwed. He almost hopes he has some sort of brain damage so he can explain this all away.
It’s not long before Nurse Kim stops by and brings him up to Neurology. She tries to have a conversation with him, but he’s a lost cause. Hopefully, she doesn’t report this to Dr. Robby, who could then gracefully send him on his way out of the ED with excuses of lapses in conversation, pointing to signs of brain damage. By the time he’s cleared by Robby, the man will shift Whitaker to the night shift and only ever see him in passing.
He kills time during his CT by spiraling. Worst case scenario, he loses his medical license, is shamed out of Pittsburgh, and has to move back home and work on his family’s farm the rest of his life. Best case scenario, Robby blames everything on his mild concussion, and they move on with their lives.
There are a lot of in-between scenarios he manages to come up with. One involves him becoming an exotic male dancer at the strip club a few blocks away from the hospital. He thinks that one might amuse Santos.
He makes his way back down, hoping he can make up some excuse for his irregular heartbeat that only appears around one man.
Unfortunately, said man is waiting for him when he comes back to his room.
Dennis bids Kim a pitiful, distracted goodbye. He can do this. He is calm, cool, collected, and entirely chill around anyone he wants to be.
“How was your scan?”
Nope. Not around that man.
“Fine,” he answers, getting back on the bed in a manner that is very graceful and not at all embarrassing or involving an awkward hop.
Dr. Robby grabs the gray sensor and clips it back over his finger.
Damn him.
“I can put 3-leads on you as well,” he threatens when he sees the look on the younger man’s face.
“The finger sensor is just fine,” Dennis decides.
“Good boy.”
The monitor beeps at them, warning them that not only is his pulse through the roof, but his blood pressure is joining it.
Dr. Robby frowns at the monitor and tilts his head at the door. “I’m going to check on a patient and give you a moment to relax.”
Seems like an entirely bad idea, but Dennis welcomes it. And as soon as he is out the door, he feels like he can breathe again.
Too bad Dr. Robby appears minutes later, frowning yet again when the monitor suddenly skyrockets. He turns his gaze to Dennis and stuffs his hands into his pockets, shoulders coming up as he huddles in on himself. Oh god. Here comes the question. “Dr. Whitaker, do I make you uncomfortable?”
Dennis chokes down his apology, reassessing the situation from his boss’s point of view. And with much wisdom and sophistication, he asks, “Huh?”
Dr. Robby glances around, moving closer into the room and drawing the curtain. Another warning beep pops up, and the older man gestures to the monitor. “I can’t help but notice that every time I’m in your presence, you’re at risk of having a stroke. Is it something that I’ve done?”
“No,” Dennis is quick to say. “No, you haven’t done anything.”
“But I still make you uncomfortable,” he states.
Dennis shakes his head. “No, sir. You don’t make me uncomfortable.”
He grabs the ends of his stethoscope, stress radiating throughout his body. “Well, Dr. Whitaker, your heart doesn’t agree with your mind on this one. I can move you to the night shift if needed.”
“No!” he exclaims. “Jesus, no. You don’t make me uncomfortable, you just… fluster me.” His voice goes two octaves too high, and he can feel the flush rising up his chest, splotching his cheeks. He might as well have passed him a handwritten note asking, “Do you have a crush on me?” with empty boxes for yes or no. Except that could easily be filed into an HR report.
Still, Dr. Robby seems to have gotten it. His own cheeks turn red as he loses his composure. “I-I see. Right. You…” He shakes his head and clears his throat. “Let’s wait to discuss this until your CT scan is back.”
He leaves the room at an alarming pace.
At this point, Dennis hopes he has brain damage.
A moment later, Santos peeks her head into the room and asks, “What did you do? Confess your undying love for him or something?”
Dennis puts both hands over his face. He’s so screwed.
“Dennis,” Santos whispers. “Tell me you did not just confess your feelings to our boss.”
“He was going to move me to the night shift because he thought I felt uncomfortable around him! What was I supposed to do? Lie?”
“Yes!”
Dennis already knows his heart would give him away even if he tried. He always got in trouble for wearing it on his sleeve as a boy. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be long before it caught up with him.
