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Dennis Whitaker’s phone screen glared back at him, radiating judgment and an anemic blue-white glow in the near-dark of his studio apartment. The Chase app displayed a grand total of $10.27, just enough to buy a coffee and a scone if he wanted to be reckless with his budget.  He couldn’t, because payday was still four days off and exactly one and a half slices of bread left in his fridge to subsist upon.

The overhead light stuttered every ten seconds, giving the illusion of a stop-motion horror film set.  Shadows staggered across the scuffed hardwood, exaggerating the mountainous heap of unwashed laundry and the skeletal silhouette of the Ikea futon that doubled as both bed and sofa. His apartment itself was a coffin-sized walk-up at the north edge of the city, strategically located above an all-night laundromat and next to an alley that, if nothing else, offered free wafts of fryer oil and burnt weed.

Dennis sat in the middle of it all, hunched over his little kitchen table, a piece of scavenged plywood that someone had left by the curb, balanced on milk crates and stained with at least four kinds of ancient takeout. He poked absently at the cracked glass of his phone, thumb scrolling through job listings he’d already memorized. He skipped the “Management Opportunity” posts and the too-good-to-be-true work-from-home scams. The only things left were low-wage shift jobs that paid less than he was making now, which was already less than a respectable adult should ever admit to.

Somewhere between “Line Cook – Immediate Start” and “Donate Plasma for $70,” his stomach let out an animal groan. It reminded him of a time he’d tried a three-day fast for charity in high school. Back when he thought suffering had a purpose, or at least a donor match on the other end. He grabbed a mug, handle chipped, interior permanently stained the color of old pennies, and drained the dregs of last night’s coffee, now cold and metallic on his tongue.

The air inside his apartment was almost as biting as it was outside. Even with the radiators hissing at full blast, the cold clawed its way through the ill-fitted windows and nested itself in his bones. He wrapped the only clean hoodie he had tighter around his chest, hunching up until his chin nearly disappeared.

That morning’s forecast blinked on the phone’s screen: “Light snow, heavy winds, high of 28 degrees,” delivered by a chipper meteorologist with teeth so perfect Dennis could practically hear his mother’s voice in his head.  “You’d have that smile too if you hadn’t wasted your life making poor choices.”

He banished the thought with a violent swipe of his thumb. Yet it clung, as it always did, heavy and insistent as a tick behind the ear. Dennis knew the exact day his life had detonated, one year, three months, and four days ago. He could chart it down to the hour: the argument, the slamming door, the sick lurch in his gut as he realized he was on his own.

Even before the words “I’m gay, Mom” had bounced off the granite countertops and shattered every last expectation in his parents’ faces, Dennis knew that was the day when the idea of becoming Dr. Whitaker was outside his reach.

His phone buzzed again, a notification from the scheduling app. Sophie, his manager, had added him to a double shift. “Of course.” He rolled his eyes and opened it, confirming what he already knew: tonight, like most nights lately, he’d be trading sleep for a string of closing and opening shifts and whatever spare change the regulars felt like tossing his way.

It took all the willpower he had not to smash his phone against the table as the promise of at least one night of full rest was ripped from him.

Instead, he dropped it face-down and braced his hands on the plywood. For a long moment, he just sat there, eyes closed, letting the cold and the hunger and the exhaustion have their way with him.

Then he stood up, stretched until his back popped, and peeled off his hoodie to reveal the barista uniform beneath. The shirt was technically a “small,” but it hung on his frame like a hospital gown, which was fitting in a way.

A year ago he’d been athletic, lean, but strong from hours at the university gym and eating whenever he wanted to. Now he looked like one of those before-and-after photos for malnutrition awareness, all collarbones and shadows. He raked a hand through his short brown hair, hoping it would distract from the pallor in his face.

The bathroom mirror was unkind. It magnified everything he’d rather not see: the sharpness of his jaw, the new lines under his hazel eyes, the faint redness around his nose from last week’s sinus infection that never really went away. Dennis bared his teeth, crooked, but charming in a lopsided way, or so his ex-boyfriend once claimed, and tried on a smile. The effect was more grimace than anything else.

He slipped into his coat, the cheap kind with foam insulation that made him look like a trash bag with arms, and headed out into the early morning.

The city was awake but subdued, cloaked in fog and the sort of thin, persistent sleet that soaked through jeans in under a minute. He ducked his head against the wind, hands jammed deep in his pockets, and started the mile-long walk to Grindstone.

The journey took him past his least favorite part of town: the Healthcare District, a row of gleaming towers where doctors and pharma reps sipped artisanal espresso and never had to count quarters at the end of the month. He’d shadowed here once, back before his world collapsed, and he’d loved the sense of purpose in those echoing corridors. Now, every glimpse of a white coat or hospital badge felt like a personal jab.

At the foot of the main building, a massive digital billboard advertised Robinavitch Medical Technologies’ new cardiac monitor—“Saving lives with the future of science!” Dennis snorted under his breath. He doubted his parents’ foundation would ever approve a grant for something as practical as affordable cardiac care, unless there was a photo op or a wing to name after themselves. Even now, he could picture his mother in her tailored suit, lips pursed as she posed beside the CEO for the annual donor gala, pretending at philanthropy while freezing her own son out.

He forced himself to look away, focused on the cloud of steam rising from the manhole covers and the rhythmic slap of his sneakers on the wet sidewalk. He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone in those towers would even remember him. Maybe that was for the best.

The “OPEN” sign at Grindstone glowed sullenly through the condensation-smeared windows. Dennis paused just outside, composing his face into something resembling energy and that could pass for basic customer service. He inhaled, braced for another day of forced cheer and caffeine stench, and pushed open the door.

+++++

The interior of Grindstone Coffee was the opposite of the city outside: overheated, overlit, and scented with equal parts espresso and buttered croissants. Dennis’s glasses fogged instantly, which gave him a second to compose his face before his manager, Sophie, speared through the steamy air.

“You’re late,” she said, not bothering to look up from the register. The clack of her acrylic nails on the touchscreen was louder than her actual voice.

“I’m three minutes early,” Dennis replied, forcing a smile. His cheeks prickled as he tried to look sincere, but the best he could manage was “barely conscious but not mutinous.”

“Uh-huh, whatever you say rat, I’ve got my eye on you.” Sophie’s gaze flicked to the tip jar, then to Dennis, then away. The tip jar had a hand-lettered sign “Tips for your hard-working baristas! <3 :)” and was perpetually five dollars short of what it should have been, possibly because Sophie skimmed from it any time she thought no one was watching. She’d been doing this so brazenly lately that Dennis was almost impressed.

Almost.

“You’re on espresso and counter until four,” she said. “After that, we have a private event, so no fuck-ups.” She pursed her lips, then seemed to remember she was supposed to be a supportive boss. “But you’re my best on register, so. Try not to look like you just crawled out of the grave, okay?”

“Will do, Chief.” He tied on his apron, already stiff with old milk and coffee grounds, and took his place behind the machine. The air by the steam wand was a balmy seventy-five, enough to thaw his fingers and lull him into a strange, almost narcotic comfort. For a moment, the smell of fresh grind and scalded milk was nearly soothing, making him forget how miserably he was on the inside.

It lasted until the first lull, about forty minutes into his shift. The place emptied out, leaving only a grad student asleep in the corner and a couple of business types muttering over spreadsheets. Time slowed to the rhythm of the clock above the menu board, tock, tock, tock, every second another nail in the coffin of his afternoon.

He wiped down the counter, lined up the sugar packets, and debated which self-help poster above the condiment bar was the most condescending. (“Every day is a fresh start,” according to a mug-waving cartoon sun.) Out of habit, he checked his phone, hoping that an email would finally break through, but the screen was blank; even his spam emails had given up on him.

At three-fifteen, the bell over the door gave a ceremonial jangle. Dennis didn’t look up right away, too busy reorganizing his little pyramid of to-go lids. Yet, the hush in the café changed, sharpened with the awareness that someone very out-of-place had entered the room.

He glanced up and promptly stared.

The man at the counter was the sort that never wandered into this neighborhood by accident: six-foot-plus, with the posture of someone used to occupying space and the suit of someone who could probably buy the entire block and not notice a dent in his bank account. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculate, his shoes were shined, and his eyes—steady, amused, a little curious, were locked right on Dennis.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, like he was checking into a five-star hotel, not ordering a five-dollar coffee.

Dennis snapped to attention, nearly elbowing a carton of half-and-half onto the floor. “Welcome to Grindstone. Uh, what can I get for you?”

The stranger looked at the menu for less than a second. “Black coffee, medium, one pump of chocolate syrup, no sugar, no cream. And… whatever you’d recommend from the pastry case.  I’d prefer something soft and sweet, if you know what I mean,” he said, with a playful wink.

Dennis blinked, unsure of how to read the man’s face and the obvious flirtation going right over his head. He’d never seen anyone order like that before, like it was a trust fall instead of a transaction. “We have a maple scone? Or banana bread? The scone is fresher, I think.”

“Perfect. Scone it is.” The man flashed a grin, straight, white, the kind of smile that made you want to be on its good side.

Dennis fumbled the order into the register, acutely aware of his own unwashed hair and the stale sweat in his armpits. He could feel the guy watching him, not in the judging way (which he was used to), but like Dennis was something interesting on TV and he didn’t want to miss a second.

The coffee brewed slow. The scone stuck to the pastry tongs and threatened to crumble. Dennis tried to summon a joke, his usual defense against attention—but all that came out was, “Sorry, I’m a little out of it. We’ve been slammed all day.”

The stranger’s eyebrows lifted, the tiniest signal of skepticism, but he let it go. “No trouble at all. Take your time, sweetheart.”

When Dennis slid the cup across the counter, his hands were shaking just enough to slosh coffee over the lid. He blushed, wiped it clean with a napkin, and braced himself for a complaint.

Instead, the man said, “I like the color of your eyes.” As if it was a normal comment to make to a barista you’d never met before.

Dennis felt his brain short-circuit. He’d been complimented before, sure, but usually by people who wanted a free extra shot or had ulterior motives that involved his ass, not his personality. “Uh. Thanks. I mean, they’re just brown.”

“They’re not. Hazel. And expressive,” the man said, dropping a five into the tip jar like it was a coin fountain. “You should be proud of them.  Those are strong eyes.  I can tell.”

The automatic “thank you, sir” got lost somewhere between Dennis’s mouth and his exhausted cortex where the man’s handsome face had concocted “hello, daddy”. What came out instead, barely above a whisper, was “Thank you, Daddy.”

Time didn’t exactly stop, but the world definitely paused to witness the train wreck.

 Dennis’s cheeks went to nuclear as he realized what he’d said. He tried to laugh it off, then stammered, “Sorry, I, double shift, I meant to say..  Thank you, Sir, I….”

The stranger just smiled, the grin doubling in wattage. “No need to apologize. I’ll take it as a compliment.” He extended a large, carefully manicured hand. “Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Robby to friends.  Though I don’t hate the idea of being called Daddy.  At least not in this context.”

The name had gravity.   The kind of gravity that made you feel crushed to the floor from the force of an entire solar system.

Dennis recognized it instantly.  Anyone who’d ever been pre-med, gone through medical school, or even watched daytime TV would know the name.

Robinavitch Medical Technologies.

The guy on the billboards, the magazine covers, the philanthropic profiles. This was not just a well-dressed stranger; this was a celebrity, at least in the circles Dennis used to dream about moving in.  One of the foremost brilliant minds in medicine, advancing its technology and innovations at a pace that made most research groups spin their heads.  All with the simple idea of making fast, effective medical equipment that was high quality, cheap to make, and ensured that every hospital could afford it.  Not just instruments or devices, either.  Dr. Robinavitch hand-created cutting edge medical techniques from his time in the armed forces and while working in someplace he called “the pitt”, where you didn’t always have technological marvels to save lives, and shared those techniques all across medical universities.

For a second, all Dennis could do was gape, starstruck before him. “I…  I know who you are,” he blurted. “Sorry. You’re, um. Kind of a big deal.  I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first, I uh…  I’m used to seeing you in a lab coat.  Or with more than three hours of sleep.”

Robby’s gaze went softer, more genuine. “A big deal?  Not to everyone, but I’m glad to be one to you.”

Dennis managed to regain a molecule of composure and took the offered hand, surprised by the warmth and softness of Robby’s grip. “Dennis. Whitaker.” He hesitated, wondering if he’d recognize his surname.

“Nice to meet you Dennis.  Please, call me Robby.  Or Daddy, whatever’s your speed,” Robby said, with a wink.

The coffee shop had gone oddly silent. Dennis could sense Sophie watching from the back, calculating whether this interaction would increase or decrease her afternoon tip haul. He quickly released Robby’s hand and stepped back, mind racing, mortified and weirdly exhilarated all at once.

“Do you always work doubles?  I didn’t want to say anything at first, but you look a little under the weather.  Not to mention underweight, overstressed, and what I’m guessing is an unhealthy addiction to caffeine and energy drinks.” Robby asked, casual but with a probing edge that made Dennis feel like he was being interviewed for something important.

“Lately, yeah. Need the hours.” He tried to keep his voice light, but even he could hear the edge of desperation in it.

“You must be exhausted.” Robby’s tone was halfway between concern and curiosity.

Dennis shrugged, not trusting himself to elaborate without oversharing. He busied himself with a rag, wiping a spot on the counter that didn’t exist.

Robby sipped his coffee, then set it down. “This is excellent,” he said, gesturing at Dennis. “I can always tell when a barista knows what they’re doing.  You certainly do work hard.”

Dennis snorted. “You’d be surprised how low the bar is.”

“I’m not,” Robby said. “I only seek out the best of company.” He looked at Dennis as if daring him to catch the double meaning.

Dennis’s face went warm again. He could barely meet the man’s gaze, so he focused on aligning the sleeves of bakery bags instead.

“Let me ask.  Would you mind if I’m a bit forward for a moment?  If I’m bothering you, I’ll leave, but…  There’s something important I need to ask.”  Robby said, still appraising Robby’s every move.

“More forward than you already are?”

“Much more.”

Dennis nodded.  He wasn’t used to being hit on, especially not by someone so important, but something in his chest shuddered and he finally looked up, meeting the man’s gaze.

Suddenly, Robby reached across the counter and gently touched Dennis’s hand. The move was so unexpected that Dennis froze, heart hammering. Robby’s palm was large, rough at the edges but soft in the center, the kind of touch that said he’d spent years both saving lives and signing checks.

“Do you need a Daddy, sweetheart?” Robby’s voice was low, just for him. “You look like the world’s stomped all over you, and I’d love to be able to take care of you.”

Dennis forgot how to breathe for a second. He could feel every neuron in his body firing, unsure if he should recoil, say something witty, or just melt on the spot. For the first time in months, he felt seen, not as a failure or a disappointment, but as someone worth noticing.

He laughed, nervous but genuine, and said, “I don’t think anyone’s ever offered to adopt me before. Most people run the other way.”

Robby smiled, thumb tracing a light line across the back of Dennis’s knuckles. “Well. Most people are idiots, and just so we’re on the same page, I’m not talking about adoption, sweetheart.  Though, you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Dennis didn’t know what to say to that. But for the first time all day, the exhaustion in his bones felt a little lighter.  The moment stretched, Dennis trying to decide whether this was all some elaborate prank or the part of his shift where he actually hallucinated from sleep deprivation.

He was still staring at Robby, his hand, specifically, which lingered on Dennis’s own, when Sophie made her entrance from the back. She moved with predator speed, her eyes darting from Dennis to the tip jar to Robby’s immaculate suit. The moment she registered the face beneath the salt-and-pepper hair, her entire body language reversed course.

“Dr. Robinavitch!” she gasped, voice flipping from bitchy drill sergeant to breathless fangirl in half a heartbeat. She grabbed a towel and started wiping the already clean counter, glancing up at Robby through her mascaraed lashes. “Oh my God, what brings you here? Do you live in the city?  I didn’t know that!?”

Robby looked at her the way you might look at a pigeon that had learned to speak English. “Occasionally, when I’m not travelling,” he replied, dry and polite. “I come to this area for the coffee, and to relieve my youth spent in the ER pitt.” He let his hand slip from Dennis’s, slow enough to draw blood to Dennis’s cheeks.

Sophie barely waited for the words to finish before launching her next salvo. “We’re such big fans, my fiancé is always talking about your apperances on TV, and, like, what you do for the hospitals that are underfunded or patients that can’t afford your products? It’s so inspiring!  You’re, just…  So great, you know?” She added a giggle that belonged in a perfume commercial.

Dennis wanted to sink into the floor. The only thing worse than being embarrassed in front of a hot stranger was being embarrassed in front of a hot billionaire, and the only thing worse than that was being embarrassed in front of a hot billionaire while your boss made a play for him like it was a reality show elimination round and she was gunning for that rose.  All while engaged.

“Bitch, you’re shameless.” Dennis thought to himself.

He tried to say something, anything to reclaim a shred of dignity, but Robby beat him to it.

“Actually, Dennis here was just telling me about his double shift. He looks like he’s about to collapse. Are all your baristas this overworked?”

Sophie’s eyes snapped to Dennis, her smile barely flickering. “He’s just being dramatic. They all do doubles, it’s how we build team spirit!” She laughed, a brittle sound that echoed off the tile.

“Interesting philosophy,” Robby said, folding his arms. “But it doesn’t seem especially conducive to great customer service. Or health, for that matter.”

Dennis could sense the tension twisting inside Sophie. She wanted to defend herself, but every corporate survival instinct screamed “don’t piss off the philanthropist with a direct line to half the hospital boards in the country and who owns at least three hospitals in the state.” She settled for a simpering, “Of course! We value our team members so much, and you’re the doctor, after all! Dennis, why don’t you go on break? Take as long as you want.  Actually, feel free to take the day!  I’ll handle closing tonight, for Dr. Robby’s peace of mind.” She flattered her eyebrows, practically glowing as though she were some goddess on high descending to free the impoverished masses.

Dennis blinked. In the year he’d worked here, he’d never once been told to take a break before his shift was technically over.

Robby turned back to him, giving a slow, appraising look. “You heard your boss. Let’s get you some air, hmm?  Doctor’s orders.”

The next thing Dennis knew, Robby’s enormous hand was guiding him out from behind the counter and through the front door, all in one smooth motion.

Outside, the wind had kicked up, flinging icy dust across the sidewalk. Before Dennis could even register the cold, Robby was already shrugging off his suit jacket, a charcoal gray number so expensive it probably cost more than Dennis’s entire wardrobe, and draped it over Dennis’s shoulders with shocking gentleness.

“You don’t have to…” Dennis started, but Robby cut him off with a single finger to his lips.

“I want to,” Robby said, then dropped his hand, stepping back with the same crisp efficiency that suggested he was used to orchestrating much larger events than a barista rescue. “Let’s find a place to sit.”

They ended up on a bus stop bench, barely ten feet from the café window but, somehow, in a world entirely apart. The snow had started up again, soft and soundless, swirling around the two of them. Dennis huddled in the too-large jacket, feeling the silk lining and the faint, spicy scent of whatever cologne Robby wore. It didn’t seem possible that only twenty minutes ago he’d been half-asleep behind a coffee counter.

Robby handed him the coffee he’d just made and watched as Dennis took a grateful gulp. The heat was instant, the chocolate an indulgence, and for a moment, Dennis felt an impulse to cry from sheer relief. He covered it with a cough.

“So,” he managed. “I’m, uh. Really sorry about my boss. And about the…” He made a vague gesture, as if miming “Daddy Incident” would erase it from both their memories.

“No apology necessary.” Robby’s smile had softened into something less dazzling, more sincere. “She’s not the worst I’ve dealt with. To be honest, I rather liked your slip.  Gave me butterflies.  Haven’t had butterflies for a long time.”

Dennis choked on his coffee, then coughed until his lungs stopped rattling. “I’m not usually, I mean, it was an accident. The ‘Daddy’ thing.” He glanced up, saw Robby’s eyebrows raised just slightly, and added, “I’ve just been working a lot. Sometimes my brain… short-circuits.”

“Yours and mine both,” Robby said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’re the first person in a long time to call me anything other than ‘sir,’ ‘doctor,’ or ‘you’re blocking the sidewalk.’ I enjoyed it.”

Dennis’s laugh escaped before he could filter it. He risked a longer look at Robby, really taking in the hard lines of his jaw, the touch of tiredness around his eyes, the little crinkles that deepened when he smiled. This was a man who didn’t just play at confidence, he wore it like a suit of armor, and, for some reason, had decided to take it off just a little, for Dennis.

The silence between them was soft and natural. For once, Dennis didn’t feel compelled to fill it. The snow kept falling, a curtain of quiet, punctuated only by the hissing of distant bus brakes and the occasional rumble of a passing car.

Eventually, Dennis broke the spell. “So what is this? I mean, is this…  Are you actually interested in… me?  Is my brain getting the right memo that you’re flirting with me, or am I about to get a LinkedIn offer for a barista-to-clinical-trials pipeline?  Do you need test subjects?  Because honestly, if it pays good, you can inject me with anything you want.”

Robby laughed, an honest, open sound. “Tempting. But no. Though I do have a feeling you’d thrive in a better environment.”

Dennis shook his head, smiling into the rim of his coffee cup. “I’m not sure I even remember what that looks like anymore.”

Robby placed a hand gently on Dennis’s thigh, just above the knee. The weight was reassuring, not demanding. “Then let me show you.”

Dennis’s heart stuttered. He looked at Robby, searching for the catch or the punchline or the subtle hint of mockery. He found none. Only warmth, and a kind of mischievous challenge.

He sipped his coffee again, feeling the cold recede from his body, replaced by an odd, giddy heat. “Is this the part where you take me to a secret billionaire club and change my life?”

Robby grinned. “Only if you want me to.”

Dennis thought about the ten dollars left in his account, the double shifts, the parents who hadn’t called in a year. He thought about the weight of Robby’s suit jacket around his shoulders and the feeling, just for a second, of being wanted for something other than his labor.

He met Robby’s eyes and said, “Okay. Surprise me.”

Robby’s smile, so sharp and confident in the coffee shop, softened under the streetlights. “To be clear.  We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.  That is my first rule of these kinds of…  Engagements for me.” he said, voice quiet and low. “If you’d rather not talk, that’s fine. Though, to start off, if you want to unload, I’m a decent listener.”

Dennis opened his mouth, ready to default to the usual banter, but instead found himself blurting, “I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks. Not one that wasn’t about order minimums or my lack of a future.”

Robby’s hand returned to his shoulder, warm through the expensive fabric. “I’d like to hear your story. If you’re willing.”

The snow was coming down heavier, dusting the cars and benches and even the awning of the Grindstone, which looked less like a workplace and more like a distant planet from where Dennis sat. He drew his knees up on the bench, wrapped himself tighter in the suit jacket, and tried to pretend the city was just background noise.

“Okay,” he said, trying for lightness, but his voice came out hoarse. “I grew up with a plan, which I guess is where I went wrong. My parents, well, they weren’t monsters or anything, just… really invested in seeing me on a doctor’s pedestal.  They own the Whittaker Foundation,” He took a shaky breath. “I got into med school. I was good at it. Not genius level, not the kind of person who was going to cure cancer, you know?  Still, I worked my ass off, and I actually cared. You know? Helping people wasn’t just a brochure slogan for me.”

Robby nodded, eyes locked on Dennis’s. No judgment. Just attention.

“So. I’d just finished my residency.  I was getting ready to actually start being a doctor.  Pediatrics.  A big time in my life.  So, I wanted to “celebrate” and finally do something I wanted to do my whole life. I…  Came out to my parents. It was, look, I was twenty-seven, I thought maybe they’d be over themselves by then and see me as an adult. They weren’t and they didn’t. My mom said I was making them look bad. My dad just stopped talking to me altogether” Dennis’s hands tightened on the coffee cup until the cardboard bent. “It wasn’t just the gay thing. I don’t think the gay thing is what bothered them, it was the marriage thing. They’d already lined up an engagement with this girl from their circle, a daughter of some major medical center, sweet, but I wasn’t ever going to make her happy.  Wasn’t even attracted to her.  But we’d been forced to hang out and be with each other our entire lives.” He let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “I broke it off after I came out.  Both me and the girl were relieved.  Her parents?  Not as much. My parents?  Well, they called me an ungrateful shit, told me I was out of the will. Cut me off, cold.”

Robby’s hand slid up Dennis’s back, gentle and sure. It didn’t stop there; it stayed, steady and present.

“I could have survived on my own.  I really could have.  I knew, in the back of my head, it was a possibility and I was ready to do everything on my own.  Thing is…  My parents have friends everywhere.  I got fired for “performance issues” at the hospital I was working at the very next day.  Suddenly none of my professors would recommend me anymore for jobs, and when I applied out of state, every single one ghosted me. Even interviews I was promised in person just… evaporated. Guess my parents made calls, as revenge. I’ve applied every day to every kind of medical job you can imagine, and none of them…  Ever panned out.  I’m blackballed from the industry that I spent my whole life trying to get into.  All that time, a waste now.  All I’m good for anymore is making mediocre coffee and existing.  I’m not even worth the trouble of dealing with.”

Robby squeezed his shoulder. “You’re more than worth the trouble, Dennis.”

The words hit like a punch and a warm bath at once. Dennis felt his eyes sting, but he blinked it away, angry at himself for even letting it get that far.

“I tried bartending for a while when I ran out of money,” he went on. “Then temp work.  Sold blood and plasma.  Cut down on food.  Cut down on expenses. Then I landed at Grindstone, because at least it was steady and the coffee was free. Tried to keep applying to clinics, sometimes using a nickname, but every resume just went into a black hole. Sometimes I’d get a canned rejection email, but usually nothing.”

A sharp gust of wind made Dennis shiver. Robby pulled him closer, until their thighs were pressed together, and for the first time in months, Dennis didn’t mind being touched. He found himself talking faster, like the words needed to come out before the moment passed.

“My parents…” he shook his head, “…my parents sit on the board of the biggest private health foundation in this state. It’s all about who you know, and they made damn sure no one wanted to know me. I still get their newsletters, you know, hand delivered to my inbox? Every month, some new grant or donation or gala. Little notes at the bottom like “We could’ve built a wing in your name, could’ve donated to the Children’s fund for you, if you’d  just played along.” But I didn’t want that. I never wanted to be like them. I wanted to do something good for the world.” The old anger bubbled up, hot and jagged. “They’re bottom-feeding monsters who only care about money and prestige, and medicine is just a way for them to make money and exploit the most vulnerable people in the world. They’d suck an onion dry for whatever blood they could get out of it, and throw it away when it was useless.” He laughed, too loud, then covered his face with his hands. “Jesus, I sound like a bad cable drama.”

“You sound like a man who knows what he wants.  Passionate.  Strong.  Someone who even when you’re kicked to the bottom of a hole, you start digging yourself out,” Robby murmured. His hand was on Dennis’s neck now, kneading softly, soothing.  “I like that.  I respect that.”

Dennis peeked through his fingers, wary. “Yeah? What do you want, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Robby leaned back, considering. “Right now, I want to eat dinner with you,” he said, “and then I want to hear more about your dreams. I want to know what will make you happy, sweetheart. You deserve better than this.” His thumb stroked the back of Dennis’s head, unhurried. “Let’s start with food. You look absolutely famished.  Nobody can talk or plan for the future on an empty stomach.  We can discuss the particulars of our agreement there.”

Dennis snorted. “You just want to see if I’m as much of a train wreck in a nice restaurant as I am in a coffee shop.”

“I already know the answer,” Robby said, smiling. “But I’d love to watch you surprise yourself.”

The snow was coming harder now, the sidewalk turning white at the edges. Dennis’s jeans were already damp, but the jacket and Robby’s closeness kept him from caring. He finished the last swallow of coffee, then set the cup down on the bench between them.

“Isn’t it a little fast?” Dennis asked, hating how small his voice sounded.  “I mean, you’re like…  We’re talking about…  You being my…”

“Sugar Daddy?” Robby smirked.  “We are.”

Dennis nodded, biting down on his lip.

Robby shook his head. “Nothing about you makes me want to move slow.  Besides, I’m a man who knows what he wants and have the means to make it happen.” He traced a line along Dennis’s jaw, featherlight. “But only if you want it.  If I’m not your type, if this gives you the goosebumps, then we can call it off here.  The offer’s here, though, if you want it.”

“Do I want this?” Dennis thought.

Robby was…  Handsome.  A little older than Dennis pictured his first real boyfriend to be, but the man before him was strikingly hot in all the ways that made him tingle. 

Robby was kind.  This might be a transactional relationship, he didn’t[‘t know, but somewhere deep down, Dennis knew that Robbie must have more than money and sex on the brains.  Otherwise he wouldn’t have cared listening to his story.  Or worse, he would have just offered money, taken them to a hotel room, had their fun, and moved on.  No…  There was something deeper here.

Though…  Maybe it was a bit naïve of him, or maybe it was a false hope or an act of selfishness, but…  If anyone in the world could get him out of his parent’s shadow, it would be Dr. Robby.  The one man who could make his parents drop down on their needs and grovel in the presence of his bank account and connections, easily 100 times more than anything his parents could ever hope for.

“He gets what he wants.  I get what I want.  I…  Could do worse.”

Dennis found himself nodding, an involuntary gesture, like a reflex. The relief in his chest was huge and new. He let his head tip to the side, letting Robby’s hand steady him.

“I want it,” he said, voice steadier now. “God, I want something to go right for once.”

Robby stood, brushing off the back of his pants. “Then let’s go.” He extended a hand. Dennis hesitated only a second before letting himself be pulled up, enveloped in the coat, and guided along the sidewalk.

They reached the curb, where a black SUV idled, engine humming against the cold. Robby opened the rear door and gestured grandly for Dennis to enter. For a split second, Dennis hesitated, what if this was the part where he got kidnapped, or worse, turned into a footnote in the news cycle? But Robby’s hand on his shoulder was real, solid, and reassuring.

Inside, the car was a cocoon of warmth and soft leather, the city’s noise and grit instantly replaced by the low thrum of jazz through the speakers. Robby slid in beside him, nodded at the driver, a statuesque man in a crisp black suit, and said, “Monty’s, please.  Oh, and call ahead to the Davidson group and cancel my evening appointment, I have other plans now that are more important.”

The driver didn’t bat an eye, just pulled away from the curb with practiced ease.

Dennis stared out the window, watching the snow blur the city into a thousand shifting lights. He felt the day’s exhaustion and bitterness slough away, replaced by something tender and shaky but alive.

Robby’s hand found his knee, squeezed, and didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

The interior of his SUV was quiet, the windows fogging at the corners despite the hum of heated air and the slow, rhythmic swipe of wipers brushing away snow. 

“Meeting cancelled, boss.  They send their regards.  Reschedule at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Grant.”

Robby kept his hand on Dennis’s knee, thumb tracing slow circles that barely registered through the faded denim. He preferred it that way, touch as a background hum, not the focus. Comfort and affection as second nature, not something blaring and obvious. That was how most things operated in his world, if he had his way.

The city outside blurred in a streak of streetlights, and Dennis, shivering and silent in Robby’s jacket, watched the lights as if he was already nostalgic for this moment.

Robby was used to beautiful things. Cars, yes. Clothes, most definitely. Paintings had a special place in his heart too, but…  Nothing was quite as beautiful as the masculine form.  He’d spent nights with models, bodybuilders, athletes, men with plenty of meat on their bones, each and every experience a pleasurable memory.  This man, Dennis, with his knobby knees and deep-socketed eyes and a soul that looked perpetually on the verge of apology, Robby wasn’t used to that. “Not anymore anyway”, he thought bitterly.

The driver took the express route, crossing the bridge above the river, and for a brief moment the view opened up to the snow-laced skyline, the water below smeared with city lights and patches of ice. Dennis shifted, unconsciously leaning into Robby’s side, as if seeking more warmth than even the jacket could give him.

Robby resisted the urge to drape his arm around Dennis’s shoulders. Resisted the urge to speak, too. He was good at holding his tongue, years of boardroom etiquette and bedside manors meant he could let an entire world burn around him before uttering a word.

Still, the urge was there. It scratched at him.

He watched Dennis, and in Dennis he saw a dozen men from his past, each one clever, each one damaged, each one ultimately bored by the routines of an older man, no matter how wealthy or interesting or attentive that man tried to be.

Robby knew the arc by heart: curiosity, infatuation, a brief period of feverish attention or “lovebombing” as the kids called it these days, and then the slow drift away, replaced by something shinier, newer, less demanding.  They’d find other “Daddies”, a younger model, one who’s less stressed out, one who had more time for them, one with less baggage, one with a bigger paycheck for them.

He was fine with that.

He’d built his life around transience.

Dennis didn’t fit the usual type he went for, exactly. For one thing, he was desperately hungry, not just for food or comfort but for someone to look at him and see more than a liability or a charity case. For another, Dennis was transparently bad at pretending and looked like the world’s worst liar, which made Robby want him even more.

The car’s climate-control panel cast pale green light on Robby’s hands, which were bigger than he remembered, bones showing at the knuckles, veins bulging like old roads on a map. He found himself thinking about hands, about how they aged, how they did things you never anticipated: the involuntary flinch at the sight of a hospital gurney; the way they trembled, ever so slightly, when holding onto someone who wanted to believe you wouldn’t let go.

The memory some 30 years past snuck in, sharp and unwelcome:

Rain.  A metal canopy.  The hush of a graveyard at 10 AM.  Himself standing under a cheap black umbrella, the ground at his feet a muddy puddle.  His lover’s casket, lacquered wood reflecting clouds and the glint of cameras and, for a split second, Robby’s own face, drawn and far too young to look that hollow.

He remembered his hands then, too. White-knuckled on the umbrella’s curve, fighting not to drop it, fighting not to let the rain wash away whatever was left of composure. His mother’s hand on his shoulder, awkward and barely there.  His father, naturally, hadn’t shown, not for his son’s “fairy”, or whatever terrible slur he’d chosen to use that week. 

Though he didn’t know it then, exactly, the cold, endless knowledge would come later.  That everything after that day would be transactional. A matter of exchange.

The memory faded as quickly as it came.

Dennis yawned, bone-deep, and caught himself halfway through, twisting to hide it. Robby let out a laugh that was almost silent, just an exhalation and a flex of his fingers.

“Tired?” he asked, voice low enough that the driver’s seat couldn’t hear it.

Dennis considered, then nodded. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Long day.”

Robby squeezed his knee gently. “No need to apologize. I’m taking you out for dinner, not an interrogation.”

A little laugh from Dennis, soft but genuine. He shifted again, then surprised them both by resting his head lightly on Robby’s shoulder. For a second, Robby almost pulled away, out of habit, or caution, or the ingrained sense that affection was best served with a layer of insulation, but then he let Dennis’s hair press into his dress shirt.

He wondered how long it would last, this easy intimacy between them. Two weeks? A month? Dennis would get used to the comfort, maybe start pushing boundaries, maybe fall in love, or maybe just take the money and run.

Robby was fine with any of it.  He’d seen it all and experienced it all.

As long as he could hold onto Dennis for a little while, he’d be happy this time around. He preferred the arrangement clear, clean, and, above all, temporary. It wasn’t that he was heartless. He’d just seen too much of how messy people got when they started believing in permanence.

The car pulled off the main street, rolling to a halt in front of Monty’s, the building as understated as ever: unlit sign, navy canopy, nothing but a man in a tailored coat standing at the curb, waiting to open the door. Robby reached for Dennis’s hand, his own a good ten degrees warmer, and gave a squeeze before the door swung outward and the cold flooded back in.

He stepped out first, turning back to offer Dennis a hand up. Dennis hesitated, then took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He stood shivering, blinking into the wind, while Robby straightened his own tie and gave the valet a silent nod and a palmed hundred dollar bill with a handshake.

“Welcome to Monty’s, Dr. Robinavitch,” the doorman said, voice velvet. “We have your preferred table waiting.”

Dennis gawked at the entrance, at the way the staff seemed to know Robby not just as a customer but as a man whose presence required choreography. The maître d’ appeared, all in black and moving with the gliding, efficient steps of a surgeon. Robby let Dennis keep the jacket, even though it looked oversized and faintly ridiculous, and led him inside, hand still resting light on the small of his back.

Inside, the world changed: the noise and the cold and the street fell away, replaced by an amber-lit silence that hummed with unobtrusive piano and the clink of stemware. The air smelled of truffle, saffron, citrus zest, and underneath it all, the clean mineral edge of very good water. Dennis took it in with wide eyes, trying and failing to look unimpressed.

As they crossed the main dining floor, Robby found himself glancing at the mirrored walls, catching the shape of Dennis beside him. The two of them made a sharp contrast: Robby in charcoal and silver, tall and broad and controlled; Dennis, smaller, wrapped in borrowed fabric and blinking at the spectacle. It was almost too much for a weeknight.

They were led to a table near the back, half-screened by etched glass and a sweep of orchids. The maître d’ set down menus, leather-bound, heavy as medical textbooks, and vanished with a wordless bow.

Robby waited until they were alone before leaning forward, folding his hands. “You’ve never been here, have you?”

Dennis shook his head, still scanning the room like he expected to be caught trespassing.

“Order whatever you want. Even if it’s not on the menu, they can make it happen. They’ll do anything you ask.”

Dennis looked up, hazel eyes wide and uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Robby nodded. “It’s the least I can do. Consider it… a signing bonus.”

The line got a smile from Dennis, quick and lopsided. “You always take your new “hires” out to dinner first?”

“Only the exceptional ones.” Robby let the line hang, then glanced at the wine list and selected a bottle with a tap of his finger. “…and only if they’re hungry enough.”

He watched as Dennis fidgeted with the silverware, unsure where to place his hands, unsure how to relax. Robby understood the sensation all too well, the feeling of being somewhere you didn’t belong, of being dressed up in someone else’s expectations. He’d spent years cultivating comfort with it, but even now, even in a room where he commanded the reservation books, the old wariness lingered.

He tried to imagine Dennis in his own element, maybe behind the counter at Grindstone, or in a scrubs top, eyes bright with purpose. For a second, it was shockingly easy.

The wine came, and Robby poured for both of them. He didn’t bother with a toast. Instead, he raised his glass and waited for Dennis to follow, then took a long, slow sip.

When the menu finally cracked open, Dennis held it with a certain reverence, his fingers smoothing the leather cover before flipping it open. His eyes went wide instantly, then narrow as he scanned the columns. Robby had seen this routine before: the initial shock, the double-take, and then the poker-faced attempt at acting like the prices didn’t matter.

“Is this… per person?” Dennis said, running a thumb down the list of entrees.

Robby grinned. “You’re looking at the tasting menu. That one’s for the indecisive.”

“Who the hell pays $350 for a salad course?” Dennis hissed, voice a stage whisper.

“People with poor impulse control and a desperate need for distraction or trying to impress someone,” Robby said. “Like I said.  Order what you like.”

Dennis made a skeptical noise and tried to close the menu, but Robby reached across and pulled it gently open again.

“Anything you want,” Robby repeated. “If you want three entrees, get three entrees. I once brought a guy here who ate all of the desserts and then asked for a cheeseburger from the kitchen staff. They made it.”

Dennis peered at him from beneath the sweep of his bangs. “If you say so.”

He started to scan in earnest, muttering through the options. Robby studied the edge of Dennis’s jaw, sharp in the low light, and the way his tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth when he found something intriguing. He was, in a word, adorable.

When the server arrived, Dennis stumbled over the pronunciation of the main dish, an ungodly combination of seafood and meat with French vowels stitched between every consonant. Robby smiled at the server and clarified the order. “For the starter, the heirloom tomato tart, please.” To Dennis: “You like tomatoes, right?”

Dennis looked surprised, then pleased. “Yeah…”

As the server retreated, Robby topped off their wine glasses. The first few sips seemed to loosen Dennis’s tongue, but not enough to mask the underlying tension in his posture.

“So,” Dennis said, finally. “What are your rules? I assume there are rules.”

Robby folded his hands. “Not so much rules as… expectations.”

He let the silence hang, so Dennis had to fill it with a “Go on.”

“First,” Robby said, “either of us can call this off at any time, for any reason, no guilt. If you get tired of me, or if I annoy you, you just say the word. If I get busy or bored or come to find out that you’re not the person I think you are, I’ll do the same. I don’t believe in dragging things out.”

Dennis nodded. “I can live with that.”

“Second,” Robby continued, “Honesty is non-negotiable. If you want something, say it. If you hate something, tell me. I’ve had enough of people pretending to be happy for the paycheck.  Nothing makes me more disgusted than someone faking it with me.”

Dennis’s lips quirked. “Are you offering direct deposit, or…?”

Robby snorted. “We’ll work out the particulars later. Point is, I can’t stand fake people.”

A beat. Dennis tilted his head, considering. “The third?”

“You live with me.  I cover all expenses you need.  Clothes, toys, cars, electronics, food, medical, anything you need. In exchange, you keep me company. Public events sometimes, private company mostly. There’s no curfew or requirements when we’re not together.  No limits on what you do during your spare time I’m not around. You can have friends, hobbies, whatever. I’m not interested in policing your life.”

This last part seemed to catch Dennis off guard. He fidgeted with his napkin, working a crease between his fingers. “-and the sex part?  I assume there’s a sex part to this.” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Robby looked him dead in the eye. “It’s part of the deal. I’m a tactile person and sex helps me feel close to people.  In a weird way, it’s my love language.  So, yes, I’d like to have sex with you, and make it enjoyable for the both of us.  Though, I’m not your Master and I won’t ever ask you do things you’re uncomfortable with. If you’re not interested in something we’re doing, you say so. If you want something special, you ask, I reserve the right to say no, same as you. I don’t like games. I do like taking care of people. That’s… my thing.”

A charged quiet followed. Dennis seemed to be weighing every word, every angle, as if trying to spot the hidden clause. “You’re very direct,” he said.

“I prefer efficiency.  Being blunt.  Making sure everyone knows what they’re getting into with me.  Life’s easier that way.”

The starters arrived. The tart in front of Dennis was a work of art, glossy red slices fanned around a dollop of whipped goat cheese and scattered with microgreens. Robby could see the skepticism in Dennis’s face, but the first bite erased it completely. Dennis chewed, swallowed, then blinked as if the taste had physically stunned him.

“Holy shit,” Dennis said, hand over his mouth. “I think I just came a little.”

Robby laughed. It was an honest laugh, the kind that vibrated down his chest. “If that’s the standard, this is going to be a productive evening.”

Dennis dove back in, this time savoring each bite. He paused only to say, “I still don’t get it. I mean, you could have anyone. Why me?”

Robby thought for a moment, then shrugged. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re charming, you’re witty, and you’re not afraid to tell me to go fuck myself. That’s rare.” He topped up Dennis’s wine, then added, “That, and you’re beautiful. Even if you don’t know it.”

The compliment hit its mark. Dennis blushed, looked away, then found his eyes again. “I’m not,” he said. “But thank you for lying to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Robby said. “You’re exactly my type. Always have been.” He resisted the urge to say more, to mention the long line of men who had reminded him of the precious pair of hazel eyes he’d lost, or the way Dennis’s smile woke something old and stupid in his chest. 

The main courses arrived, the server deft and silent. Dennis’s plate looked like a small planet, layers of delicate seafood wrapped in sheets of pasta, dusted with caviar, perched atop a puddle of emerald oil. Robby’s was a slab of rare steak, seared to the color of a sunburn. He cut a slice, chewed, and watched Dennis eat.

It was a marvel.

Dennis’s first bite was careful, exploratory, but then the dam broke and he devoured half the plate in three minutes, pausing only to close his eyes and murmur wordless praise. A spot of sauce caught on his lower lip. Robby wanted to lean across and lick it clean, but he held back, content to watch the demolition.

At one point, Dennis said, “I can’t believe this is real. Are you sure this isn’t a prank?”

“It’s real,” Robby said. “You can pinch me, if you want.”

Dennis grinned. “I’m saving that for dessert.”

Robby cut a sliver of steak and set his fork down. “You never answered my question,” he said.

Dennis looked up, puzzled. “Which question?”

“Do you want this? The arrangement.”

Dennis chewed, wiped his mouth, and nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I do. I have to. I don’t think I could go back to my apartment after this. I’d freeze to death or starve out of spite knowing this kind of food existed, you know?”  He blushed, clearly joking to hide something deeper.

Robby felt something like relief. He covered it with a sip of wine. “Good. Then it’s settled. Today you’re on my payroll, sweetheart.”

Dennis leaned back, looking content for the first time since they’d met. He finished his plate, chased the last of the sauce with bread, then said, “Can I order another course?”

“Order the whole menu,” Robby said, enjoying the way Dennis’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll sign over the building if you ask nicely.”

Dennis smiled, then deadpanned, “Thank you, Daddy.”

The word hit Robby squarely in the solar plexus. He let out a sharp breath, then said, “Careful with that. You might get more than you bargained for.”

“I hope so,” Dennis said, and there was nothing in his voice but honest hunger.

They lingered over a second course, then a dessert so sweet it left Dennis temporarily speechless. The wine, the warmth, the strange sensation of having someone to spoil and make happy beyond their wildest dreams, it all converged, until Robby found himself wishing the night wouldn’t end.

He settled the bill with a flick of his card, then turned to Dennis as the server whisked away their plates.

“Shall we?” he said, offering his hand.

Dennis took it, his own hand small but eager. He stood, wobbled slightly, then righted himself. “I’m yours,” he said, barely a whisper.

Robby smiled, the kind of smile that never made it to the magazines. “For tonight, at least.” He thought.

They left the restaurant arm in arm, stepping into the cold, the snow painting everything white and clean and new.