Santos sighs and grabs a pair of scrubs Dennis hadn’t noticed lying in a chair. “Here. Get comfy and don’t be too worried. There’s a reason you’re his favorite. Plus, he’s been super cranky without you out there today. I can’t imagine him willingly handing you over to Dr. Abbot over some crush that he totally returns.” She's out of the room before he can get in a response.
He pulls on the scrubs and tries not to think too hard about her words. He’s just thankful to be back in pants. Especially when Dr. Mohan returns to the room and pulls up his scan. She turns the screen to him.
Much to his dismay, it’s completely normal.
“You should be all clear as long as Dr. Robby lets you back.”
“Don’t you have the authority to give me clearance?”
Mohan flashes him wide eyes. “I do not want to get in between whatever it is Dr. Robby feels for you.” And on that confusing note, she turns off the monitor and unclips the sensor from his finger. “Good luck.”
“Thanks?” he asks her retreating form.
He feels ridiculous taking up a bed he knows another patient needs. Maybe he can just find Dr. Robby outside the room.
He opens the door, only for the man to grab him and practically manhandle him back into the room. Thank goodness he can’t look at his pulse now.
“Dr. Mohan cleared me—”
“Shh.”
“Sorry,” he says, awkwardly hovering near the bed. He doesn’t want to admit defeat and climb back on it.
Robby grabs his glasses and perches them on his nose. He pulls up the CT scan and carefully looks it over. It should only take a few seconds, but he keeps the image open for far longer than that before reluctantly agreeing, “CT is normal.”
“So, am I clear to work?”
Robby folds up the glasses and tucks them back in his pocket. “No. Put the pulse oximeter back on.”
Dennis complies, not wanting to fight too hard because he’s seen the way the man pushes back. He turns on the monitor and places the sensor back on, sitting on the edge of the bed. Based on the crease between Robby’s brows, the numbers are still high.
“These… flustered feelings,” he says carefully, “How long have you had them?”
“Sir, I rather not—”
“Were they present before your fall this morning?”
Dennis stares into his brown eyes, seeing that he needs this answer. So, he nods.
He rolls his chair closer, eyes moving to the screen. “And is this something that happens every time I approach you?”
“The elevated heart rate?”
“Mhm.” He rolls even closer.
“Yes,” Dennis answers honestly.
Dr. Robby gently lays a hand on his shoulder. The monitor beeps again. “And when I touch you, it gets worse.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, but Dennis still breathes out, “Yes.”
Robby’s thumb moves up and down his collarbone in a sweeping motion before stopping suddenly. “Are you’re okay when I touch you like this?”
Dennis nods, not trusting what noises will come out with a response.
“Do you want me to continue?”
“Please,” he whispers.
Robby holds his gaze, a small smile forming on his face. “And you’re sure that these feelings weren’t present before your fall?”
“Christ, Dr. Robby, I’ve wanted you since my first shift. And you know I don’t have a damn concussion, so cut the bullshit.”
The space is eerily quiet besides the monitor that warns of hypertension.
Dr. Robby blinks at him a few times and glances out of the room. He stands up and tugs the curtain shut. He pulls the stethoscope from around his neck and starts to put the ends in his ears.
“Dr. Rob—”
“Just Robby or Michael right now. And humor me.”
Dennis falls silent, allowing Robby to carefully approach and press the flat end against his chest. The short length of the cord makes everything feel more intimate, especially when Robby maintains eye contact as he listens to his heart. He gets a twinkle in his eye as he shifts forward impossibly closer, his left hand planting on his shoulder, squeezing.
Robby’s lips quirk up. “Fascinating,” he states, close enough that Dennis can feel his breath on his lips.
“Will you allow me to test the limits of my effect on you?” he asks, his gaze dipping to Dennis’ lips.
Honestly, Dennis isn’t entirely sure what he said, but he groans, “If you don’t kiss me right now, I actually might have a stroke.”
Robby chuckles softly, but Dennis silences him, moving forward and capturing his lips in a desperate kiss. He’s pretty sure he’s experiencing heart palpitations, but he doesn’t care when Robby groans against his mouth, lips parting enough so Dennis can deepen the kiss. At the first brush of Robby's tongue behind his teeth, Dennis knows he's definitely experiencing heart palpitations.