+++++

The car ride back to the high-rise was a study in contrasts: outside, the city collapsed under the weight of a fresh snowstorm, every streetlamp haloed and blurry, every passing pedestrian hunched deep in their coat; inside, the car was a cocoon of soft jazz, perfectly calibrated heat, and the faint mineral scent of the leather seats. Dennis sat in the backseat, half-lulled by dinner and wine, watching Robby orchestrate the world with his phone.

“Let’s make this official,” Robby said, thumbing open his contacts. “Do you have your landlord’s number?”

Dennis blinked. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“You won’t need your apartment after tonight,” Robby replied, voice breezy. “No point paying for what you don’t use.”

He made the call before Dennis could object, switching instantly to a clipped, professional tone. “Hello, this is Dr. Robinavitch. I’m speaking on behalf of Dennis Whitaker, current tenant of the Wilson Arms on Sixth. There’s been a change in circumstances, and Dennis will be vacating the unit immediately. Yes, I’ll pay the termination penalty. Wire instructions? Perfect.” Robby recited a series of numbers, made a note, then disconnected.

Dennis stared, slack-jawed. “That’s it? Just like that?”

Robby shrugged. “No sense in dragging things out.” He reached over, hand finding the back of Dennis’s neck. “You have a friend who can clear out the apartment for you?”

“My friend Karen, maybe. She has a car. But I have, like, ten bucks to my name,”

Robby waved the concern away. “We’ll hire a service. Professional, discreet. I’ll text you the details to pass on to your friend, just so she knows it’s legitimate.”

Dennis stared out the window, watching the city blur by. “This is nuts. I feel like I’m being kidnapped by a benevolent Bond villain.”

Robby smirked. “I could do better than Bond. Less drama, more results.” He dialed another number. “Yes, Grind & Brew Collective, please. The manager. Hello, Sophie? This is Dr. Michael Robinavitch. I have Dennis Whitaker with me, and he’s decided to pursue a better opportunity. Effective immediately, he’s resigning. Yes, I’m sure. Thank you.”

He handed the phone to Dennis, who stared at it, then at Robby. “You want me to talk to her?”

“It’s the polite thing to do,” Robby said. “I don’t want you burning bridges. Besides, she’ll probably be relieved.”

Dennis took the phone, listened to Sophie’s barrage of shrill questions, then, after a pause, smiled and said, “Thank you for everything. I hope you find someone better.” He handed the phone back, shaking his head. “Jesus. You really don’t do anything halfway.”

Robby met Dennis’s eyes, seeing something raw and a little scared inside. “If I’m going to do this, I want it done right. You’re not just a toy to be picked up and dropped off. If you’re with me, you’re taken care of.”

Dennis said nothing, but the look in his eyes was worth a dozen thank-yous.

The car rolled up to a building so sleek and severe it looked like a geometry problem rendered in glass. The front doors parted at their approach, and the lobby, more art gallery than apartment building, was all echo and stone, a scattering of sculptures and living plants standing at rigid attention. The concierge recognized Robby immediately, bowing his head as he handed over a slim envelope. Robby tucked it into his jacket without breaking stride.

They took the private elevator, no keys, no numbers, just a single round button that delivered them directly to the top. Dennis shifted nervously as the car climbed, hands twisting in his lap.

“Last chance to back out,” Robby said, smiling gently.

Dennis rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t quite hide his nerves. “I think I’m past the point of plausible deniability.”

“Good,” Robby said. “I’d hate to have to find a replacement on such short notice.”

The doors parted with a soft whoosh, revealing the penthouse.

For all the steel-and-glass bombast of the building, the inside was startlingly warm: honeyed wood floors, soft rugs, furniture that looked not just expensive but lived-in, the sort of thing that begged you to spill red wine on it just to see if Robby would yell (he wouldn’t; he’d just buy a new rug).

The far wall was nothing but window, looking out over the city, a view so high, the snow seemed to fall in slow motion. Dennis wandered forward, drawn to it, hands pressed to the glass as he stared at the lights, the slow drift of flakes, the weird sensation of being above everything.

Robby let him take it in. He shrugged off his tie, undid the cuffs on his shirt, and watched Dennis as he explored, trailing fingers over the clean surfaces, the little touches of personality, a cluster of succulents, a stack of medical journals, a framed photo of a young Robby in scrubs, arm slung around a laughing man whose face had been artfully blurred out.

Dennis circled back, still looking a little shell-shocked. “You live here alone?”

“Mostly,” Robby said. “Sometimes I have guests. Sometimes I have… arrangements.”

Dennis nodded, absorbing it. “It’s incredible. I’ve never even seen a place like this outside of a magazine.”

Robby touched the small of his back, steering him toward the hallway. “Come on. You’re freezing. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Dennis blushed, the color high on his cheeks. “I, uh. I’ve never really, done this before. The, uh, sugar baby thing.”

Robby smiled. “Relax.  Just be yourself, let me take care of you, and we’ll both walk away happy.” He led the way, feeling Dennis’s nervous energy follow like static.

The bathroom was obscene, even to Robby. Stone and glass, a bathtub large enough to swim in, steam shower, towel racks that radiated warmth. Robby turned on the lights low, then reached for a soft blue handtowel and handed it to Dennis.

“I’ll start the water and add some oils.  We’ll get clean together,” he said, kneeling by the tub. He poured a generous measure of oil in, the scent immediately blooming into the air, fresh, herbal, clean.

Dennis stood uncertainly, hugging himself, eyes darting between Robby and the tub. “Do you want me to… get undressed?”

Robby gave a small nod. “If you’re comfortable. Otherwise, you can wear the towel.”

Dennis hesitated, then began to peel off his shirt, layer by layer, revealing a torso that was all sharp planes and desperate attempts to hide hunger. His skin was marked here and there, old scars, a scattering of moles. As he pulled down his pants and underwear, a half-hard cock awaited him, already eager with anticipation.

Robby watched without lechery, just… appreciation.

“You can look,” Dennis said, voice shaking a little. “Just, try not to laugh.”

Robby stood and stepped close, running a knuckle gently down Dennis’s sternum. “Nothing to laugh at,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

The words made Dennis shiver, and Robby felt a surge of unexpected tenderness. He wanted to wrap Dennis in the towel and hold him until morning. Instead, he simply said, “Let’s get you warm.”

He unbuttoned his own shirt, rolling the sleeves, then slipped out of his trousers. His body was older, hairier, softer in some ways, but he carried it without shame, the way a man who’s lost and gained and lost again eventually does.  He was a fair bit taller and bigger than Dennis, with his cock a fair bit thicker and longer.

Robby stepped into the tub first, gesturing for Dennis to join him. Dennis did, awkward at first, then visibly melting as the hot water closed over him.

“Shit,” Dennis sighed, sinking up to his neck. “I might actually cry.”

“If you do, that’s fine,” Robby said, settling in behind him. “You’re safe here.”

Dennis didn’t reply. But he leaned back, just enough for their bodies to touch, and Robby let his hands rest lightly on Dennis’s shoulders, kneading out the tension, willing him to believe it.

Above the water, the city spread out in all directions, every window flickering with life.

“Thank you,” Dennis whispered, so soft the water nearly swallowed it.

Robby kissed the top of his head, gentle. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

Robby let Dennis linger in the hot water, hands drifting from tense shoulders to knotted lower back, working loose the day’s aches. The bath oil left a slick on the surface, turning the water milky and faintly blue, with a scent halfway between sage and sweetgrass. They sat in silence, the only noise the subtle pop of bubbles in the tub and the faint whine of the wind against the penthouse windows.

After a time, Robby reached for a bottle set on the edge of the tub and poured another measure of oil into his palm. “Lean forward,” he said softly, and Dennis, too worn down to argue, did as he was told. Robby massaged the slick into Dennis’s neck, down along the line of his spine, working it into the thin skin at the nape and the dip of his lower back.

“Feels good,” Dennis mumbled, head lolling forward.

“That’s the idea,” Robby murmured, his lips close to Dennis’s ear. “You don’t take care of yourself much, do you?”

“Not lately,” Dennis admitted, barely audible above the water.

“We’ll have to fix that,” Robby said, almost to himself.

He reached for a cloth, dipped it, and began to scrub gently at Dennis’s arms, hands, knuckles abraded from old wounds and one nail bitten to the quick. He worked his way down, chest, ribs, belly, skipping nothing, treating every inch of Dennis as if it were precious. When he found a ticklish spot just under the ribs, Dennis squirmed, letting out a helpless giggle.

“Sorry,” Dennis said, mortified.

“Don’t apologize,” Robby said, grinning. “It’s cute.”

Dennis groaned and tried to slide under the water, but Robby caught him easily, holding him in place. “Come here,” he said, pulling Dennis back against his chest. Dennis resisted at first, but then relaxed, the fight draining from him.

Robby washed Dennis’s hair next, careful with the scalp, his big hands gentle and slow. Dennis leaned into the touch, eyes closed. When the hair was rinsed, Robby pressed a kiss to the damp crown, letting it linger just a moment longer than necessary.

They stayed like that for a while, Dennis half-splayed across Robby’s lap, water lapping at their chests. Robby felt a strange peace, unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. He ran his hand down Dennis’s flank, tracing the outline of his ribs, the raised skin of a scar just below it.

“Does this one have a story?” Robby asked, brushing the scar with a thumb.

Dennis shrugged. “Bike accident. I was a dumb kid. No helmet.”

“Lucky it wasn’t worse.”

Dennis nodded. “I guess I am.”

Robby drained the tub with a flick of a switch, then turned on the tap to refill it, this time with water just a touch cooler. Dennis watched, eyes lazy and a little glassy, as the tub filled around them.

A knock came at the door, soft, respectful. Robby called out, and the butler entered, carrying a silver tray with champagne, two glasses, and a small arrangement of fruits and cheese. He set it on the bench beside the tub, then left without a word.

Dennis gawked at the spread. “Is this what rich people do all day?”

Robby laughed. “Only when we’re trying to impress someone.”

He poured champagne, handed Dennis a glass, then raised his own. “To new beginnings,” he said.

Dennis clinked his glass against Robby’s, then took a sip. He grimaced at the bubbles, then smiled. “It tastes expensive.”

“It is,” Robby said. “Worth it, though.”

He fed Dennis a slice of peach, watching the way his mouth closed around it, the way the juice dripped down his chin. Robby wiped it away with a thumb, slow and deliberate.

Dennis said nothing, just stared at him, eyes wide and a little vulnerable.

“Does it feel good?” Robby asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Letting Daddy take care of you?”

Dennis hesitated, then nodded, a little embarrassed.

Robby set down his glass, then let his hand drift down, sliding along the line of Dennis’s thigh until he cupped his cock. Dennis gasped, tensing, but Robby held him gently, just a little squeeze.

“Is this okay?  Can Daddy take care of this for you?” Robby asked.

Dennis nodded again, breath hitching.

Robby stroked him slowly, the water making it easy, his other hand pressing Dennis’s back tighter against his chest. He whispered in Dennis’s ear, words low and intimate. “You’re perfect, you know that?”  Up. Down. He ran his fingertips under the man’s foreskin, gently teasing the head.

Dennis moaned, just once, shivering despite the heat of the bath. Robby picked up the pace, still gentle, letting Dennis set the rhythm.  Before long, Dennis was slowly thrusting into his hand. It didn’t take long, Dennis was wound so tight he came with a single sharp breath, spilling into Robby’s hand, water sloshing as his legs jerked.

For a moment, they just sat like that, Dennis shaking, Robby holding him.

“Thank you, Daddy,” Dennis whispered, the words almost a sob.

Robby kissed his neck, then reached for the towel again, wrapping it around Dennis as they stepped out of the tub. He dried Dennis slowly, deliberately, hands sure and unhurried.

He guided Dennis back to the bedroom. Robby pulled back the bed’s crisp duvet, exposing a landscape of white and silver sheets so soft they threatened to swallow Dennis whole. He helped Dennis climb in, settling him atop the cool surface, then followed, body still damp from the bath. For a long moment, they just lay there, limbs a tangle, the air fragrant with the ghost of bath oil and the slow fade of champagne.

Dennis’s breathing was slow, nearly asleep. Robby spooned in behind him, folding Dennis into his arms, nuzzling the soft hair at his nape. He could feel Dennis’s heartbeat, a skitter of nerves, but also a deep fatigue, like the boy had finally surrendered to comfort after too long fighting it.

“You all right?” Robby whispered, voice low.

Dennis managed a noise, halfway between a hum and a yes. “Just… can’t believe any of this.”

Robby smiled, pressed a kiss to Dennis’s shoulder. “Get used to it. Daddy’s home now.  He’s going to take good care of you.”

He expected Dennis to laugh, to groan, but instead Dennis shuddered, burrowing closer. Robby ran a hand down his arm, then back up, fingers splayed wide, savoring the feel of skin. He loved these quiet moments best, nothing to say, nothing to prove. Just touch, warmth, another body within reach.

After a time, Dennis rolled to face him, blinking sleepily. His lips were parted, pink and still glossy from the bath. Robby cupped his face, thumbs tracing the lines under his eyes, the faint scar on the chin.

Dennis kissed him, slow, exploratory, almost shy. Robby met him gently, mouth opening, tongue teasing just a little. He tasted sweet, traces of peach and champagne and something unmistakably Dennis.

When Dennis pulled back, Robby saw the question in his eyes. Not if, but how.

Robby grinned, letting his hand slide down Dennis’s chest, stopping at the faint dip of his waist. “You want to take care of Daddy?”

Dennis nodded, color rising to his cheeks. “I want to try. But I don’t know if I’m any good at…”

Robby put a finger to his lips. “Let me teach you.”

He lay back, propped on pillows, and drew Dennis atop him. For a second, Dennis just hovered, unsure, then ducked his head, kissing down Robby’s chest—awkward but determined. Robby let his hands cradle Dennis’s head, guiding him with gentle pressure, not so much directing as encouraging.

Dennis’s mouth was warm, careful at first, then bolder. Robby showed him how to use his tongue, how to set a rhythm, how to take a little more without gagging. He whispered praise,“That’s it, baby, just like that”, and Dennis responded, eager to please, learning with every breath.

The sensation was electric, new, somehow, even after decades of this kind of pleasure. Maybe it was Dennis’s enthusiasm, or maybe it was the trust, the way he let Robby steer him without losing himself. Robby felt the heat build fast, tension pooling low, and when he came it was with a groan, spilling across Dennis’s tongue, face, everywhere.

Dennis froze, eyes wide, then started laughing, high, breathless, utterly disarmed.

“Sorry,” Robby said, catching his breath. “I just got you clean.”

Dennis wiped his face with the back of his hand, grinning. “It’s okay. I’m waterproof.”

Robby reached for a washcloth, damp and warm from the en-suite sink, and cleaned Dennis with infinite care. He dabbed at cheeks, chin, even behind the ears, then kissed each spot as he finished. When Dennis was clean, Robby drew him close, hugging him to his chest, rubbing circles on his back.

They lay that way, wrapped in sheets and each other, the city outside silent but for the wind.

Robby stroked Dennis’s hair, feeling the tension bleed away. “Tomorrow, we’ll get you some clothes.  My stylist has plenty of places to go to uptown.  That will be after a big breakfast from my personal chef.  Then we can go get you some fun toys.  Are you a gamer?  Maybe you’d like a new phone.  A laptop?  Absolutely need to get you a reliable vehicle.”

“Seriously?” Dennis asked.

“Seriously.”  Robby grinned.

Dennis seemed to absorb that, then let himself relax entirely, muscles going liquid. He pressed a last kiss to Robby’s collarbone, then burrowed under the covers, head pillowed on Robby’s bicep.

As Dennis drifted toward sleep, Robby lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the slow pulse in Dennis’s wrist. He felt… content. Not a sensation he recognized, but one he decided to keep for as long as he could.

He watched the city lights fade, the last of the storm curling along the glass. In the hush, he let his guard slip, just for a moment.

“I hope you don’t get sick of me too fast,” Robby murmured, too soft for Dennis to hear.  Robby closed his eyes, and smiled into the dark.

Chapter Text

Dennis woke to sunlight, real sunlight, not the filtered-through-dirt haze of his old apartment or the eerie glow of a parking lot security light. This was clear and bright, streaming through a window so clean he could probably lick it.

For a long, groggy minute, Dennis was certain he’d died in the night and washed up on the shore of a designer afterlife.  Was this heaven?  Maybe.  Heaven felt nice.  Heaven let him sleep.

Finally awake, he realized he was in a bed.  No, rather, a landscape, of sheets so soft they might actually be illegal to manufacture. His head sank into the pillow, which cradled his skull like he was an infant. The duvet had weight but no pressure, like it had been engineered for exactly his body mass. Beyond the window, the city sparkled beneath him, snow rooftops and sunlight painting everything in glaring whites and blue shadows. The window was floor to ceiling, the skyline a half-mirage, and the wall beside it held a painting he was sure cost more than his medical education.

He’d spent the night in the penthouse.

In Robby’s bed.

Dennis groaned, rolling onto his back. The first thing that came flooding in, even before last night’s menu of events, was that he’d slept the entire night through. No anxiety sweats, no fits of panic, no waking to phantom noises or the hiss of the radiator.

Just deep, silent, unbroken sleep.

That should have been suspicious enough, but then the rest of the memories arrived, in 4K resolution and full surround sound: the blowjob he’d given Robby in bed, the way the older man had held him in the bath and jerked him off, the dizzying cycle of wining, dining, and making him feel wanted, the desperate way he’d all but crawled into the man’s lap in the back of the car. Each moment replayed, each one shoving a new wave of heat up his cheeks.

Dennis groaned again, this time into the pillow, kicking the sheets in protest.

He’d gone the full sugar baby, no brakes. Hell, he’d probably invented new kinks last night.  Robby had sure as hell inspired his love of older men in approximately 3 hours.

Dennis thought about his old self, the one who still had a future, the one with a spine and a professional code, and wondered if that guy would have cringed or applauded him for it.

There was a light tap at the bedroom door. Not a polite knock, but a single, efficient “I’m coming in if you don’t say otherwise” sound.

Dennis whipped his head around, heart dropping. He was naked under the sheets, and he immediately wrapped his body in the sheets to give the illusion of modesty.  He failed, spectacularly.

The door opened swiftly. The man who entered was tall, thin, and severe, his hair silver at the sides and combed to obsession. He wore a suit so black it seemed to drink the light, offset by a perfectly pressed white shirt and an air of implacable judgment. He did not look surprised to find Dennis alive, or naked, or hunched behind a comforter like a raccoon in the headlights.

“Master Whitaker,” the man intoned. His voice had the timbre of a British actor, even though Dennis could tell he was American, no accent, just the implied one of social power and years of higher education. “Good morning. I trust you slept well.”

Dennis blinked. The sheets were pulled to his chin. “Um. Hi. Yes? I mean, yes, sir. Sorry, you’re…”

“Harold Winters,” the man supplied. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch’s personal assistant, house manager, and chief of staff. Please, no need for formalities. I’ve seen much more embarrassing things before breakfast.”

Dennis wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He kept them clenched on the sheet, knuckles white. “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Winters.”

Winters nodded, a crisp gesture. “Dr. Robinavitch is handling some urgent business this morning and apologizes for leaving you unattended. He wanted me to make sure you were comfortable and inform you he’ll be meeting you at his tailor at precisely eleven o’clock. Transportation will be arranged.”

“His… tailor?” Dennis said, the phrase hitting some neural pathway reserved for sitcoms about rich people.

Winters ignored it, already in motion. He drifted to the wall and pressed a button Dennis hadn’t noticed. “There’s a shower and full amenities through that door as I’m sure you’re aware,” Winters said, pointing to an adjoining suite Dennis had mistaken for a closet. “Shampoo, body wash, all paraben-free and certified organic. Towels are on the shelf. If you require razors or grooming products, please request them from me directly. Breakfast will be served in the kitchen at your leisure. Do you have any dietary restrictions or strong preferences?”

Dennis’s mind blanked. He’d had nothing but peanut butter and ramen for so many months that the idea of preferences was like being asked what caviar he preferred. “No, sir. I’ll eat anything. Thank you.”

That, finally, got a tiny twitch of the man’s eyebrow. “Very good. I’ll have the kitchen prepare waffles, fruit, a smoothie, and fresh-squeezed juice. Coffee or tea, Mr. Whitaker?”

“Coffee,” Dennis blurted. “Black, please.”

“Excellent,” Winters said. He retreated to the door, but paused. “There are clothes for you on the bed stand. Dr. Robinavitch thought you might be more comfortable in your own style, so he asked me to select some basics. I took the liberty of choosing what I believe will suit you. If not, I can have alternate options delivered within the hour.”

Dennis looked down. At the foot of the bed, a pale blue box with a silver ribbon waited for him. The box itself looked more expensive than anything Dennis had ever owned.

“Thank you,” Dennis said, still stunned.

Winters bowed his head a fraction of an inch. “If you need anything, dial zero on the phone. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the kitchen.” He was gone before Dennis could think to reply.

Dennis waited until the footsteps faded, then let out a shuddery breath. He peeled himself out of bed, careful to keep the comforter as a shield, and made a beeline for the attached bathroom.

It was, predictably, a shrine to self-care.

The shower had more nozzles than a fire truck, the sink was wide enough to drown in, and the floor was heated to the perfect temperature. Dennis took his time, basking under the hot stream, letting it rinse away sweat, sex, and anxiety. He massaged shampoo into his scalp with slow, greedy fingers. By the time he emerged, he felt almost human, if not entirely sure he belonged here.

The box on the bed greeted him like a lost puppy. Dennis dried off and opened it, half-expecting a hidden camera to pop out.

Instead, he found a folded cashmere sweater the color of ocean fog, an undershirt soft as cake flour, and a pair of dark, perfectly weighted jeans without a label. Beneath them, nestled in tissue paper, was a white silk thong.

Dennis stared at the thong for a long, complicated minute.

He pulled on the sweater and undershirt first, both of which clung to his frame like the designer had measured him in person. Dennis hesitated with the thong, then shrugged and stepped into it. It was surprisingly comfortable, more so than any boxers he’d ever owned, but it did nothing to hide the outline of his junk. The jeans fit snug on his hips, not tight, but close, like they’d been tailored for him months ago. In the mirror, he looked like a Calvin Klein model who had just won the lottery and immediately developed impostor syndrome.

He padded barefoot down the hallway, following the scent of coffee and vanilla. The kitchen was not so much a room as it was a command center: industrial appliances, acres of marble, and a breakfast bar big enough to seat a jury. Winters was already there, reading a tablet, back perfectly straight, with a single cup of coffee placed at Dennis’s seat.

Dennis slid onto a stool, trying to act normal. He fought the urge to fidget, or to check his phone for messages that would never come.

Winters set the tablet aside and regarded him. “You clean up quite well, Mr. Whitaker.”

Dennis almost blushed, but caught himself. “Thank you. These clothes are… amazing. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing,” Winters replied. “That’s generally the best policy in houses like this, at least until you know who’s listening.”

Before Dennis could parse whether that was a joke or a warning, a kitchen assistant, silent, white-jacketed, possibly robotic, appeared and set down a stack of golden waffles, a bowl of strawberries and mango, a tall glass of green smoothie, and a pitcher of fresh orange juice. Dennis stared at the spread, feeling like a medieval peasant invited to the king’s table.

He waited for Winters to start, but the man only sipped his tea, eyes fixed on Dennis.

Dennis forked a bite of waffle, and it nearly made him tear up. “Oh my God,” he said, mouth full. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Winters’s lips twitched, the tiniest smile. “The chef is Swiss. He’s quite passionate about breakfast.  I’ll give him your compliments.”

Dennis wolfed down the fruit, drained half the smoothie, and attacked the next waffle. He didn’t care if he looked desperate. He was desperate.

Between mouthfuls, he glanced at Winters, who was now scanning the tablet again, occasionally flicking a finger to scroll. The silence was not awkward, but practiced, as if it had been rehearsed over years of service.  “What have those old eyes seen around here?” he pondered.

After the third waffle, Dennis slowed, feeling the ache of fullness for the first time in months. He wiped his lips with a linen napkin, then stared at the countertop, unsure if he was supposed to ask permission to leave.

Winters set the tablet aside and folded his hands. “There’s one more thing, Mr. Whitaker. Dr. Robinavitch asked me to make sure you checked your bank account this morning.”

Dennis blinked. “Why?”

Winters shrugged, as if the question were rhetorical. “He wanted you to know he’s a man of his word.”

Dennis fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He’d turned it off before the date, mostly to preserve battery, but also because he hadn’t expected to have to call anyone ever again. He powered it up, watched the boot screen spin, then punched in his bank app password with trembling fingers.

The number on the screen didn’t compute at first. He blinked, then blinked again. He squinted, as if the font size had tricked him. There were way more zeroes more than he expected.

His checking account balance read $500,010.20.

The fork slipped from his hand and clattered onto the plate. Dennis stared at Winters, searching for some kind of clue.

Winters answered with the same inscrutable look. “Dr. Robinavitch instructed me to inform you that the arrangement is yours to end at any time. Should you choose to terminate it, the money is yours to keep. If you wish to walk away, you may do so with no questions or reprisals. That is his promise.  I promise you, he is a man of his word.”

Dennis’s throat went tight. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. The numbers on the screen blurred.

“However,” Winters continued, his tone dry but not unkind, “if you are going to be one of those people, I would recommend doing so now and sparing Master Robinavitch any unnecessary hurt.  Do not toy with his heart.  He deserves better than that, regardless of the company he chooses to keep at times.”

Dennis gawked. “I’m not…  I mean, I wouldn’t…” He shook his head. “It’s too much money. I can’t even…”

“It is, in my professional opinion, a trivial amount to Dr. Robinavitch,” Winters said. “He once spent more than that on a single property on a whim one evening. The arrangement is simple. He gives, you take. The only caveat is that you don’t betray the trust or behave dishonestly. That is the one thing he won’t abide, I assure you.”

Dennis stared at the phone, then at his plate, then back at Winters. His head was spinning, and not from the sugar.

“I’ll make it up to him,” Dennis said, quiet but sure. He meant it, every syllable.

Winters seemed surprised. The man’s mask slipped a fraction, showing a hint of real human curiosity.

“We’ll see, Mr. Whitaker,” Winters said, voice soft. “We’ll see.”

+++++

The driver, a man so discreet he barely existed, delivered Dennis to the sidewalk of a block that had never been on his radar: the kind of upscale street where every storefront used only two colors on its sign, and the windows reflected your own poverty back at you with high-definition cruelty. The tailor’s shop was one of those places. A silver plaque, blacked-out glass, and an entrance so subtle Dennis almost missed it.

Inside, the shop was silent except for a faint, funereal piano track piped from somewhere. The air smelled of cedar and new money. The floors gleamed, and the racks held only one example of each item, spaced so widely that Dennis wondered if the store had lost most of its inventory in a heist.

A man with perfectly trimmed white hair, black horn-rimmed glasses, and a suit so exacting it might have been lasered onto his body appeared from behind a curtain. He looked at Dennis, then at the appointment on his tablet, then at Dennis again.

“Mr. Whitaker?” the man asked. His accent was faintly European, the kind that added three syllables to your name.

Dennis nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Right this way,” the man said, and before Dennis could catch his bearings, he was whisked through the showroom and into a private fitting lounge the size of a respectable apartment. The walls were lined in pale wood, the lighting soft and golden, and a low sofa offered seating in butter-leather.

Dennis was still spinning when Robby materialized from a side door, smiling like they’d planned this all along. He wore dark jeans and a soft gray T-shirt that looked like it was made from clouds, and his hair was freshly cut, the salt in it sparking in the light. He seemed at home, the center of gravity for every pair of eyes in the shop.

“Good morning, baby,” Robby said, voice low and warm. He crossed the room in two strides and pressed a hand to Dennis’s shoulder. “You made it. How was breakfast?”

Dennis tried to remember how to talk. “Great. I didn’t know waffles could be a religious experience.”

Robby squeezed his arm, then turned to the tailor. “This is my dear friend, Dennis Whitaker. He’s in need of a new wardrobe. Something for every occasion, including formal. I trust you’ll take good care of him, Julian.  The works, please.”

Julian, if that was his real name, bowed like they were in a period drama. “But of course. If Mr. Whitaker will please disrobe, I can take his measurements.”

Dennis’s brain short-circuited. “Here?”

The tailor smiled, a practiced thing. “You may use the screen, if you prefer. Or simply remove your outer layer.”

Robby leaned in and murmured, “It’s just us, Dennis. They’ve seen it all. Trust me.”

Dennis hesitated, then shrugged off the sweater. The undershirt followed, leaving him bare-chested and suddenly aware of every mole and scar he’d ever owned. The jeans were next, and he tried to be casual about stepping out of them, but the thong, bright white, luminous against his olive skin, made it impossible.

Robby smirked. “Did you like the gift?”

Dennis rolled his eyes but grinned. “I’ll never be able to go back to Hanes. It’s like wearing clouds. Sexy clouds. The boys are happy.”

That seemed to bring a bright smile on Robby’s face.

The tailor was a machine. He snapped the tape around Dennis’s chest, arms, waist, hips, all the while murmuring measurements into his phone. His hands were precise but gentle. Dennis couldn’t help comparing it to his old doctor’s appointments, this was more clinical, somehow, less judgmental.

Behind him, Robby lounged on the sofa, watching with an approving gaze.

When the measurements were done, Julian gestured to his assistants, who fanned out and vanished into the depths of the store. “We will return shortly,” he said, leaving Dennis alone with Robby.

“Thank you for not bolting,” Robby said, patting the spot next to him.

Dennis plopped down, hands folded in his lap, covering his bulge. “It was a bit much to wake up to and take in, but…  I’m certainly not complaining.  Last night was amazing.”

Robby laughed, head thrown back. “You’re a natural at this.”

Dennis shrugged. “If you say so.”

The assistants returned, arms laden with hangers and folded shirts, more color and texture than Dennis had seen in a year. They laid the bounty on a rack and a table, then retreated to the edges of the room, waiting like hawks.

Julian held up a dark blue blazer with a subtle check, then a cream sweater, then a series of shirts that looked both timeless and modern. “What is your preferred style, Mr. Whitaker?”

Dennis stared. “Um. I don’t know? Something soft? Simple? This is the best sweater I’ve ever worn. Like, in my life,” he said, gesturing to the cashmere.

Julian nodded, as if this was a known and correct answer. “We will begin with the casual, then move to the formal. Would you like privacy, or shall I assist?”

Dennis looked to Robby, who just smiled. “He’ll help. He’s got magic hands.”

Julian’s hands were, in fact, magic. He dressed Dennis in a series of outfits, each one more comfortable and flattering than the last. The pants fit perfectly, the shirts hugged his arms just so, and the sweaters, God, the sweaters, were softer than sin.

Each time Dennis emerged from the changing screen, Robby gave him a once-over, sometimes a whistle, sometimes just a lingering look that made Dennis feel like he was worth something. The banter was light, Robby teasing and Dennis playing along, the awkwardness quickly morphing into something almost fun.

After an hour of trying on everything from cardigans to pea coats to slim chinos, Julian brought out the formal wear. A tuxedo, tailored in black velvet, made Dennis look like the villain in a Bond movie, which Robby made sure to say, “God, you could kill a man in that, you know?”

Dennis flushed, rolling his eyes but preening all the same. “I’d rather just undress a man in this.”

Robby grinned, catching his gaze. “You’re dangerous, Whitaker.”

Finally, when the racks had been decimated and Dennis was exhausted from the attention, Julian cleared his throat. “We will work on the custom items and have them delivered in three days time, these from our racks should suffice for now.  Though, there is one final matter. The undergarments.”

Dennis almost choked. “There’s… more?”

Robby stood and walked to a small table, where an array of packages had been discreetly assembled. He picked one up and handed it to Dennis. “We may as well get you a complete set. What do you think?”

Dennis unwrapped the package. Inside, there were briefs, boxer-briefs, jockstraps, and more thongs, each one in a different color or print. He blinked, then shot Robby a look.

“You have a thing for this, don’t you?” Dennis said, holding up a tiny red jockstrap.

Robby didn’t deny it. “Guilty. I like seeing my partners in… skimpy things. Call it a fetish if you like, but you look charming in them. But only if you’re okay with it.”

Dennis considered. Then he grinned, shaking his head. “It’s fair. I’ll wear anything you want. But you have to agree to wear nothing to bed. I like seeing all of you, Daddy.”

The word hung in the air, heavy as a brick and twice as embarrassing.

Robby’s face went pink, which was deeply satisfying.

Julian, professional that he was, only nodded and instructed his assistants to package everything up. “It will be delivered to your residence by this evening, Mr. Whitaker. Thank you for your time.”

Dennis dressed in his new jeans and a sky-blue sweater with a deep V collar that felt like a second skin. He checked himself in the mirror. He didn’t recognize the man looking back at him.

On the way out, Robby slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “You clean up nice, my prince. Are you ready for your next surprise?”

Dennis shot him a look. “There’s more?”

“Oh, there’s always more,” Robby said, grinning like a devil. He guided Dennis through the glass doors, the winter sunlight sharp and bright, the city stretching out in every direction.

+++++

They pulled up to a building Dennis had only ever seen from far below: a mirrored monolith that cut through the clouds, the kind of place where cartoon villains and the people who owned whole nations kept their money. The driver ushered Dennis and Robby inside, past a security guard who didn’t even blink at the sight of Robby, and into an elevator with a gold panel and not a single visible button.

The ride was so smooth Dennis didn’t even realize they’d moved until the doors whispered open on the top floor.

The office wasn’t an office.

It was a domain.

Walls of glass encircled the space, flooding it with sun and making Dennis feel like a bug under a microscope. The city sprawled in all directions, sharp and infinite, and the skyline looked so fake up here Dennis almost laughed. The flooring was honeyed wood, the furniture minimalist but absurdly expensive. There were huge, abstract sculptures in the corners, and a desk so massive and custom-built it must have been airlifted into place.

Robby led Dennis inside with a hand on his shoulder. There were no assistants, no busybody staff, just the two of them and a single espresso machine on a credenza.

Robby settled behind the desk, gestured for Dennis to sit in the guest chair, leather, ergonomic, a throne in its own right, and started up the coffee maker. “Make yourself at home,” Robby said. “This is your place too, now.  Where I run my medical empire.”

Dennis flopped into the chair, still reeling from the morning’s shopping, the breakfast, the memory of last night. He looked at the city through the glass, tried to see if he could spot his old apartment from up here, and failed. He wondered if he’d ever feel that small again.

Robby slid a cup of coffee his way, then opened a drawer and pulled out a slim black folder. “Before we get to the serious stuff, there’s something I need you to have.”

He set the folder on the desk and nudged it over. Dennis opened it.

Inside was a credit card, matte black, heavy as a coin, his name embossed beneath Robby’s in silver. There was also a set of documents, simple, clean, with just a page of terms and a signature line.

Dennis read the first line and nearly dropped the card. “This is, ”

Robby grinned. “A Centurion card. No limit. You’re authorized up to one hundred thousand dollars per transaction without my approval. Anything above that, just text me. Use it for whatever you need, clothes, food, electronics, rent for your friends if you want.”

Dennis stared at the card, then at Robby, then back at the card. He wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. “This is real?”

“Realer than you’re used to,” Robby said. “I trust you.  For now.”

Dennis held the card with both hands, like it might dissolve if he dropped it. He pictured the mountain of debt he’d carried, the days he’d had to count pennies, the gnawing emptiness of poverty. He couldn’t even begin to imagine spending that kind of money.

Robby sipped his coffee, then leaned forward. “I know you’re overwhelmed. You’ve been through hell, and I’m not trying to buy you off or buy away the pain. I just want you to be comfortable.  So we can be together and enjoy ourselves. That’s the point.”

Dennis swallowed, forcing himself to look up. “Why do you do this?  Surely you could just bat your eyes and have anyone you want.”

Robby shrugged, almost sheepish. “Because I enjoy helping people.  Because I have more money that I’ll ever know what to do with. Because I want you and other sto be happy.  Because I like being in control, too, I suppose.  Knowing where we’re at.”

The weight of it was too much. Dennis laughed, a high, brittle thing. “If this is all a prank, it’s the best one ever pulled.”

Robby grinned. “It’s not a prank. You’re my baby now, remember?  Daddy takes care of his babies.”

Dennis pocketed the card, not sure what else to do with it. He looked at Robby, who watched him with the calm patience of someone who had seen every possible reaction.

Robby set down his coffee, then steepled his fingers. “Let’s talk about something else. Now that you don’t have to worry about basic survival, what do you actually want? Like, if you could do anything, what would you choose?  What is your dream, Dennis?”

Dennis was caught off guard. He’d never been asked that question for real. Not by a parent, not by a counselor, not by anyone who gave a shit.

He fumbled for an answer, stalling. “I don’t know. I guess… I wanted to be a doctor. Pediatrics. I liked working with kids. I wanted to make a difference.” He winced, as if the confession cost him something.

Robby nodded, encouraging. “So you’re still interested in doing that?  You’d do it now, even after all you’ve been through?”

Dennis stared at his hands. “Of course I would.  I worked my whole life for that.  Thing is… Even if I could, my parents have screwed that over with. I’ve been out of the game for too long. I don’t know if I could even pass a re-certification exam now.”

Robby’s lips thinned, but not with judgment. “What if I could fix that?”

Dennis snorted. “What, buy me a fake license?”

Robby shook his head, the smile returning. “Not at all. I have connections. The best medical center in the city, and, honestly, in the country, is my hospital. They have a residency program. I could make a call, get you in touch with the head of pediatrics. She’s brilliant, a hard-ass, but fair. I think you’d like her.”

Dennis gaped. “You’d do that?”

“Is that what you want?”

Dennis nodded, without a moment’s hesitation.  “More than anything…”

Robby picked up his phone, thumbed in a quick message, then set it down. “Done. You’ll meet her today, if you want.”

Before Dennis could say anything, the side door opened and a woman strode in. She was mid-forties, maybe, with dark skin and striking silver streaks in her pulled-back hair. She wore a white coat over scrubs, and her eyes were green and sharp as broken glass. She walked like she owned every room she’d ever entered, which, Dennis guessed, she probably had.

“Dr. Collins,” Robby said, standing to greet her. “Thank you for coming.”

Heather Collins, if Dennis remembered the name from news articles, was a legend. He rose from his seat, fighting the urge to shrink.

“Dennis Whitaker, this is Dr. Heather Collins, head of pediatrics at Harrington Memorial,” Robby said. “Heather, Dennis is hoping to find his way back into medicine. He’ll need to shadow, maybe take some recertification classes, and I’d want him up to my level of standards.  Which, you know all that well.”

Heather shook Dennis’s hand. Her grip was strong, unyielding. She sized him up in a single glance.

“I’ve seen your file and your CV.  Good programs, good grades, and you were just entering residency before you were kicked out.  Robby says you’re worth my attention, and I’d tend to agree, on paper at least,” she said. Her eyes flicked to Robby, then back to Dennis. “Though I’m not in the business of doing favors, Mr. Whitaker, even for my boss.  I’m in the business of training the best doctors this country has ever seen. If you’re serious, I’ll give you a shot. But I’m not going to tolerate bullshit, and I’m not going to accept half-assed work just because you’re sleeping with the CEO.  My patients are my kids, and I would kill for my kids.  Do we understand each other?”

Dennis felt his ears burn with embarrassment.  Oh, she knew about their “arrangement” then.  Fair enough.  “I…  I’m not looking for an easy ride. I want to be a doctor. I’ve been trying so long to get back in the game.  I just want a chance.”

Heather nodded, stone-faced, unimpressed, but a tad softer. “You’ll get one. But it’s going to be hell. Are you ready for that?”

Dennis nodded, voice failing him.

“Good.” Heather turned to Robby. “He’ll need a laptop, access to the hospital’s online courses, and a full week shadowing the residents on where they are at. Make sure he studies up before he walks in my building. If he makes it through, he can audit the certification classes and we can re-establish his residency. I’ll be watching.  If he folds or if he’s weak, he’s out.  Are we understood, boss man?”

“Done,” Robby said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Heather looked at Dennis again. “First shift is tomorrow. Don’t be late.” She handed him a white binder, thick with paper. “That’s the schedule and the rules. Read it cover to cover.”

She spun on her heel and left, lab coat billowing behind her like a cape.

Dennis clutched the binder, heart pounding.

Robby stood and came around the desk, resting a hand on Dennis’s back. “You okay?”

Dennis nodded, tears stinging his eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know how to…”

After Dr. Collins’s exit, the world seemed to pause, the office quiet except for the hum of air vents and the city’s distant heartbeat. Dennis slumped in the guest chair, binder on his lap, scrubs and a hospital laptop beside him. He felt hollowed out in the best possible way. exhausted, elated, terrified. Mostly, though, he felt grateful. He hadn’t just been given a second chance; he’d been handed it, gift-wrapped.

Robby settled on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms, watching Dennis with an expression that was part pride, part warning. “You all right?” he asked, voice gentle.

Dennis nodded, then shook his head. “I… I just… thank you. Really. I know I said it already, but I mean it.”

Robby held up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You have to survive Dr. Collins first. She’s a shark, and she eats the unprepared alive.  Which is how I like it.  I only want the world’s best doctors working in my hospital and treating my patients.  Even if you are beautiful and lovely, if you’re not up to snuff, I’m not going to cut you any slack.”

Dennis managed a laugh, though his throat was tight. “I’m used to being the weakest one in the room. I can handle it.”

Robby’s gaze softened. “I’m not worried about your ability. I’m worried about your motivation. This can’t be about me, or the money, or some half-baked revenge against your parents. If you’re going to do this, it has to be for the kids you’ll be treating. For yourself.  A doctor has to be in this for more than just themselves.”

Dennis took a breath, nodding. He wanted to make it about something pure, something good. “It is. I mean… It’s always been about that. It’s just…” He hesitated, unsure how to put the weight of all his failures into words. “I lost sight of it. I got angry, and then tired, and then I couldn’t see any reason for anything. But I do want this. More than anything.”

Robby’s lips curled, sad and proud. “That’s what I want to hear.”

They sat in silence, the city’s grandeur pressing in from all sides.

After a minute, Robby shifted, eyes distant. “You know why I’m so obsessed with the hospital? Why I never stop working on it?”

Dennis shook his head, waiting.

“Because people die all the time from basic procedures. From lack of tools. Lack of education. Lack of resources.” Robby’s voice went flat, the warmth bleeding out. “I swore to never see something like that again, if I could… help it.  Which is why we give free procedures all the time.  Procedures that people couldn’t afford otherwise.”

Dennis heard the words, but also the undertone, the ache, the old scar. He leaned forward, voice softer. “Did you… lose someone that way?”

Robby let out a bitter breath. “A long time ago. His name was Elliot. We were young, stupid, in love. Three misdiagnoses. A hospital that wasn’t trained in how to handle it. Because he was gay, everyone assumed it was AIDS and wouldn’t dig any deeper. A few doctors didn’t even want to touch him.” Robby closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “One day, he got really sick and went to the hospital.  I had to lie to get them to even touch him.  He died on the table. Outdated tools, lack of continuing education. When the autopsy came back, it was an autoimmune disorder. Died of a treatable infection. He died because nobody cared enough to see him as a human.”

Dennis’s heart twisted. “I’m so sorry.”

Robby shrugged, as if the story was a coat he’d worn so long it barely registered. “It’s why I do what I do. Why I built the hospital. Why I push the staff so hard. Why I pushed myself and built what I’ve built. I can’t undo the past, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Dennis let the words hang, not daring to break the spell with platitudes or sympathy that would only cheapen it. He just nodded, promising himself that he’d earn every inch of this new chance.

After a long, quiet minute, Robby cleared his throat. “Enough of the sob stories. Are you hungry?”

Dennis blinked at the shift, but let it happen. “Actually… I am. Is there more food in this building?”

Robby grinned, the darkness fading from his eyes. “There’s always food. But I was thinking we could go somewhere special. There’s a Japanese place I like. real deal, not the stuff they serve in chain hotels.”

Dennis smiled. “I’ve never had real sushi before. Only the supermarket kind. The kind with the weird rubbery shrimp.”

“Then we’ll fix that.” Robby stood, straightened his shirt, and gathered up Dennis’s scrubs and laptop. He handed the bundle to Dennis, then offered his arm.

Dennis took it, feeling the solidity, the reassurance. The invitation to something bigger than himself.

As they walked out of the office and into the elevator, Dennis glanced up at Robby. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Robby looked at him, eyes warm again. “I told you, baby. I only pick the best.”

They left the world of glass and gold behind, together, both a little less alone.

+++++

The Japanese place was tucked into a side street, a little wood-and-paper lantern glowing above the entrance. Inside, the room was long and narrow, just twelve seats at a pale wooden bar facing a chef who moved with the focus of a surgeon. The air smelled clean, with only a hint of vinegar and brine.

Robby guided Dennis to two seats at the far end, close enough for private conversation, but still in view of the chef’s performance. The hostess greeted them by name, bows exchanged, and within seconds they had hot towels and icy glasses of water.

Dennis watched the chef with open awe as he sliced, rolled, and plated with precision, never glancing up. Each piece was a tiny work of art, perfectly scored fish, rice molded by hand, a dab of wasabi invisible to the naked eye.

They ate in silence at first, Dennis savoring the textures and the shock of new flavors. “This is unreal,” he said after the first piece of tuna. “I think I’ve been eating fake food my whole life.”

Robby laughed, reaching for his own plate. “There’s a lot of fake in the world. I like to give the real thing, whenever I can.”

Dennis flushed, feeling the truth of it settle somewhere deep.