Dennis tries to pull him impossibly closer, desperate for the burn of his beard he’s been dreaming about. He’s pretty sure Robby is on the same page when he shoves him back on the bed, nearly getting fully on top of him until the door opens and a voice says, “What the fuck is—” the person gasps when they pull back the curtain only to immediately yank it back in place.
Robby breaks away from him, standing up and doing a shit job at pretending to be relaxed.
As for Dennis, he’s an absolute panting mess who can do nothing but turn off the monitor that’s screaming at them.
As soon as it’s off, the voice that turns out to be Santos firmly says, “As happy as I am for you, I do not want the substance I betted on ruining Dennis' scrubs to come true.” She sighs and reluctantly adds, “I’ll hold everyone off for five minutes. Only five. And I’m lying and saying you are getting a thorough check of your scalp and a lecture about watching where you step.”
When she leaves, Dennis risks asking, “What substance did she bet on?”
“Semen.”
“Oh, god,” he groans. “Trinity…” he draws out her name. He’s going to make sure he eats every single one of her avocados from now on.
Beside him, Robby laughs.
“Don’t encourage her.”
“She isn’t in the room.”
“She can sense it,” Dennis states, patting down his hair, wincing when he makes contact with the goose egg forming at the back of his head.
Robby moves forward, his hand gently tracing over the bump. “We’ll have to get you another ice pack, but you’ll be good to work the rest of your shift. In five minutes, that is.”
“Four,” Dennis corrects lightly.
Robby hums, fingers moving from his head back to where his blood is pumping in overtime through his carotid.
Dennis flushes, hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“I don’t think this reaction is healthy,” Dennis comments.
Robby shakes his head. “I’m a doctor. It’s fine.”
“Well, I’m also a doctor, and I say you’re going to give me a heart attack,” he jokes.
“There’s a way to fix this,” Robby comments, leaning in closer.
Dennis smiles. “And what way is that?”
“Exposure therapy,” he says against his lips, kissing him briefly one last time before breaking away.
Dennis frowns and chases after him.
“We have patients,” Robby says, smile still present, but fading to a subdued fondness. “When we leave this room and until the end of your shift, I’m Dr. Robby to you, okay?”
Dennis nods. “As long as I’m Dr. Whitaker to you out there and Dennis elsewhere.” He slides off the bed and straightens his clothes, trying to act casual as he asks, “I will see you elsewhere, right?”
The fondness returns full fold to his eyes as Robby steps closer to him. “Yes, Dennis, you will be seeing me elsewhere.” His name has never sounded better. “In fact, you’ll be seeing me for the next twenty-four hours. After all, concussions require a twenty-four-hour watch period.”
Dennis gapes. “I don’t have a concussion. Besides, Santos—”
“Is working tomorrow while we’re both off.” He grabs his shoulders and squeezes. “Sorry, sweetheart, but you’re stuck with me.”
Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart.
Robby presses a final kiss to his lips. “We’ll discuss more of what this means tonight at my house. Or maybe tomorrow after I’m sure this isn’t lasting effects from brain damage.”
“Robby—”
“That’s Dr. Robby to you,” he says, pulling back the curtain. “See you out there, Dr. Whitaker.” He leaves the room with an extra bounce in his step that Dana catches as she happens to pass by the room.
She raises her eyebrows at Dennis, who flushes and rushes back out into the hall, ready to get back to work.
Santos sidles up to him quickly as he makes a round. “So, are we going to debrief tonight?”
“Can’t, I have other plans, so don’t wait up for me. But debrief tomorrow night?”
Santos’ jaw drops, but there’s a hint of pride in her eyes. “You are dirty, Huckleberry,” she says as she opens the curtain to check on a patient.
And since fate can never be too kind, her words quickly come true in the form of a burst of blood during an ill-timed bandage change. Somehow, not a drop gets on Santos.
Even with five more scrub changes, Dennis can’t be too mad at the end of the day. Especially when Robby wins the full board and uses the money to treat him to an expensive dinner.
Little do they know, Dana goes home that night much richer from the longest betting board seen in the history of the PTMC ER. Good thing she knew on day one how to bet on those boys.