When the tempura arrived, hot, crisp, not greasy at all, Dennis set down his chopsticks and looked at Robby. “I still don’t get why you’re doing all this. I mean, it’s not just the money. You could have anyone. Why pick the basket case with a record of failure?”

Robby sipped his sake, eyes kind but unreadable. “Because you’re not a basket case. You’re real. You’re honest. You’re trying, even when it hurts.” He paused, choosing his next words. “And you make me want to try, too.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, though his chest tightened. “That’s corny as hell.”

“It is,” Robby agreed. “But it’s true.”

They ate in silence. The chef sent over a special plate, a little gift, and Dennis devoured it with thanks.

After the last course, sweet and soft, Dennis wiped his mouth and pushed the plate away. “You know, you never let me pay for anything. You won’t let me thank you. You keep doing these huge things for me, and I can’t keep up. How do I make it up to you?”

Robby looked amused. “You don’t have to. That’s not how this works.”

Dennis pouted, but only a little. “There’s got to be something you want. Something I can do.  You said in our arrangement, that both parties can say what they want, right?  Well…  I want to do something.  Whatever you want?”

“I…”  Robby seemed to pause at that, his mind-short circuiting.  As if the concept of “wanting something” was far beyond his realm of thought. 

“Come on. Throw me a bone here.  You gave me half a million in my bank account.  My conscience isn’t going to let me not do something.” Dennis insisted.

Robby considered, then smiled, shy and sharp. “Would you cook for me, one night? Anything. I just want to enjoy a homecooked meal, just between us. I haven’t done that in a long time.  Nothing fancy.  Nothing bought.  Just…  Something made by your own hands.”

Dennis was stunned. “That’s it? You want me to… cook?”

“I want you to be yourself,” Robby said. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Dennis grinned, giddy. “I can do that. I’m actually decent at soups. My grandma taught me.”

Robby lifted his glass. “Then it’s settled. We’ll have a soup night.”

They toasted, Dennis with his tea, Robby with sake, and the clink of cups was gentle and hopeful.

After dinner, Robby’s driver met them curbside. The car’s interior was warm, the windows fogged from the cold. As soon as the doors shut, Dennis let the tension of the day spill out. He leaned in, pressed his lips to Robby’s, and let it deepen, hungry and bold.

Robby responded in kind, hand at the back of Dennis’s neck, pulling him closer. The partition between front and back was up; Dennis forgot there was a driver at all.

They kissed, messy and long, and at some point Dennis found himself straddling Robby’s lap, knees braced on either side, fingers twisting in Robby’s hair. The car’s motion was a distant, rolling thing. They were the only point of gravity.

When the SUV pulled into the parking garage and stopped, Dennis was breathless and blushing, but unwilling to let go. “I could get used to this,” he said, voice low.

Robby grinned, squeezing his hip. “Let’s take it upstairs.”

They managed to make it through the lobby and elevator without incident, though Dennis’s hands couldn’t seem to keep still. By the time they were inside the penthouse, he was already tugging at Robby’s shirt, desperate for skin.

Mr. Winters was nowhere to be seen, off for the night, presumably. They had the whole world to themselves.

In the bedroom, they stripped with efficiency, shedding layers until they were both bare.

Dennis admired the sweep of Robby’s chest, the scars, the way he looked even more powerful unclothed.   He buried himself in the man’s soft chest, nibbled and kissed the soft pecs, as his hands wandered and cupped the man’s ass, pinching and kneading them like dought.

Robby, for his part, seemed entranced by Dennis, his sharp hips, the way the silk thong left nothing to the imagination, his hand groping forcing his baby’s cock to pop out, hard and flushed.  Now irritated by the cloth, Robby tore it off with his bare hands, shredding the fabric and tossing it across the room.

They fell into bed, a tangle of limbs and need. Dennis wrapped his arms and legs around Robby, pulling him down, loving the weight and heat of the older man slowly crushing him. They kissed, slow at first, then with mounting urgency.

Robby moved with a gentleness Dennis had never known, strong, but careful, checking in with every move. They rutted against each other, cocks sliding with a splash of scented lube, hands mapping every inch.

“Does that feel good baby?” Robby asked, leaning up from a kiss.

Dennis moaned, thrusting up, whining each time their cocks slid against each other, moaning when their heads found purchase, and giggling with the slap of their balls squelching with the lubricant.  “So good, Daddy!”

A low rumble, a growl almost, echoed in Robby’s chest.  He sped up, pinning Dennis to the bed and taking control, using his massive hand to grab both of their cocks, ensuring the angle and thrust was perfect, each and every time.

Dennis came first, hips jerking, the sound torn from his throat. Robby followed a few moments later, burying his face in Dennis’s neck as he shuddered through it.

They lay tangled, breath slowing, skin slick with sweat and come. Dennis closed his eyes, savoring the pulse in his veins, the soreness in his limbs, the absolute rightness of this place.

After a few minutes, Robby peeled himself up and grinned down at Dennis. “You need a shower, baby.”

“You’re the one who made the mess.  So, I say you get to clean it up,” Dennis shot back, but he let Robby haul him up and shepherd him to the bathroom.

“You’re a menace.” Robby purred, sucking a hickey onto Dennis’ collarbone.

They showered together, laughing, kissing under the spray, letting the water wash it all away. When they finally climbed back into bed, Dennis curled into Robby’s side, head tucked under his chin.

“Tomorrow’s going to be rough,” Dennis mumbled, already half-asleep.

“I know,” Robby said, stroking his hair. “…but you’re not alone.”

Dennis let the words settle over him like a blanket, soft and warm.  He slept, dreamless and whole.

Chapter Text

Robby’s office sat at the absolute apex of the Robinavitch Medical Technologies headquarters, a full story above the next highest executive suite, and, by both design and psychological intent, half a city above the rest of Westport Harbor.

The glass walls offered a perfect, panoramic sweep of the city, water on one side, the hospital campus sprawling across the other, the hulk of the Harrington Memorial building visible even through the morning fog. Some architects had suggested the office was “too open,” but to Robby it was perfect: exposure, control, and the implicit threat that if you ever failed, you’d do it in front of the entire world.

He sat at his desk, the surface a single sheet of black marble, cold even through the thinnest sleeve. A trio of flat screens angled toward him, each subdivided into a geometry of documents, graphs, video feeds from labs and factories on two continents. Everything in the room was precision, awards in a glass case, a few family photos perfectly arranged on a steel side table, a wall-mounted display of RMT’s original cardiac catheter prototype that earned him his first millions, lacquered and illuminated like a religious relic. There was even, at the corner nearest the door, a small, tastefully nonthreatening bowl of the lemon drops he favored. He was on his third before 9 a.m., and it was shaping up to be a five-drop kind of day.

He should have been focused on the task at hand: final approvals for the company’s new ambulatory heart monitor, a device so featherlight and accurate it would make most of its competitors obsolete within a quarter.

Instead his eyes kept snagging on the phone, on the stack of messages and notifications, all silent, all irrelevant, except for the one that wasn’t there, the expected, inevitable, “Dennis lasted two hours and got ejected from the program, sorry boss.” text from Heather Collins.

It was Dennis’s first day in the Harrington Memorial’s pediatric program, and Robby had taken elaborate steps to ensure he could be reached at a moment’s notice, to comfort “the blow” when it happened. He’d told himself it was out of a sense of mentorship, or philanthropy, or maybe just good customer service to keep his sugar baby happy, but in truth it was something else entirely.

He’d seen Collins in action before. She’d run off three of his previous “sponsored” residents in the last five years, and at least two of those had been “geniuses”, if you listened to the rumor mill. Heather had a zero-tolerance policy for incompetence, drama, or what she called “private equity medicine,” and her open disdain for Robby’s “pet projects” was legendary in the Healthcare District.

“She’ll break him.” Robby worried.

Dennis wasn’t like the others, though.

Dennis was… well, Dennis was Dennis. Earnest, with the softest heart Robby had ever seen in a man, and, despite a lifetime of rejection, absolutely incapable of hiding it. He was smart, no question, but his defining quality was a kind of relentless, accidental vulnerability. The kind that would either get him devoured in a place like the Harrington, or, just maybe, change it.

The phone stayed silent.

At 11:07 he got up and crossed to the window, watched a string of ambulances crawl into the hospital’s emergency circle.

A part of him still buzzed at the memory of those days, code blues, cold metal, the split-second rush of being the first, best, and last hope for someone who’d gone too far to come back. He’d liked medicine, once. Even liked hospitals, for all their rot and bureaucracy. But the only thing Robby liked more than saving lives was winning, and you couldn’t win in medicine, not really.  So he built his own empire of medicine himself, where he, his doctors, and his patients, could all win.

“Miss Chen?” he called to the open air, expecting the omnipresent executive assistant to materialize. She did, instantly, heels not quite touching the carpet.

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“Push the Stanford call to three. I’ll be off-site for the next hour. If you need me…”

“I’ll know where to find you,” she finished, giving him a tight smile. “Would you like the car?”

“No,” he said, glancing back at the hospital through the window. “I’ll walk.”

She gave a nod and withdrew.

Robby straightened his tie, slid into a suit jacket that was at once tailored and aggressively casual, and stalked out of the office. The elevator at this end of the building was private, express, reserved only for himself and visiting dignitaries, and its interior smelled faintly of vetiver, a detail he’d forced Facilities to correct after an unfortunate incident with a German health minister whose allergies rivaled his sense of entitlement.

The elevator shot down forty-three floors in under twenty seconds, a pressure change that used to make his ears pop until he had the interior insulation replaced. The doors whispered open onto the main hospital skybridge, a clean, bright artery that shuttled staff and patients between the clinical towers and the research wings, all designed to look seamless but in reality a constant and barely managed warzone of budgets, egos, and the occasional pandemic.

Robby entered the flow of humanity, with the gait of a CEO, and was immediately greeted by a half-dozen bows and a muttered “Dr. Robinavitch, sir” from anyone in a white coat or with a security badge. He nodded, not slowing, but making a note to compliment Facilities on the new ambient lighting, someone had finally solved the flicker problem that had driven him mad for the last quarter.

He tried not to check his phone again as he crossed the lobby, but failed.

No messages from Dennis, not even a passive-aggressive meme or emoji. That was either a very good sign or the prelude to catastrophe.

Robby strolled the pediatric wing with the air of a man who had every right to be there, which, technically, he did, but kept to the edges, avoiding the central line of sight, ducking past the playrooms and the phalanx of glass-walled observation pods. It was a trick he'd learned from his own days as a doctor in the ER: if you moved with purpose but kept your head down, nobody asked if you belonged.

He circled the main nurse’s station once, just enough to clock who was on duty (Evans, of course), then slid up beside it, careful to keep his back to the corridor where Collins and her group of trainees prowled.

Dana Evans, mid-fifties and built like a steel cable wrapped in pink scrubs, never looked up from her iPad.

“If you’re looking for a coffee refill, the pot’s been dead since nine,” she said, scrolling one-handed and making notes on a paper chart with the other.

He grinned, tried to sound casual. “Not here for coffee. Came to see how the new resident is holding up. Collins hasn’t strangled him yet, has she?”

Dana’s eyebrow arched, still not looking up. “The one who gives everybody and their dog nicknames, the ten who aren’t going to make it to the end of the week, or the one who looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade and looks like a wet rat?”

He snorted. “The latter. Whitaker.”

“The kicked puppy,” she said, now giving him the full Dana Evans once-over. “Yeah, he’s fine. Lasted the morning, anyway. Little shaky on his first patient, but he takes notes. Like, obsessive notes. Kind of cute, if you’re into the doe-eyed deer-in-headlights thing. Not my flavor, but I get the appeal.”

Robby suppressed a smile. “You said ‘shaky.’ That sounds ominous.”

Dana sighed, set down her chart. “Shaky is better than dead in the water. Look, we’ve had four fresh residents this month, two of them already cried in the supply closet, and one nearly fainted when Collins quizzed him on Kawasaki disease. Whitaker? He just… took it. Not like he’s bulletproof, more like he expects to be shot at and doesn’t mind as long as you don’t hit a vital organ.”

Robby glanced toward the hallway, where the residents were herded around an exam room, Collins’s voice, low, clipped, insistent, drifting through the glass.

“You like him?” he said, not quite a question.

Dana rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But I will say, he did a good thing today, and earned some respect points. In the waiting room, there was this kid, six, maybe, tonsils the size of golf balls, who tossed her breakfast all over his scrubs while he was coming to guide her to the exam room. Every other rookie would have lost it and barfed themselves, or gotten pissed, or at least gone all pale and useless until a nurse took over. Whitaker just dropped to her level, told her it was okay, cleaned her up, then let the kid use his stethoscope as a toy while the mom freaked out and janitorial came by. He said, and I quote, ‘It’s okay, sweetie. You’re sick. You didn’t do anything wrong.  Dr. Collins is going to make you feel all better.’ Then he got up, went to the locker room, showered and changed, and came back with a sticker for the kid who was still sniffling. No drama, no panic. Just did the job and made her feel better.”

That did sound like Dennis. Robby felt a flicker of something, not pride, exactly, but a weird, unexpected satisfaction.

“Collins notice it?” he asked, trying not to seem invested.

“She pretended not to, but everyone sees everything in this place.  Later in the rounds, she make a big deal about “emotional connections” with patients who are in distress,” Dana said. “You know that.”

He did. He also knew that a single mistake in the first week was enough to get you cut from the program. “So he’s… passing?”

Dana made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “It’s day one, Doc. If he keeps his head down and stops saying ‘sorry’ every five seconds, he might just survive.” She leaned in, voice lowering. “Honestly? He reminds me of the old residents, before med school started churning out androids. He cares too much. Like, creepy empath shit. That’s a liability here in a lot of ways, but it’s also… I don’t know. Nice.”

Robby nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He picked up a stray pen, rolled it between his fingers, the gesture automatic.

“Anything else?” Dana asked, side-eyeing him.

“No, that’s all,” he said, then, as an afterthought, “Thanks for the update.”

She waved him off, already back to her charts.

He watched for another minute as Dennis navigated the corridor with a clipboard, trailed by two other residents and an intern who looked like he might be sick himself. Dennis’s walk was different from earlier, he was standing straighter, moving with a little more confidence, even managing a weak smile for the next patient they passed.

Robby caught himself smiling, too.

He turned, checked the time, and made a note to come back at shift change. In the meantime, there were a thousand things to do, but only one that really mattered: seeing if Dennis could make it through day one without breaking.

He was betting on it now.

+++++

Robby let himself melt into the background, tracking Collins and her ducklings from a respectful distance as they moved through the late afternoon rounds. Hospitals were like anthills: if you paid attention, you could find a thousand different dramas unfolding in parallel, each with its own cast, its own flavor of desperation.

He lingered near the family consultation room, out of sight but close enough to catch the cadence of Dr. Collins’s interrogation. The group had crowded into a small exam room, the kind with old posters of the respiratory system and too-bright lights overhead.

Collins ran a tight ship, she didn’t tolerate grandstanding, and her questions cut like a laser. Today’s case was a five-year-old, post-strep with new joint swelling and a rash on her belly. Classic medical school bait, but the little curveballs were where she separated wheat from chaff. Naturally, they’d moved away from the patient and the family for their showdown, out of respect and dignity of the child.

“Whitaker,” she said, voice carrying down the hall even through the door. “Differential, please. Go.”

Dennis paused, and Robby felt a spike of sympathetic dread. “Uh, rheumatic fever is top of mind, post-strep. The rash isn’t classic to post-op. Could be an atypical presentation? Or Henoch-Schönlein purpura. Maybe early Kawasaki. Though the age is almost on the wrong side for that…”

Collins interrupted, “What else? What are you missing?”

Dennis’s voice steadied. “Could be medication reaction. Or a viral exanthem secondary to the initial infection. The swelling’s worse in the mornings, and the patient lives in a shelter. Is there any chance of a parvovirus infection picked up in a crowded environment? Perhaps an allergic reaction, even.”

Collins was silent for a second. Then: “You think environmental factors matter? Did I ask about environmental factors?” She challenged, him. Arms folded. As if she dared him to challenge her. Classic Collins, Robby thought, knowing she liked to push back on residents to see how much of a spine they had. Or how disrespectful they could be.

“I—yes? Sorry, you didn’t, but the data on rheumatic fever is mostly from low-income populations, with more exposure risk and less access to consistent follow-up due to lack of insurance or support,” Dennis said, almost apologetic. “Also, there’s a chance it might be a shelter that doesn’t always have heating. Maybe… reactive arthritis, triggered by the infection and compounded by cold exposure? The patient had a limp when she walked in, I noticed, ma’am.  Though if you ask me, there’s also a chance of bed bugs, and the weakened immune system making them present much worse.”

A pause. Then, to the rest of the room: “You see what he did? He read the context and listened to the patients, not just the labs or what’s obvious.  That’s important in our field.  Because we are not Gods, ladies and gentlemen, despite what you may think.  We do not know everything, and the moment you think you do, you are useless to me, this hospital, and everything Harrington Memorial stands for.” Her tone suggested the compliment was as rare as a winning lottery ticket, and all of the other residents seemed to look on in awe.

Robby felt a grin creep across his face. He backed away from the door before he could be noticed, and took the long way around, letting the team get ahead as they migrated toward the NICU.

In the neonatal intensive care unit, the world changed shape. The walls were glass, the lighting softer, and every sound was filtered through a wash of beeping, hissing, and the hum of incubators. This was where medicine got personal, tiny, translucent fighters clinging to life by the width of a hair, every hour a battle against entropy. The staff here spoke in a different register, lower and almost reverent.

Collins led the group to the far corner, where a little boy in a clear incubator was hooked to a constellation of monitors, his limbs skeletal, head covered in a mop of impossibly dark hair. He was premature, barely two pounds, by the look of him, and every movement seemed to cost him.

“Whitaker, front and center.  Congratulations, for your earlier accomplishment, you will now be volunteered into service and allowed to take one of my first real tests,” Collins said.

Dennis moved to her side, eyes wide as the other residents chuckled.  The chuckling stopped as they all approached one of the many incubators, and inside a premature baby was clearly in distress.

Dr. Collins gently laid her hand on the incubator.  “This is baby Ezekiel.  We named him that because he has “the strength of god” in him. Born yesterday evening at twenty-six weeks, respiratory distress, feeding issues, and a whole host of other issues. His parents weren’t strong enough to handle it, and surrendered him yesterday as a ward of the state, leaving his life and his future in our hands. Things are still touch and go, and there’s a very good chance he might still die by the night’s end.” Collins’s voice went flat. “He needs skin-to-skin contact to help maintain his heart rate, allow him to know he’s not alone in this cold world, and to help de-stress him.  I am putting this child’s life in your hands, Whittaker.  Are you up for that?”

Dennis didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Collins nodded to the nurse, who unlatched the top of the incubator and gestured for Dennis to scrub in. He did, hands trembling only a little. He peeled off his white coat, then, after a second’s pause, stripped off his shirt entirely, standing in the NICU in nothing but navy-blue scrub pants and a tangle of nerves. His chest was lean, splotched with old scars, pale from a life indoors. The nurse lifted the infant with infinite gentleness, placed him on Dennis’s bare chest, and tucked a heated blanket around both of them.  They hooked up monitoring wires, the nurses fussing over each and every little position.

Dennis slid into the rocking chair, cradling the infant with both hands. The baby’s head fit in his palm. His eyes fluttered at the contact, then stilled, breathing slowing to match the rise and fall of Dennis’s chest.

For a long time, nobody said anything.  They just watched as that tiny life did everything in its power to hold onto Dennis, watching its tiny little chest raise up and down.

Collins stood by the monitors, watching. The other residents shuffled awkwardly, unsure whether to watch or not.

“Life and death of innocent, young lives.  This is what you will see every day. It’s not fair. It’s not kind. There are days where it will be cruel and rip your heart out of your chest. Knowing that the tiny little hands and bodies you hold could die any day is something you have to understand if you’re going to make it here. This isn’t a classroom. This isn’t a medical drama. This is real. All of you watching Whittaker with those uncomfortable gazes? I suggest you take a long and hard look at what you want to do in this field, because if you can’t stomach this, if you can’t handle looking death and illness in those tiny little eyes, then you will have a miserable life in this field.” Collins said, firmly, calmly, and with a terrifying gaze in her eyes. The kind that Robby could tell would have two of her residents, at minimum, quitting by the day’s end.

After a minute, Collins shooed them away. “Nothing more to see. Take your lunch. Whitaker, you’re on shift here until the nurses say otherwise. You’re their bitch for the foreseeable future.”

Dennis nodded, not taking his eyes off the infant.

Robby, unnoticed, found a seat on the far side of the glass and watched. The whole NICU seemed to slow down, the beeping of the monitors settling into a softer rhythm. Dennis stroked the baby’s back with the tip of a finger, rocking in time with some internal music only he could hear. At one point, he started humming, quiet, off-key, but with genuine feeling.

An hour passed. Then two.  Then three.

The monitors showed a subtle but clear change: Ezekial’s heart rate, erratic at first, smoothed out; his O2 sats crept upward; the color of his hands and feet warmed from blue to a dusky rose. Dennis didn’t move except to readjust his hold, never breaking the skin-to-skin contact. Every so often, he whispered something, nonsense syllables, encouragement, the sort of baby-talk that made Robby’s chest hurt in a way he hadn’t felt for decades.

The memory hit hard, out of nowhere: his first love, Elliot, snuggled up on a dormitory cot, reading to Robby from a battered paperback and making voices for each character, just for the hell of it. Elliot had cared for people the same way, unstoppable, unguarded, sometimes stupidly so. It was that tenderness that made him so vulnerable, so irreplaceable, and in the end, so easy to lose.

Robby blinked the memory away, but the feeling lingered.

He waited until Dennis was done, until the nurse came to gently peel the baby away and return him to the incubator. Dennis dressed in silence, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand when he thought no one was looking. Robby stayed where he was, letting him have the privacy of recovery.

As he headed for the elevator, Collins intercepted him in the corridor, hands in her pockets, shoulders squared.

“Dr. Robinavitch,” she said, almost polite.

“Dr. Collins,” he replied, matching her tone.

She glanced back toward the NICU. “Your boy did good today. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s got grit. Most of your charity cases come in here with a chip on their shoulder, thinking they’re above us. Whitaker? He’s humble. I like that. You don’t see a lot of doctors without an ego. In fact, I think Whittaker might actually be the first doctor with humility I’ve ever met in my life.”

Robby felt himself blush, just a little. “He’s not a charity case, Heather. He earned it.”

Collins almost smiled. “Don’t let him forget it. The system will chew him up if he lets it.”

She nodded once, then moved off, calling over her shoulder, “Tell your puppy he gets to keep his badge for another day. See if he can make it a week.  Then we’ll see two.”

Robby watched her go, then let out a long, slow breath.

He checked his phone, tempted to text Dennis, but thought better of it. Some victories were better left unspoken.

He left the hospital feeling lighter than he had in months, maybe years, the echo of Elliot’s smile in his mind and the hope, foolish, maybe, but real, that this time, things would turn out different.

+++++

Robby waited in the parking garage, SUV idling in a reserved space, headlights bouncing off the stained concrete and the occasional security cart trundling by. He had his phone open, half-heartedly cycling through the day’s headlines, but mostly he just watched the elevator lobby, counting down the minutes until Dennis appeared.

He tried to project calm, but his left leg jittered uncontrollably, heel thumping against the floor mat. Every time the elevator dinged, his heart jumped, then fell as white coats and badge-lanyard people streamed out, none of them Dennis.

Finally, just after seven, the elevator doors parted and there he was, Dennis, pale and hunched, a battered messenger bag slung over one shoulder, still in scrubs but with a loose fleece zipped over top, hair a mess from running his hands through it all day. He looked so tired that Robby’s first impulse was to order him to bed for twelve hours, no argument.

But when Dennis spotted the SUV and the man waiting inside, his whole face lit up. He jogged across the parking aisle, a little bounce in his step, and yanked open the passenger door with the energy of someone who’d just survived a natural disaster.

“You’re here,” he said, surprised and happy, and tossed the bag into the back seat. “Didn’t think you’d actually pick me up yourself.”

Robby shrugged, playing it cool. “What can I say? I missed you.” He gestured to the back seat. “Come on, let’s have some privacy.”

Dennis slid in, flopping onto the seat and sighing so deeply Robby thought he might deflate entirely. He leaned his head back, stared at the SUV’s roof. “I’m not dead,” he announced. “Also, I didn’t get fired.”

“That’s what I heard,” Robby said, not hiding the pride in his voice. “You survived Collins’s first day. Gold medal in suffering, silver in humility.”

Dennis groaned. “She’s the scariest human alive. She asked me a question about some differential, and my brain just…  blanked. I thought I was toast. Then I came back around and started talking.  I guess I did okay? Unless she’s waiting for a more dramatic kill shot.”

Robby snorted, reaching across to squeeze Dennis’s thigh. “She likes you. Trust me, if she hated you, you’d already be a cautionary tale in next year’s orientation slides.”

Dennis shuddered. “I believe you.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the low thrum of the engine and the city traffic somewhere above them. Dennis cracked an eye, looking sideways at Robby. “I missed you, too. Today was rough. Good, but rough.”

Robby reached for his hand, weaving their fingers together. “Want to talk about it?”

Dennis made a face, like he was considering whether to unload or just melt into the seat. “There was this baby. Preemie. No parents. They asked me to do skin-to-skin and… I don’t know. I just held him, and he was so small, but he held on, you know? Like, the whole world sucked for this little thing, but he still tried. Made me feel like a total fraud for every time I’d ever wanted to give up.”

Robby squeezed his hand. “You’re not a fraud.”

Dennis smiled, shaky. “Maybe not today.” He sat up, suddenly alert. “Is this weird? I feel like I should be, I don’t know, less needy.”

“Shut up,” Robby said, then softened it with a smile. “I like you needy. Means I get to take care of you.”

Dennis blushed, but didn’t look away. “Okay, Daddy.”

The word zinged through Robby, made him want to drag Dennis over his lap right there in the parking garage, but he suppressed the impulse. There was time for that, later.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Dennis nodded. “Starved.”

Robby signaled Grant, who pulled the car out and guided them through the labyrinth of the parking structure, up into the crisp city night. The windows of the SUV reflected the world in a blur: neon, traffic lights, the flickering blue-white of billboards. Inside, Robby drew Dennis in close, letting him lean on his shoulder, the seatbelt a mild inconvenience they ignored for the first half of the ride.

The restaurant was old-school French, tucked into a brownstone near the waterfront, the sign so modest it almost vanished into the night. The hostess recognized Robby instantly, leading them past the busy main floor and up a curving staircase to a private balcony, where a single table was set for two. The lights were low, the music even lower, just the faint pluck of a harp from below.

Dennis eyed the place, then Robby. “Is this a date, or a last meal?”

“Trust me, you’ll live to see breakfast,” Robby said. “Order anything you want. Or let me do it for you.”

Dennis passed over the menu. “I trust you.”

The waiter arrived, all deference and dark suit. Robby rattled off a selection, escargot, duck confit, two starters, one dessert, and a bottle of white so cold it sweated in the ice bucket. The waiter vanished.

Dennis watched Robby with open amusement. “You do realize I have no idea how to eat half of that, right?”

“That’s half the fun,” Robby said. “It’s an adventure.”

A small bread basket arrived, and Dennis attacked it like a wolf. Between bites, he recounted more of his day: the terror of rounds, the relief of surviving, how Collins had praised his “contextual thinking” in front of everyone, and how he almost cried in the supply closet out of sheer relief but didn’t want to ruin his streak of not being pathetic.

Robby mostly listened, content to watch Dennis’s face as he came alive telling the stories. This was the best part, he thought. The warmth, the openness, the way Dennis let himself be known without even realizing it.

Eventually, between courses, Robby asked the question that had gnawed at him since the night before.  A “test”, maybe.  A trojan horse masked as an olive branch.  A “suggestion” that would tell him a lot about the man.

“You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, right? You could quit tomorrow. Go back to shopping sprees and lazy afternoons. Never touch another sick kid if you didn’t want to.”

Dennis gave him a look, equal parts amusement and disbelief. “If I wanted to do that, I would have just stayed “straight”, married someone I didn’t love, and stayed on my parents’ leash. You think I’m wired for luxury and nothingness?”

Robby shrugged. “Some people are.”

Dennis shook his head, earnest and sharp. “I don’t want to be useless, Robby. My parents already think I am. That’s why I…” He stopped, suddenly self-conscious. “Never mind.”

“Say it,” Robby said, quietly.

Dennis hesitated, then: “I want to matter. I want to… treat the world like I wished it had treated me. Even if it’s one kid at a time. I can’t be the guy who takes and takes and never gives back. I’d rather die.”

It wasn’t melodrama. Robby could see it was the deepest kind of truth.

“Good,” Robby said, and meant it. “You’re definitely not useless, Dennis. You’re doing good things. Even if it means you get messy, or tired, or you need to hold babies for hours when it breaks your heart.”

Dennis grinned. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The food arrived, the table suddenly crowded with plates and silver. Robby served Dennis first, then himself, and for a while they just ate, the harp music threading through the conversation like a gentle reminder of the world outside their bubble.

After the last forkful, Dennis slumped back in his chair, blissed out and sleepy.

“I could get used to this,” he said, and Robby could tell he meant not just the meal, but everything, the care, the company, the permission to want things.

“So, get used to it,” Robby said. “I hope our arrangement lasts for quite some time.”

They lingered until closing, the waiters politely ignoring them, the world shrinking to just their laughter and the faint shimmer of candlelight on the tablecloth.

Neither of them noticed the figure in the shadows of the outdoor patio, just beyond the balcony rail, a man in a windbreaker, camera raised, snapping photo after photo through the dense greenery, lens trained on the table where Robby and Dennis smiled at each other like nobody else existed.

The night was perfect, so neither man saw the flash of trouble waiting in the darkness, just for them.

Chapter Text

First week back into the world of medicine?  Survived.

Well, “Survived” was a subjective term.  Dennis was exhausted from the long shifts, still terrified (but in awe) of Dr. Collins, and wracked with nerves about not screwing up, but…

“Dr. Collins let me stay.  She wants me to learn from her.” 

Dennis woke before the sun with a wide smile, which was a first in recent memory, and laid there for a minute, convinced that some invisible hand had turned back time to his childhood, back when life was simpler and kinder.

The penthouse was dead quiet, but the weight on his chest was different: not pressure, not anxiety, but Robby’s arm, heavy and warm, slung across him in a possessive tangle.

He slid out from under it like a cat burglar, careful not to jostle the bed. Robby grumbled in his sleep, rolled to the other side, and Dennis watched his profile in the half-dark. Older, yes, but vulnerable too, the faint lines on his face softer without the tension of waking life.

Dennis padded naked across the chilled floors, grabbing a nightshirt and a pair of lounge pants from the closet, pulling them on without bothering to check the mirror. He still looked like a museum statue dressed by a toddler, but at least he’d finally started to gain some weight again.

The kitchen was huge and ridiculous, easily big enough to stage a cooking show in. Every surface gleamed, and the wall of windows ran the length of the room, overlooking a city waking up in cold, crystalline blue. At the island, a single lamp was lit, casting a puddle of gold on the marble.

Mr. Winters was already there, in his full suit, reading the day’s news off a tablet and not looking up.

Dennis almost left. He considered it, maybe he’d just grab a cup and flee to the living room, but he’d promised. He’d promised Robby a homemade meal, and more than that, he’d promised himself he’d try to make this place feel like home, even if just for a morning.

He cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

Winters looked up, sharp as a hawk. “Mr. Whitaker.”

There was a chill in the words, but not outright malice. Dennis tried to channel Robby’s confidence. “Is there, um, any chance I could use the kitchen?”

Winters set down the tablet. “The kitchen is at your disposal, sir. Is there something specific you’d like prepared?  I can call the chef if you’d like.”

“No, I mean, I’d like to do it myself.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “For Robby. Dr. Robinavitch. I said I’d cook for him, and I want to surprise him. If that’s okay.”

A long pause. Winters’s face did not move, but something about him went less rigid, like a thread had been snipped. “You cook?”

Dennis shrugged. “Nothing fancy, but I used to make breakfast back in the day when I was on my own during college. My grandma taught me how to make these blueberry pancakes when I was a kid. I thought maybe, he’d like them, because they’re nice, and…” He realized he was babbling and stopped.

Winters seemed to consider. “Very well,” he said. “May I offer some guidance? The last person to ‘do it themselves’ set off the fire suppression system.”

“Was that Robby?”

Winters’s lip twitched. “Dr. Robinavitch prefers takeout. His culinary efforts are limited to scrambled eggs and, on one regrettable occasion, flambé.”

Dennis grinned, emboldened. “You can supervise, then. Make sure I don’t burn down the building.  Thank you.”

Winters gestured to the fridge. “All the ingredients are organic and delivered daily. If you require anything else, the pantry is fully stocked.  I assure you, anything you could possibly need is there.”

Dennis washed his hands, relishing the feel of the warm water, the echoing hush of the kitchen at this hour. He found flour, sugar, baking powder, then foraged in the fridge for eggs and milk. The blueberries were in a crystal bowl, plump and impossibly perfect.

As he measured ingredients, he felt Winters’s gaze on him, not judging exactly, but cataloging every move.

After a few minutes, Winters said, “Do you miss it?”

Dennis glanced up. “Cooking?”

“No. The hospital. The work.”

Dennis’s first impulse was to dodge. But he remembered what Robby said: be honest. “Yeah. I do. More than I thought I would. There’s a lot I don’t miss, but…” He trailed off, focusing on the bowl, whisking hard. “I miss helping. I miss feeling useful, I guess.”

Winters nodded, as if he’d already guessed the answer. “You were a good doctor?”

“I tried to be. I never finished, really.  I was just finishing my first year of residency at the time my parents pulled the plug.” He added the milk too fast and almost sloshed the bowl, but recovered.

Winters watched him fold in the blueberries. “I read your file.”

Dennis snorted. “Of course you did.”

“Dr. Robinavitch asked me to vet you, after your first night here. As a matter of protocol. There were some… red flags.”

Dennis’s mouth went dry. “Like what?”

Winters’s eyes glinted. “You’re desperate. You lack stability. Your history with authority is mixed, but shrouded because of the effort your parents went to paint you as a dangerous person. Yet, you’re honest, and you don’t manipulate. That’s rare.”

Dennis didn’t know whether to thank him or apologize. He opted for silence, spooning batter onto a skillet and watching it bubble. The smell of sugar and vanilla filled the air, softening the edges of the morning.

He broke the silence. “Do you care if I ask why you do what you do?  I mean, serving Robby, that is.”

Winters pursed his lips, as if debating how much to say. “Dr. Robinavitch saved my life once, in a way. I used to work for a much crueler family, who treated me little more than you would an Alexa device.  One night I spilled wine by accident after working a 36 hour shift and fatigue hat gotten the better of me.  I was fired on the spot, after 20 years of service to an old family.  Dr. Robinavitch saw the entire thing, had pity on me, and offered me a job.  Or, rather, a role. In this house, and in his world, everyone has a role. Mine is to protect him, guide him, make him comfortable, and, when necessary, to keep him from his worst impulses.”

“Like what?”

Winters inclined his head. “He’s generous to a fault. Especially to those he loves. Sometimes people take advantage.  Sometimes I have to remind him how cold and cruel the world is.”

Dennis flipped the pancakes, hands steadier now. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

Winters considered. “Not deliberately. Though you should be aware that Dr. Robinavitch has a pattern. He finds people who remind him of his lost love, Elliot. He tries to fix what went wrong in his youth by giving them everything, because he couldn’t give Elliot anything. But nothing can ever fill that space. Not really.  Eventually, the act turns sour.  Either for him, or…  His “baby”.”

The words landed, heavy and sharp.

Dennis thought of last night, the dinner, the way Robby watched him like he was a memory brought to life. He swallowed, stared at the skillet. “I’m not trying to replace anyone. I just… like him. He makes me feel like I’m not broken.  He gave me my second chance. Not just at medicine, but at life. Even if I’m just…  A momentary distraction.  That’s okay.  If that’s how I can repay him for the kindness, then…  That’s how I do it.”

Winters’s face softened, just a touch. “He hasn’t smiled like this in years.” He straightened, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve. “Please be gentle with him.  He’s a good man.  A stupid, generous man, who’s chasing a ghost, but…  A good man.”

Dennis nodded, unsure what to say.

They finished the pancakes together, Dennis pouring the batter, Winters setting the plates with practiced grace. They added fruit, a carafe of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a tiny pitcher of syrup so fancy it came in a glass bottle with a stopper.

Winters produced a vase of white tulips and set it in the center of the table. The whole thing looked staged, magazine-perfect, but Dennis could see the work in it, the small details, the care.

He was about to call it done when his phone buzzed on the counter. He wiped his hands, picked it up, and saw the message:

Darling, I saw you in the society pages with Dr. Robinavitch. Your father and I would love to reconnect and discuss everything that happened. Perhaps dinner at the club? We truly are sorry for how everything went, and would love to apologize, in person to you.  We let our anger and pride get in the way of what’s most important to us:  Our beautiful, amazing, talented son.

He read it three times, hands going clammy.  What little color existed in his face drained away.  He hadn’t recognized the number, not at first, because he’d deleted most of his contacts.  Thought the way it was written, there was no mistaking who it was.

“Mother.”

Winters noticed. “Bad news?”

Dennis barked a laugh. “Depends on your definition.” He showed the screen to Winters.

Winters read it, then looked up. “Do you wish to reply?”

Dennis stared at the text, a pit forming in his stomach. “Not really. I’m not sure what’s worse, that they want to see me, or that they only want to now because I’m with Robby.”

Winters regarded him for a long moment. “You’re not the first,” he said quietly. “Many people see Dr. Robinavitch as a ladder. You, at least, seem to understand what that costs.”

Dennis blinked back something hot in his eyes. “I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to use him.”

Winters nodded, approval in the line of his mouth. “Then don’t. Be honest, always, and you’ll be fine.”

They finished setting the table in silence, the city outside flooding with sunrise. Dennis poured the orange juice, hands only shaking a little, and surveyed the spread.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low. “For helping.”

Winters gave a rare, genuine smile. “My pleasure, Mr. Whitaker. Now go wake the doctor. Breakfast is best served hot.”

Dennis found himself smiling, too, despite everything.  He swiped away the message from his mother, deleting it.

He gathered his courage, padded back to the bedroom, and paused in the doorway. Robby was sprawled on the bed, one arm over his eyes, hair a perfect mess. For a second, Dennis just watched him, heart twisting.

He knelt on the mattress, leaned in, and whispered, “Time to get up, Daddy. I made you something.”

Robby opened one eye, then the other, and for the first time, Dennis saw him truly unguarded: happy, surprised, and for just a second, young.

He reached up, cupped Dennis’s face, and pulled him down for a kiss. “Is it breakfast in bed?” he said, voice rough with sleep.

Dennis shook his head. “Better. Come see.”

Robby swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling on a robe, and followed Dennis down the hall. He stopped in the doorway, surveying the table, the tulips, the pancakes.

“Holy shit,” he said, genuinely delighted. “Is this… for me?”

Dennis blushed, shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.  Told you I could cook.”

Robby grinned, sliding an arm around Dennis’s waist. “You keep this up, and I’ll never let you leave.”

Winters appeared, poured coffee, and retreated with the elegance of a ghost.

They sat side by side, eating pancakes, sharing bites, feet tangled under the table. Dennis tried to memorize every second: the sunlight, the sound of Robby’s laughter, the way his hand kept finding Dennis’s knee.

For a moment, Dennis let himself believe this was normal. That he could have mornings like this, over and over, for as long as he wanted.

Or, at least…  Until Robby got tired of “this” version of Elliot.

The moment of bliss was shattered by the ring of Dennis’s phone. The number was unfamiliar, but the area code was the hospital’s.

He answered, already braced for the worst. “Hello?”

“Whitaker? It’s Dr. Collins.”

Dennis shot Robby a look, then turned away, phone pressed tight to his ear. “Dr. Collins. Hi. What’s up?”

There was a pause, just enough to raise his pulse. “It’s Ezekiel. He’s struggling. Oxygen saturation is down, and he’s not responding to the vent. We’re worried that he’s not going to make it.”

Dennis swallowed.

“We tried skin to skin with someone else, and it wasn’t as effective, and Ezekiel wouldn’t settle.  Look, I know it’s your day off.  The thing is, you got through to him last time, and I don’t want to lose him.” Collins said. “He calmed, stabilized, even improved when it was you. There’s no science behind it, and the truth is, he might die anyway.  The thing is, if you can come in, even just for comfort in his final moments, I think it might help.  You connected with him the most this week, and I wouldn’t want anyone else to be there for him. If this isn’t your cup of tea, no harm done.  This isn’t an order.  This is…  A request.  From a woman who doesn’t want to see a little baby die alone and unloved.”

Dennis didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hung up, breath a little shaky. Robby watched him, concern etching deep.

“Is it bad?”

Dennis nodded. “The baby I’ve been working with all week is failing. They want me to do comfort care. It might be his last day.”

Robby stood, circled the table, and pulled Dennis into his arms. For a moment, Dennis just stood there, letting the warmth soak in.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis said. “I wanted today to be just us, but…”

Robby pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t apologize. Ever. This is important. I’ll drive you.”

Dennis hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you.”

They scrambled to change, Robby into his best “casual authority” outfit, Dennis into clean hospital scrubs that Winters had somehow pressed and laid out in advance. They met in the foyer, hands still sticky from syrup and nerves.

In the elevator, Robby turned to Dennis, voice low. “You’re making a difference, you know. Even if it’s just for one kid.”

Dennis found his hand, squeezed it, then held on as they descended together, the city below bracing for another day.

++++++

The hospital was quieter on weekends, which only made the whir of the NICU more relentless, each beeping monitor and hiss of air like a metronome set to panic. Dennis flashed his badge at the security desk and bypassed the hand sanitizer for the surgical scrub room. Robby, who had insisted on coming, waited in the parents’ lounge, pacing in front of a muted TV as Dennis ducked through the secure doors.

Dr. Collins was there, shoulders hunched over a chart, pen scrawling in bursts. She didn’t look up when he entered, but she did call out, “Thanks for coming.”

Dennis nodded, found the isolation cart, and gloved up. “What’s the situation?”

“Bad,” she said, and now she looked at him, green eyes tired but sharp. “Respiratory distress. He’s not responding to standard support. I’ve got NICU on call but nothing is working. We’re moving to comfort care unless you have a miracle in your back pocket.”

Dennis swallowed. “You want me to hold him?”

“I want you to do whatever it is you did last time,” Collins said, voice softening at the edges. “He’s alone, Dennis. If this is it, I’d rather he goes with someone who gives a damn. Send him off to God with all the love this fucked up world has to offer him”

Dennis nodded. He washed up, then slipped through the door to the isolation room, where baby Ezekiel lay inside a tangle of wires and clear tubing, his chest a hummingbird shudder under paper-thin skin. His head was nearly bald, the skull translucent in the light, and his mouth formed a tiny, desperate O with each shallow gasp.

Dennis’s hands shook as he lifted the baby free, tucking the mess of wires against his own skin, the nurses assisting him the entire way. He eased into the rocking chair, settled Ezekiel on his sternum, and held him close, the way he remembered his own mother doing before the world got complicated.  The nurses covered him in blankets and gave the two some space, watching the vitals, as an older woman with greying hair quietly said a prayer in the corner.

He glanced through the glass, saw Collins watching from her station. Her face was unreadable.  Though he could tell, deep down, there was a deep hurt in her face.  Something more than just what this little baby meant.

Dennis stroked the baby’s back, a motion so gentle it was like petting air. He whispered, “Hey, little fighter. I’m here. Not going anywhere. You don’t have to be scared.”

He didn’t expect a response, but the baby’s pulse line, visible in the gap between the sensors, seemed to slow, just a fraction.

The minutes passed, syrupy and slow. Dennis kept his eyes fixed on the readouts: oxygen, heart rate, pressure. The numbers dipped and rallied in tiny increments, and each time they dropped Dennis felt it in his own chest, like an anchor dragging him down.  Waiting for the moment when the buzzing flatline could shatter his heart.

He started to hum, a tune he barely remembered from childhood. Something gentle, looping. He couldn’t sing, not really, but the melody seemed to calm them both, and the baby’s tiny hand clutched at his finger, blue nails like bits of glass.

The first hour was the hardest.

At one point, Collins poked her head in and offered a cup of water. Dennis refused, not wanting to break the spell, not wanting to risk letting go. His arms ached, but he ignored it. The baby was lighter than memory, and every now and then he’d open his eyes and just look, not seeing, but searching.

Dennis kept up the whispers. “You’re not alone, okay? I know it hurts. I know it’s not fair. But you’re not alone.” He let the tears run down his face, not bothering to hide them.

He lost track of time.

The world compressed to the chair, the baby, the soft hiss of the ventilator, the glow of readouts on the wall.  He barely noticed the nurses that hovered over him.  He ignored Collins completely, who would come in and check every half hour.

At some point, he realized there was someone at the door. He glanced up, expecting a nurse, but it was Robby, silhouetted in the half-light, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. He said nothing, just watched. Their eyes met, and for a moment Dennis felt more naked than he ever had in his life.

Ezekial scared them more than once.  His heart stopped, just for a split second, and Dennis clutched onto him, pressing a gentle kiss on his head.  “It’s okay.  I’ve got you.  Whatever happens, I’ve got you, little guy.”  Another time, he struggled to breath, struggled to hold on.  Dennis tried to keep his breathing and heart steady.

Yet…  As the hours crept, one by one, the baby’s stats stabilized, then crept upward. O2 saturation inched to the safe zone, heart rate stopped spiking and started to normalize. Even the monitor’s shrill alarm seemed to back off, settling to a gentle, hopeful beep.

Collins reappeared, stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, watching the screens. She didn’t say anything, but she met Dennis’s gaze and, for the first time, gave him a real, unguarded smile.

After three hours, the on-call nurse suggested they try returning Ezekiel to the incubator.  He’d been stable for an hour by that point, already fast asleep.

Dennis’s arms protested, and his heart shattered at the idea of letting him go, but he nodded.  He knew the nurses here knew best, they’d seen and done it way longer than he had ever done it. He handed the baby over, as careful as if he were made of crystal, and watched as the nurse tucked him into the clear crib, adjusting the lines and wires.

Dennis’s skin tingled where the baby’s warmth had been. He flexed his hands, half-dazed.

Collins clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing it. “You did good, Whitaker. He’s not out of the woods, but he’s got a roadmap. You can go home.  Enjoy the rest of your weekend.  I’ll call if we need you again.”

Dennis nodded, peeled off his gloves, and ducked into the hall, mind blank. He found Robby by the parents’ lounge, waiting.

Neither spoke at first. Robby just wrapped him in an embrace, warm and strong, and Dennis let himself go soft into it, not worrying about who saw, not worrying about anything.

“Is he going to make it?” Robby asked, voice low.

Dennis nodded, not trusting his voice. “For another day, I guess. That’s what matters.”

They walked to the parking garage in silence, the air outside raw and electric. Dennis leaned into Robby as they crossed the street, exhaustion catching up all at once.

When they reached the car, Dennis hesitated. “Why did you stay?”

Robby looked at him, eyes tired but bright. “Because I wanted to see what you were made of, and because I care.”

Dennis chewed his lip.  Maybe it was the raw emotion of the moment, maybe it was the idea of him having so much and little Ezekial having nothing…  Either way, Dennis sighed, “I’m not Elliot, you know.”

Robby smiled, slow and sad and his grasp on Dennis tightened, just a bit. “I know,” he swallowed.  The tone was anything but confident, and Dennis knew better than to trust those words.

They slid into the car, hands finding each other in the space between. For a while, neither said anything, letting the heater hum and the city stretch out in all directions.

Dennis stared out the window, watching the hospital recede into the skyline.

He looked at Robby, who was watching him, and for once, Dennis didn’t look away.

“Take me home?  I’m not in a mood to do anything tonight.  I wanna be available if…  Dr. Collins needs me.” he said.

Robby squeezed his hand. “Anywhere you want.”

They drove on, silent, as if the ride itself was haunted.

+++++

Dennis woke late that next day, sunlight already gilding the penthouse in a lazy spill across glass and wood. The air was quiet except for a faint scrape from the kitchen, Robby, humming softly to himself while fixing coffee. Dennis stretched, bone-deep, groaning at the soreness in his arms, in his chest, even in the delicate web of muscles across his ribs. Skin-to-skin with Ezekial had left a mark, invisible but seared into his every nerve.

He hadn’t slept.  Not really.  All he could picture was the poor little baby fighting for his life, even when he shut his eyes.

Dennis, finally rousing himself from the mess of sheets, found Robby at the counter, hair still damp from the shower, in jeans and nothing else. Robby poured coffee, sliding a mug over with a crooked smile.

“How’s my prince?” he teased, kissing Dennis on the forehead.

Dennis grumbled, “An emotional disaster,” and stole a swallow, hot and dark.

They migrated to the couch, Dennis curling into Robby’s side, feet tucked under his own thighs. Robby’s warmth, the gentle hand at the nape of Dennis’s neck, the feel of his heartbeat thumping solidly against Dennis’s shoulder, all of it settled him. They flipped the TV to silent, watched the news crawl by, every headline ridiculous compared to the universe that had compressed around one tiny baby yesterday.

“Any word?” Robby asked after a long period silence.

Dennis shook his head. “Dr. Collins said she’d call if anything changed. She’s not the type to sugarcoat, so…” He shrugged, letting the sentence drift.

“You did a good thing,” Robby said quietly. “The best thing, even if it hurts like hell.”

Dennis wanted to protest, but he just nodded.

The day slipped by in a haze. They ate breakfast on the balcony, the air still brisk but laced with the promise of spring. Dennis puttered around the living room, leafed through one of Robby’s medical journals, half-reading, half-dozing. Robby made calls, read emails, but kept drifting back to Dennis, always within arm’s reach, always ready to press his lips to Dennis’s hair or shoulder, as if grounding him by sheer force of affection.

By midafternoon, the city outside had brightened and the world felt softer, less lethal.

Dennis’s phone buzzed, shrill and electric. He startled, almost sloshing his coffee. The screen flashed “Collins, H.” in all caps.

He picked up, breath snagging.

“Dennis, it’s Dr. Collins. Got a minute?”

“Of course,” he said, voice already trembling.

“Ezekial’s numbers stabilized overnight. O2 is solid, heart rate holding. He’s feeding better. I’m not going to jinx it, but I think the worst has passed.”

Dennis let out a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.

 “We can take it from here.  Enjoy your Sunday, and I’ll see you bright and early Monday.  After rounds, I’m putting you with him.” Collins said.

Dennis swallowed, “Thank you, Dr. Collins. I, thank you.”

She hung up with the same efficiency she did everything.

Dennis stared at the phone, the world whirring in his ears.

Robby was at his side instantly. “Well?”

“He’s… he’s going to make it,” Dennis managed, and then Robby’s arms were around him, tight and fierce, anchoring him as the relief crashed in.

They held each other, unmoving, until Dennis started laughing, breathless and raw.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I really thought—”

“You did it, sweetheart,” Robby whispered.

Dennis shook his head. “No, I just… I just held him. I didn’t do anything.  He did all the work.  The nurses.  Dr. Collins.  I was just-”

Robby kissed him, stopping the argument in its tracks.

When Dennis caught his breath, Robby said, “We’re celebrating.  If not for you, then for the baby.  A day of celebration for the life that made it.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, but grinned. “With what? Chocolate milk and two straws?”

“Better,” Robby said. “Get dressed. I’m kidnapping you for the afternoon.”

An hour later, they were in Robby’s car, Dennis bundled in a dove-grey sweater and jeans, hair damp from a hurried shower. Robby had that look, mischievous, plotting, and, beneath it, vibrating with a happiness that made Dennis’s own skin hum.

They wound their way through the city, past the glassy towers of downtown, until they pulled up at a spa so minimalist Dennis almost missed it. A slender brass sign on a blank stone wall: “SALUS.”

Robby parked, killed the engine, and turned to Dennis with a glint in his eye.

“You ever been to a real spa?” he asked.

Dennis snorted. “My mom took me to a day spa once, after I won some middle-school science award. It was more for her than for me, but they did my nails. Why?”

Robby’s grin grew. “Trust me. This is different.”

Inside, the air was perfumed with green tea and something floral but not cloying. The lobby was all blond wood and silence, the kind that made Dennis feel both important and in danger of breaking something expensive just by looking at it.

A woman at the desk greeted Robby by name, bowing fractionally. “Dr. Robinavitch, welcome back.”

He winked at Dennis. “Reservation for two. The full Indulgence, please.”

The woman nodded, handed them each a robe, soft as fog, color-matched to their eyes, which made Dennis laugh, and led them down a hallway that muffled even their footsteps.

They changed in a private suite, Dennis fighting to keep the robe from gaping open. He tried to tie it snug, but the fabric was so slippery it kept drifting loose. Robby, on the other hand, wore his with no shame, broad chest and a hint of hip peeking out with every step.

First was the sauna. A private, stone-walled cave with a built-in bench and a bucket of ice water for sipping. Dennis tried to act cool, but the second the steam hit him he let out a low groan.

“Oh my god. That’s better than sex,” he said, sinking back.

Robby arched an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that.  When we finally get to it.”

They sat thigh to thigh, breathing in the heat, sweat prickling instantly. Dennis felt every tension drain from his body, every ache and raw nerve softening at the edges. Robby reached over, wiped a bead of sweat from Dennis’s temple.

“Gross,” Dennis said, laughing.

“Just keeping your pretty face clean,” Robby countered.

They sat in silence for a while, then talked in low voices about nothing, art, weird spa treatments Robby had endured on business trips, the difference between city snow and country snow.

At one point, Dennis said, “Do you ever stop?  Like, doing all this stuff?  Being a billionaire?  Being…  You?”

Robby considered. “Not really. I don’t know how.”

Dennis nodded, understanding perfectly.

After the sauna, they were whisked to a treatment room. There were two tables, side by side, covered in heated sheets. Robby stripped his robe and climbed up without a trace of modesty. Dennis hesitated, then dropped his, exposing his pale hips and supple buttocks.

The massage therapist, an elegant man with arms like a Greek statue, just smiled and nodded approval.

The massage was heaven. Dennis melted under the hands, each knot and scar worked loose with clinical precision. At one point, he was so relaxed he half-drooled onto the pillow. He heard Robby let out a deep, animal groan as his masseuse practically drilled into his back and felt a wave of affection he almost said something dumb.

When it was done, the therapist left them alone, instructing them to rinse off in the adjacent mineral bath.

Dennis slid into the steaming water, floating weightless. Robby followed, stretching his arms across the rim of the pool, and pulled Dennis in until their bodies touched under the water.

They sat that way, tangled, silent.

Dennis was the first to speak. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’m not complaining.”

Robby traced a finger along Dennis’s shoulder. “You deserve a lot more than this. You just don’t believe it yet.”

Dennis’s chest squeezed. He wanted to protest, to argue, but instead he let himself believe it, just for a minute.  The massage was “that” good.

After the bath, a woman in a kimono brought them towels and sparkling water. She bowed to Dennis, then to Robby, and left them alone in the private relaxation room.

Robby towel-dried Dennis’s hair with exaggerated tenderness, fluffing it until it stood on end. “You’re adorable,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the wet crown.

Dennis shoved at his shoulder, grinning. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“You love it.”

Dennis opened his mouth to deny it, then shrugged. “Yeah, I do.”

The final phase was “Couple’s Tranquility,” which was code for being oiled up while New Age music played.

The therapist left, and Dennis lay on the table, boneless, eyes closed. He didn’t hear Robby move, didn’t notice the older man standing at his side until a warm hand landed on his thigh.

Dennis opened his eyes. “You giving me a happy ending, Doctor?”

Robby smiled, slow and hungry. “I am,” he said, pouring a splash of oil into his palm.

He started at Dennis’s shoulders, working downward, each touch more purposeful than the last. Dennis’s breath hitched as Robby’s hands moved to his lower back, then glided over the swell of his ass, fingers kneading, teasing, until Dennis shivered.

“You like?” Robby asked, voice low.

“Mmm,” was all Dennis managed.

Robby dipped lower, hand sliding between Dennis’s thighs. Dennis spread his legs instinctively, arching up into the touch.

Robby stroked him, slow and deliberate, the oil making everything slick and hypersensitive. Dennis moaned, burying his face in the towel, as Robby stroked him with practiced, affectionate pressure.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Robby said, voice thick. “Do you know that?”

Dennis tried to answer, but the pleasure was climbing fast, every nerve lit up from the day’s pampering. He bucked against Robby’s hand, desperate, and when he came, it was with a choked cry, legs trembling, body melting into the table.

Robby let him down slow, petting his back, whispering, “Good boy,” over and over until Dennis could breathe again.

When he finally turned over, Robby was watching him, eyes dark and greedy.

“You gonna make me return the favor?” Dennis asked, voice wrecked.

“Only if you want to,” Robby replied.

Dennis grinned, reached over, and found Robby already hard. He stroked him, slow at first, then faster, loving the way Robby’s jaw clenched, the way his whole body shivered under Dennis’s hand. When Robby came, it was with a soft grunt, fluid splashing across his own abs, and Dennis felt a rush of pride, like he’d won something.

They lay there, panting, sticky, laughing like idiots.

“Next time,” Dennis said, “we’re getting the hot stone massage.”

“Next time, we’re just staying home and doing this on the couch,” Robby countered.

Dennis laughed, sat up, and wiped his hands on the towel. He felt… new, somehow. Like the world had reset, and he was allowed to be happy.

After cleaning up their messes, they showered together in the private suite, Robby soaping Dennis’s back, Dennis washing Robby’s hair. By the end, they were both wrinkled, overdosed on pleasure, and barely able to keep their eyes open.

Dressed and waiting in the lobby for their car, Dennis let the post-spa bliss linger. He laced his fingers with Robby’s, squeezing.

“I feel guilty,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Robby turned, eyebrows up. “About what?”

“About celebrating. About feeling this good when Ezekial is still in the hospital, abandoned by his parents, going into foster care, still fighting while I’m…” He trailed off.

Robby’s gaze went soft. “You can’t save everyone, Dennis. You did everything you could for him. You do more than most people ever would. You deserve to be happy, too.”

Dennis stared at his shoes. “I know. It just… feels wrong.”

Robby put a hand under Dennis’s chin, lifting his face. “Let me tell you something. Every patient who walks through the doors of my hospital gets the best chance possible. If there’s a financial need or they’re in bad straights, we find a donor. If they need a home, we find them living arrangements.  If they need jobs, I have the world’s most efficient HR group and businesses across the country. No one that comes into my care gets left behind. Not on my watch.  Nobody, and I mean, nobody, ends up like an Elliot in my world.  My hospital, my foundation, and I, personally, will make sure that baby is taken care of, don’t you worry about a thing.  That’s what money is for.  Not to be hoarded in a bank vault like Scrooge McDuck.  It’s to be used.  To make lives better.  To make the world better.”

Dennis blinked, swallowing hard.

Robby smiled. “You’re not alone when you’re in my world. Neither is Ezekial.  So, relax.  Daddy’s got it taken care of.”

Dennis tried to smile, but it wobbled.

Robby pulled him into a hug, lips close to Dennis’s ear. “It’s okay to take care of yourself, sweetheart. In fact, I insist on it.  You can’t worry about the world all the time and you can’t think of others more than yourself.”

Dennis snorted. “Pot, kettle, black.  Need I remind you what you do every day?  Your whole dramatic speech talked about other people and never once about yourself.”

Robby groaned, eyes narrowing. “You’re such a brat sometimes, you know that?”

Dennis raised an eyebrow. “You love it.”

Robby pulled back, eyes dark with promise. “If you keep it up, I’ll have to spank you.”

Dennis, emboldened by everything, gave Robby a sharp, playful spank on the ass. “Maybe I want to be punished.”

The look Robby gave him, hungry, electric, full of affection, made Dennis’s knees weak.

“You’re insatiable,” Robby whispered, but he was smiling.

The car pulled up, the driver oblivious to the world of trouble waiting in the back seat.

Dennis slid in, pulling Robby after him, and as the doors shut and the city blurred outside.  Once again, they missed the sound of clicking camera shots, zeroed in on Dennis grabbing Robby's ass with a seductive, playful, downright lustful glance.

Chapter Text

“I’m not Elliot.”

The words Dennis spoke to him kept replaying in his mind, over and over again.  He’d struggled to focus all week in his work, his mind often recalling Dennis’ naked body sending a warmth through his body.  Robby heard Dennis’ soft words, his sarcasm, his wit, and a smile was never far from his face.  Then, of course, he watched Dennis hold baby Ezekiel, knowing that the infant could die at any moment, and Dennis just wanting to be there for him if he passed, knowing there was nothing he could do but offer his love.

To his horror, Robby hadn’t thought about Elliot all week.  He struggled to remember the man’s face, his expressions, his mannerisms.  Usually, this would be the point where he’d cut the arrangement.  When he didn’t want to let his feelings get too deep.

Now, though?  The thought of cutting Dennis out of his life terrified him.

“Fuck.” Robby grunted.  He tried to distract himself, in his office at work, going over the files of the current residents and reviewing the new talent.  Of course, Dennis would have to be at the top of the stack.

The paper was clinical and blunt, but with a thread of dark humor he recognized as Dr. Collins’ signature.

The first day, she’d written:  “Whitaker, D. — Promising. Neurotic but adaptable. Good at triage, thinks outside the box, weak on pharmacology, over-empathetic to the point of self-sabotage. If he lasts, it’ll be on nerve and humility alone.  I’m watching him closely.  The first time he cries in front a patient, I’m going to kick him out of the program.”

By the fifth day: “Whitaker has achieved a minor miracle, comforted a preemie with no known family history and stabilized him through physical contact. His bedside manner is almost weaponized at this point, and the kids only want to talk to him and none of the other residents. Staff is split between wanting to kill him and bring him cupcakes. Good morale for the hospital.  Still too empathetic, it’s going to probably break him.  Time will tell.”

At the end of the second week:  “Dennis is at a point where he should consider studying for re-certification and begin the formal process.  I think he can be molded into an excellent peds doctor and I’ll sign off on the paperwork.  Gently suggest he focus more on infant care, it’s what he’s good at, and the NICU nurses have already adopted him.  I think his empathy is still a problem, and working with infants might help keep his head on straight until he can get his feelings in order.”   

Robby scrolled to the latest email, sent just that morning, timestamped at 4:16 a.m., when Collins was at her most brutally honest, when she couldn’t sleep. 

“He’s burning himself out, Robby. I catch him in the locker room every night after shift with a fucking anatomy flashcard deck and a Red Bull, studying with the other residents. You want him to make it, you need to tell him to take a day off before he strokes out. That’s an order, not a suggestion.  Do not let him break.  The nurses will riot if Dennis quits.  I would, perhaps, also miss him a little.”

Robby smiled. It was the same feeling he used to get when a medical device prototype worked on the first try, part surprise, part relief, a hint of fear that maybe it was all too good to last.

His phone buzzed. A text from Dennis, right on time: “Just finished shift. Am I still allowed to stop by your office? If not, I’ll just go home and eat ice cream until I pass out.”

He typed back: “Of course. The view’s improved since you started coming up.”

A minute later, a knock at the glass door. Dennis let himself in, still in his scrubs, hair a disaster, eyes rimmed with fatigue but shining. He carried a messenger bag heavy with textbooks and an air of someone who’d just barely survived.

“Hey,” he said. The word was small, but it charged the room.

Robby didn’t bother with greetings. “You’re going to kill yourself at this rate,” he said, deadpan.

Dennis flopped into the chair opposite, stretching out his legs with a groan. “Did Collins say that?  Because she practically kicked me out of the locker room and threatened to throw away my flash cards.”

“She’s worried about you,” Robby said. “I am, too. You look like shit, by the way.”

Dennis grinned. “Thanks. That’s the look I’m going for. ‘Overcaffeinated young man on the edge.’”

They sat, the city humming between them. Dennis reached for the lemon drops on the corner of the desk, unwrapped one, and crunched it without hesitation.

Robby watched him. Not the way he’d watched men before, with hunger or appraisal, but with a kind of wonder, like Dennis was a wild animal who’d decided, inexplicably, to trust him.

“How’s Ezekiel?” Robby asked, after a beat.

The question was a test, and they both knew it.

Dennis softened. “Holding steady. I got to do another hour of kangaroo care this morning. He actually opened his eyes for a while. The nurses say he’s a flirt.  He’s not fussing when we feed him now.  Putting on weight.  Slowly.  Still has a way to go.”

Robby folded his hands, resisting the urge to reach across the desk. “You’re making a difference, you know.”

Dennis looked away, embarrassed. “Maybe. I don’t want to jinx it, though.  Not until he’s medically cleared and someone is working to adopt him.”

There was a lull, one of those silences that could be filled a hundred ways. Robby decided to break it, before he talked himself out of everything.

“Have you ever been to Paris?” he asked, voice light, as if suggesting a new brand of toothpaste.

Dennis blinked. “Like, France?”

“Like, this weekend.  You and me.”

Dennis laughed, sharp and confused. “You’re joking.”

Robby stood, walked to the wall of glass. He kept his back to Dennis, trying to make it sound normal. “I’ve never actually gone to Paris, believe it or not.  Thought I’d finally see what the fuss is about. I want you to come with me. We’ll stay in the Ritz, eat too much, wander the place. It’ll be good for you to have a refresh.”

Dennis didn’t answer at first. Robby heard the squeak of the chair, pictured Dennis biting his lip, brain running every scenario.

“I don’t know if I should leave,” Dennis said, finally. “My recertification will be here before I know it, I should really study harder. Ezekiel’s still in the woods. If something goes wrong and I’m not there, I’ll feel like…” He didn’t finish.

Robby turned. “I’ll have Collins put the best people on his case. I’ll pay for a round-the-clock specialist, if you want. Hell, I’ll fly him to Paris if it makes you feel better.”

Dennis tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Robby said. “If you want to be a good doctor, you have to let yourself breathe, once in a while. You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead on your feet, especially Ezekial.”

Dennis ran a hand through his hair, winced as he hit a tangle. “You know, nobody’s ever told me to relax before. Or, if they did, they never meant it.”

“I mean it,” Robby said, softly.

For a long moment, neither moved. The late light made Dennis’s face look fragile, almost translucent, and Robby realized, with a jolt, how much he wanted to see him in every city, every morning, in every possible future.

“Okay,” Dennis said. He looked up, and Robby saw the real smile. “Paris, but only if you promise not to make me eat snails.”

“No promises,” Robby said, crossing the room in three strides. He pulled Dennis up out of the chair, held him by the elbows, let their foreheads touch. “You’re an idiot for not appreciating the finer things in life just because they’re slimy.”

Dennis’s laugh was muffled against Robby’s collarbone. “You’re an idiot for inviting a man this sleep-deprived to the city of love. I’ll embarrass you in public.”

“Try me,” Robby said.

They kissed, slow and soft, and when Dennis pulled away, his eyes were bright.

“I should call Collins,” Dennis said, breathless. “Tell her I’ll be out of town for my days off.  So, she’ll know I won’t be around.”

Robby nodded. “Tell her it’s doctor’s orders.”

Dennis packed up his bag, popped another lemon drop, and let himself out, promising to meet Robby at the car. The door clicked shut behind him.

Robby stood alone in the office, city at his feet, and let himself imagine what it would feel like to stop running. To be happy, for once, instead of just winning.

He picked up the phone, dialed his travel coordinator, and said, “The trip is a go. Book it. Make sure there’s good champagne and a nice meal for myself and Dennis.”

There were still a million things that could go wrong, a thousand ghosts that could pull him back. Though, for now, there was only Dennis, and Paris, and a weekend ahead with nothing to do but breathe.

+++++

The flight crew had the faces of angels and the hands of pickpockets, so fast and silent that it seemed the champagne appeared in Dennis’s hand before he even agreed to it. Robby’s jet was less plane than a floating apartment: white leather seats, glass so flawless it erased the sky, and a table set with gold-edged china. The only thing that felt remotely normal was the way Dennis’s ears popped on takeoff, as if to remind him that some things still worked on peasant rules.

Dennis spent the first ten minutes of the flight staring out the window, chin propped on his fist, legs bouncing. “It doesn’t even feel like we’re moving,” he said, glancing at Robby, who was reading something on his tablet with the practiced boredom of a man who’d crossed the Atlantic so many times it barely registered.

“It’s all about the insulation,” Robby replied, flicking the page.

Dennis snorted, swirling the champagne. “I feel like I should tip someone just for not crashing.”

Robby smiled, soft. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

“I’ve been called worse,” Dennis said. He set the glass down, hands restless on his lap. “Can I ask you something?”

Robby closed the tablet, attention sharpening. “Anything.”

Dennis looked at him, really looked, and it unnerved Robby how deep that gaze went inside of him. “What’s the real reason for Paris? I mean, I’m not complaining, but you’re not a vacation-for-fun guy. You need a reason, and I don’t accept that it’s just for me.”

Robby hesitated, the smile slipping away. “It’s complicated.”

Dennis nodded, giving him space.

They sat in the gentle hum of the jet for a while, the city lights shrinking to a grid, then vanishing beneath cloud.

Robby broke first. “The truth is, I’m struggling right now with who I am and what I’m doing,” he said, voice low. “I’m struggling with my past, and I’m hoping this will jog something loose.”

Dennis listened, still as the glass in his hand.

“Elliot and I were both poor, both on scholarship. Met in a science elective, of all places, put together as lab partners.  I was good at it, Elliot was not, but Elliot was too stubborn to admit it and nearly blew up the science building as a result. We came out to each other when we met at an underground club with no cover charge and cheap beer.  We told each other everything, the things we’d always been too scared to admit. We used to get dinner at this shitty diner by the river, scrape our money together for fries and milkshakes. It was always freezing inside, so we’d sit in the back, huddled together. He loved the cold. Said it made him feel real.”

Robby’s fingers worked at the edge of the tablet, not looking at Dennis.

“We wanted to go to Paris. That was the dream. Not even for a honeymoon, just… to see something that wasn’t gray and brutal and Midwestern. We even learned some French, just in case we ever got out. Had plans.  Had one of those sad jars where we started saving pennies and dimes.  I think we saved a total of a hundred bucks, if even that.” Robby said, breath shuddering by the end.  “We didn’t make it there.”

He swallowed, thumb white on the plastic.

“Elliot never got to see Paris. He died in a shitty hospital bed, alone, because I wasn’t even allowed in the room. His parents refused to come. They blamed me.  Said I gave him what killed him.  Of course, I didn’t and it wasn’t.  I buried him because nobody else would.  Had to get my mom to help me do it, because I couldn’t afford it.  I’d never felt so fucking useless before in my life.”

Dennis felt something twist, slow and deep. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Robby laughed, but the sound was brittle. “After he died, I stopped giving a fuck about anything but winning, making money, and fucking the medical industry as hard as I could. Every dollar I’ve made, every life I’ve ‘saved’ with a new device, it’s all because I couldn’t save him. That’s why I built the hospital. Why I put so much money into the foundation. It’s all a monument to failure. A mausoleum, in a way.”

He wiped his eyes, quick and angry, then looked at Dennis. “I still miss him.”

Dennis reached across the table, covered Robby’s hand with his own. “I think he’d be proud of you,” he said, and meant it.

Robby shook his head. “I don’t want pride. I want…” He stopped, voice wrecked.

Dennis squeezed his hand. “Is it healthy, holding on so tight? After so long?  I can’t imagine mourning someone for 30 years like you do.”

Robby let out a breath, deflating. “No.  It’s not healthy, but I don’t know how to let go. I never learned.  I didn’t want to.  I was angry.  I was…  Something.”

Dennis let go of the hand and slid out of his seat, crossing the small aisle to sit beside Robby, thigh to thigh. He put his arm around the older man’s shoulders, awkward at first, but then right, and rested his head on Robby’s.

They stayed like that, silent, the only sound the gentle drone of engines and the clink of ice settling in the champagne bucket.

Dennis traced little circles on Robby’s sleeve. “We’ll go to Paris,” he whispered. “For both you and Elliot, and for us.  Let’s go to all the places you two wanted to go and give his spirit some peace.  Let your dream come true.”

Robby nodded, eyes closed. “I’d like that,” he said.

The world was dark outside, the ocean endless below, but inside the jet, in that sliver of warmth and light, Dennis felt something shift.  He held Robby until the city lights of Paris appeared on the horizon, gold and fragile, like a new beginning.

+++++

Paris, as seen from the window of a chauffeured car, was exactly as Dennis imagined: statuary, blue haze, bridges over lazy water, and every other person dressed like a villain from a perfume ad, with a mannerism to match. He pressed his forehead to the glass, fogging it, then glanced back at Robby, who watched him with an indulgent smile.

“You’re allowed to stare,” Robby said. “The whole point of Paris is to be stared at, or to do the staring.”

Dennis wriggled in the seat, self-conscious but delighted.

They checked into the Ritz, the lobby thick with orchids and mirrored surfaces. The desk clerk addressed Robby as “monsieur le docteur,” and Dennis as “monsieur Whitaker,” with a little bow. The suite itself was pure fantasy, soft gray walls, velvet everything, windows that framed the Eiffel Tower so perfectly it looked like a green-screen trick.

Robby set the suitcase down, then turned to Dennis. “Shower first, or shopping?”

Dennis ran a hand over his face, then through his travel-mussed hair. “If I shower, you’ll just want to mess me up again.”

“That’s the goal,” Robby said, pulling him in for a deep, slow kiss that left Dennis punch-drunk.

They hit the Champs-Élysées in late morning, strolling arm in arm like it was their hundredth date, not their first foreign adventure. Robby led the way through boutiques that buzzed with languages Dennis couldn’t parse, but he got the universal grammar of the place: money, beauty, attention.

Robby picked out shirts for Dennis, soft knits in ice-blue and bone-white. He directed the staff with a nod, and they fluttered around Dennis, guiding him into fitting rooms, handing him jackets, even tying his shoes when a pair of boots proved too tight.

At one store, a clerk with cheekbones like scaffolding brought out a blazer the color of navy ink and helped Dennis into it. The fit was perfect, accentuating his shoulders and making his waist look impossibly slim. Robby stepped back, cocked his head, and pronounced: “You look like you own the city.”

Dennis stared at himself in the mirror, stunned. “I look like I sell crypto scams on TikTok.”

Robby laughed, a real, unguarded sound. “You look like the man I want to take to lunch,” he said, and bought the blazer on the spot, along with everything else Dennis had so much as touched.

Dennis protested, weakly, but Robby shut it down. “It’s my pleasure,” he said, and Dennis knew he meant it.

Lunch was at a bakery near the Seine, with croissants so buttery they left fingerprints on the glass table. Dennis licked the crumbs off his thumb, eyes wide at the taste.

“Food here is better,” he declared.

“Then we’ll just have to buy the place and bring it home,” Robby said, and for a second, Dennis couldn’t tell if he was joking.

They lingered over coffee, watching Parisians argue and saunter. Robby told stories, some true, some not, about the city, about former lovers, about a time he’d crashed a black-tie fundraiser by pretending to be a Swedish pharmaceutical tycoon.

Dennis asked, “Did anyone believe you?”

Robby shrugged. “In America, if you say it with confidence, they’ll believe anything.”

Dennis filed that away.

The afternoon was for art. They walked the length of the Tuileries, then ducked into the Louvre, bypassing the Mona Lisa (“too crowded, too small, overrated,” Robby said) in favor of statues and ancient glass, and finally a room full of broken Greek torsos that left Dennis feeling both aroused and inferior.

They sat on a bench in the Orangerie, surrounded by Monet’s water lilies, and Dennis let his head fall onto Robby’s shoulder, just for a minute.

“I wish I could paint,” Dennis said. “I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Robby said. “You’re a masterpiece, instead, painted by God himself.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, but secretly loved it.

Dinner was at a brasserie off a side street, candlelit and noisy with the chatter of French families and young couples. Dennis tried snails, made a face, and drank enough wine to blur his memory of the taste and terrible texture.

They walked, holding hands, through the Place de la Concorde, then down a street lined with trees strung with fairy lights. Robby steered them into a narrow alley, then into a shop whose entire front was pink neon and glass.

Inside: lingerie.

Miles of it.

Lacy, silky, expensive-looking.

Dennis hesitated at the threshold, but Robby just said, “Come on. It’s Paris.  Besides, I called ahead and reserved it just for us.”

A saleswoman, impossibly elegant and older than God, appeared at Robby’s elbow.

“We’re looking for something special,” Robby told her, then turned to Dennis. “What do you think, princess?”

The word landed with a heat that started in Dennis’s ears and worked down. “Uh,” he managed.

The woman smiled, ancient and knowing, and led them to a display of silk panties in every pastel shade. Robby held up a pair, blush-pink, whisper-thin, made from the clouds of heaven themselves.

“These,” he said, “are for my beautiful work of art.”

Dennis felt his entire body go hot, but when the woman handed him the panties and gestured to the fitting room, he obeyed, powerless.

Inside, Dennis stripped and slid the panties on. They fit perfectly, cupping his ass and leaving little to the imagination. He looked at himself in the mirror, blushed, then watched as Robby stepped inside.

Robby’s face went slack with desire. “God, you’re gorgeous.  Wear them out.”

Dennis blushed, pulling his clothes back on.

Robby bought six pairs in different colors, including stockings and a few other frilly things. Robby leaned in and whispered, “You’re mine, baby. Let me spoil you.”

Dennis just nodded, heart pounding.

The walk back to the hotel was quiet, Dennis floating, dazed, unsure if he belonged in this life but not wanting to be anywhere else.

“Can we…  Tonight?”

Robby looked up, catching Dennis’ bright red embarrassment.  “Tonight, what?”

A low cough.  “S…  Sex.  Like, you.  Inside me.  Not just humping or oral.  Like…  You know.  Fucking.  With your dick.  In me.  Please say something, I’m dying here.”

Robby purred, pressing a kiss onto Dennis’ neck, then promptly nibbling at his ear.  “Of course, baby.  Been waiting for it.  Just needed to hear you ask.”

“Good!  I uh…  Good!”  Dennis nodded, a giddy smile across his face.

Back in the suite, the bedroom was lit only by streetlights outside, gold and glittering, reflected in the window.  Dennis showered, thoroughly, and dressed himself in a shirt and pajama bottoms.

Robby sat on the edge of the bed, toed off his shoes, and beckoned.

Dennis crossed the room, slow, then climbed onto the bed, straddling Robby’s lap.

“Take your time.  You set the pace, baby,” Robby said, voice rough.

Dennis did. He kissed Robby, slow at first, then hungry, then softer, then slower again. He unbuttoned Robby’s shirt, running his hands over the soft planes of chest and stomach, the warmth of skin, the brush of hair.

Robby let Dennis undress him, surrendering. When Dennis hesitated, Robby cupped his face, kissed him.

“Whatever you want.  Take it.  Daddy’s offering.” Robby whispered. “Tonight, you’re in charge.”

Dennis grinned, shaky with nerves but high on the permission. 

He pressed Robby back onto the bed, stripped off his own clothes, leaving only the pink panties. Robby’s eyes went wide at the sight, and Dennis felt a surge of power, a kind of joy.

They made out for a long time, grinding, touching, mapping each other’s bodies in slow increments. Dennis sucked a mark onto Robby’s collarbone, and Robby gasped, voice gone.

“You like that?” Dennis asked, emboldened.

“God, yes,” Robby said, pulling him closer.

Dennis let his hands roam, guiding Robby’s, showing him where to touch, how to hold, what pressure to use. When Robby reached for the panties, Dennis laughed, catching his wrist.

“Not yet,” Dennis said, and Robby shivered.

Dennis positioned himself above Robby’s head, pressing his crotch down and smirking.  “Take them off.  With your teeth, Daddy.”

Robby practically growled, baring his teeth at the waistband, struggling to pull at the awkward angle, but after much effort and eventually lifting Dennis up with his arms, he tore the panties off, spat them out to the side, licking his lips.

Dennis slicked himself with lube from the nightstand.  One finger.  Two.  Then three. 

“Take it easy, baby.  We’ve got all night.” Robby purred.  His hands massaged every inch of skin he could reach.  He pinched nipples, squeezed the man’s ass, and used his mouth to lick and kiss and suckle.

Dennis did, letting himself stretch nice and easy before finally, after what seemed like an eternity, straddled on Robby’s waist.  Robby guided him down, lined him up, and with a gentle drop, Dennis felt himself filled with all Robby had to offer him.

“Shit, baby…”  Robby groaned, stilling himself to let Dennis acclimate.

Dennis wanted to memorize it, wanted to be gentle, wanted to take care.  Of both himself and Robby.

They moved together, Robby’s hands in Dennis’s hair, Dennis’s mouth everywhere. It was desperate, but also sacred, a kind of worship. 

Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Dennis rode Robby, gasping and moaning with each stretch, each slap of their skin, each squelch of lube and friction.

Though, before long, Dennis started to struggle to keep pace.  Riding a man was harder than it looked and his legs started to feel like rubber.  “D..  Daddy, I-“

With zero hesitation, Robby picked up Dennis, keeping his dick locked inside, and put Dennis on the bed.  Robby took over, thrusting down as Dennis rested on his back, pinning their bodies as close as he could manage. 

“Mine.  Mine.  Mine.”  Robby muttered, under his breath, unsure of where the words came from, or why tears streaked down his face. 

In the past, when they reached this point, sex always had the same rhythm for Robby.  They’d get to the deed, Robby would close his eyes, imagine better days, imagine Elliot, imagine the passion from decades past, never living in the present.  He’d never, in his mind, had “sex” with other people.  Just with the memory of Elliot and a convenient vessel. 

This time?

Robby’s eyes were wide open.  All he saw was Dennis.  All he heard was Dennis.  All he felt was Dennis.  His baby, his princess, his…  Partner.  Lover.  The look on his face, blissed out, the flush on his skin, equal parts pleasure, joy, and embarrassment of being so open…  He loved it. 

All of it. 

All of him.

“Daddy!” Dennis screamed, coming with a spurt of white that shot up, coating Robby’s chest, accompanied by a gasp and a sob.  Robby followed from the display, grunting as he came with one final thrust, trying to bury himself as deep as he could.  He never wanted this to end, this feeling, this touch, this warmth, this love.

They collapsed, tangled, the sweat drying on their skin.

After a while, Dennis traced circles on Robby’s chest.

“I love you,” he said, softly. “Daddy.”

Robby pulled him closer, pressing his lips to Dennis’s hair.

“I love you, too, princess.”

+++++

Robby always imagined how his first trip to Paris would go.  He’d kept it so burned into his mind that it was like a movie he already knew the ending to.

Paris was Dennis?  They’d gone to a completely different theatre and watched something else.  The journey, the stops, the places, the sex, it was all…  Them.  Not a ghost, not a memory, not the past.  This was now. 

The trip had been better than anything he’d ever imagined.  So much better than the solo trip he’d thought of, and the ghost he would have accompanied.

That feeling, that love, that experience…

Terrified him.

Now he paced the penthouse, the two of them arriving back the next morning, restless as a wolf, listening to the sounds of Dennis unpacking in the next room.

Even from the hallway, he could hear the little murmurs, Dennis muttering about a new shirt, Dennis debating whether to hang or fold something, Dennis breaking into a high, surprised laugh when he found one of the little hotel soaps stashed in the pocket of his jeans. There was a lightness to it, an innocence. Robby wanted to bottle the sound and carry it in his chest forever.

He rounded the corner into the den, boots echoing on the hardwood, and paused to look out over the city. The view was a cliché, all glimmer and glass and impossible promise. He used to like it. Now it just made him feel exposed, like every regret and secret was on display for the skyline to see.

He should have been happy.

He should have been overjoyed by this feeling.

He should have thanked whatever gods were out there that he’d found love again.

Instead, he just felt guilty. 

That was the worst part.

Dennis loved him. Said so, plain as day, on a crumpled white bedsheet, still pink from the blush of their first real sexual experience, still trembling, eyes wide and wet. “I love you,” he’d said, breathless, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And Robby, idiot, had had even said it back.

Meant it, too.

Again, that was the worst part.  Knowing he loved Dennis, and all he could feel was guilt.  Like he’d cheated on Elliot.  Like he’d betrayed a 30-year-vow.  Because the sex, the experience, it hadn’t been some “transactional” experience he used to play pretend. 

This was Dennis.  His Dennis.  His love.

He turned from the window, half-hoping the movement would shake off the mood, but it clung tighter than ever.

In the old days, after an emotional moment, he’d find Elliot in the next room, chin in hand, smirking and ready to mock him out of his own melodrama. “Oh, you’re brooding again?” Elliot would say. “Should I put on the tragic violin music, or is this more of a doom-metal afternoon?”

But Elliot was dead.

Dennis was in their bedroom, sorting scarves, humming an off-key scale.  Dennis would never mock him.  He’d get sassed, cuddled, then kissed. Robby clenched his jaw.

A discreet knock at the door broke the spell.

He braced himself. “Come in.”

Mr. Winters entered with a silver tray, balanced with a thin envelope and a pale blue box tied in white ribbon. His suit, as always, was flawless, and his hair looked like it had been individually combed with a jeweler’s loupe.

“The mail for you, Dr. Robinavitch,” Winters intoned, as if the mail was a sacred trust and Robby its last, best hope.

“Thank you, Harold,” Robby said, motioning him inside. “Set it there.” He gestured to the credenza, careful not to betray the anxiety knotted in his gut.

Winters placed the tray down and, uncharacteristically, did not immediately leave. Instead, he lingered, hands clasped at the small of his back.

“Yes?” Robby said, not unkindly.

Winters hesitated, a first. “Forgive the intrusion, but it would appear you are… agitated, sir. Is there anything you require?”

The phrase could have meant anything: another drink, a sedative, an excuse.  Robby heard the real question, the one he’d spent half a lifetime dodging.

“Do you ever feel like you’re living the wrong life?” he asked, surprising even himself.

Winters’s face betrayed nothing, but Robby saw the sharp glint in his eyes. “I imagine we all do, at times. Some more than others.”

Robby stared at the envelope on the tray. It was from Harrington Memorial, probably a fund-raiser invitation, or some compliance paperwork that needed his signature. But in his mind, the envelope grew and grew, until it contained every secret he’d ever tried to forget.

He blurted: “I’m in love with him, Harold. Dennis.  Told him to his face.  I meant it.”

Winters gave a tiny nod. “I surmised as much, sir.”

Robby sank into the sofa, feeling suddenly ancient. “I haven’t loved anyone since Elliot. Not really. Not in the way that counts. I thought I was done with that part of my life.” His voice went thin. “Is it wrong, to love him? Is it a betrayal?”

Winters considered this, then sat across from Robby, legs precisely crossed. “If you will permit me candor, sir,”

“Of course. That’s why I pay you.”

A ghost of a smile. “What you pay me for, Dr. Robinavitch, is my absolute discretion. Candor is a personal indulgence. May I?”

Robby nodded.

Winters’s hands were folded, elegant and unhurried. “I was married for thirty-two years. My wife was beautiful, clever, and entirely too good for me. I spent two of those years truly loving her. The other thirty, I spent grieving the man I should have been, and the life I imagined I deserved. When she died, I mourned her for exactly one year and then remarried, quite scandalously, I might add, to a man I met at a book club in Brighton. My children disowned me, my friends called it a phase, and I spent the next three decades being perfectly, quietly happy. Until he, too, passed away.”

Winters shifted, fixing Robby with a level gaze. “You see, sir, love is not a monument to be built and visited for the rest of one’s days. It is an act. A verb, not a noun. You are not betraying Elliot by loving another. You are, in fact, honoring him by refusing to let his memory be your prison.”

Robby’s eyes stung. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is not easy,” Winters said. “But it is simple. Would you wish Elliot a lifetime of loneliness if you had died first? Would you want him to mourn you for all eternity?  What would you say if he were in your position, right now.”

Robby laughed, the sound sharp and hollow. “No. He’d probably haunt me just to tell me I was an idiot.”

“Then you have your answer, sir.”

Robby sat, quiet, for a long moment.

In the next room, Dennis had started humming a pop song, mangling the French lyrics but hitting the melody with a kind of reckless glee. Robby couldn’t help but smile.

“I think I’m afraid,” Robby admitted, voice low. “Not just of loving again. But of losing again.”

Winters stood, smoothing the line of his suit. “There is no cure for loss, sir. Only a choice: to love again, or not. If I may be so bold, Dennis appears to be the healthiest relationship you’ve had in the time I’ve known you. He makes you laugh. He challenges you. And, crucially, he cares for you with no apparent interest in your money or your position. In fact, he tends to argue with you about it along the way.”

“That’s what terrifies me most,” Robby said, half-smiling. “He doesn’t want anything from me but myself. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like that.”

“Precisely, sir,” Winters said, with a slight bow. “If you wish, I can refer you to an excellent therapist who specializes in complex grief, or I can simply continue to bring you the mail and offer the occasional unsolicited advice. My loyalty remains the same either way.”

Robby looked up, met Winters’s gaze.   “Thank you, Harold,” he said, the words unfamiliar but welcome.

“Always, sir,” Winters replied. He glided to the door, then paused. “If I may, Dr. Robinavitch: Parisian attire suits Mr. Whitaker. You should let him know. It would make his day.”

Robby barked a laugh. “It would, wouldn’t it.”

Winters vanished, a ghost in bespoke wool.

Robby sat for another minute, letting the city sprawl out before him, then stood and walked down the hall toward Dennis’s room. He paused in the doorway, watching as Dennis arranged sweaters in the closet, face scrunched in concentration.

“Hey,” Robby said, voice softer than he intended.

Dennis turned, cheeks coloring. “Oh, hey. I’m almost done, I swear. You can come mock my folding technique if you want.”

Robby crossed the room, took Dennis’s hands in his. “You know,” he said, “Harold thinks you look amazing in Paris fashion.”

Dennis laughed, bright and easy. “I look like an imposter, but I’ll take it.”

Robby kissed him, quick and sweet. “You’re not an imposter. You’re the best thing to happen to me in… a very long time.”

Dennis looked up, surprised. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” Robby said, and for the first time, he meant it without reservation or fear. “I really do.”

Dennis beamed, then hugged him, arms tight and warm.

Robby held on, feeling an old weight lift off his chest, replaced by something fragile but real.

Chapter Text

Dennis blinked awake to the sound of the hospital cafeteria’s ice machine going nuclear.

The low-grade roar barely competed with the ringing in his skull: a combination of sleep deprivation, too many Red Bulls, and the persistent hum of high-stakes anxiety. He’d made a little outpost for himself in the corner booth, a fortress of tattered medical texts, printed schedules, and neon sticky notes that mapped out his path back to legitimacy.

The place reeked of old fries, disinfectant, and, faintly, the electric tang of industrial floor wax.

Three weeks after coming back from Paris, and he had just two hours until his next shift to cram as much study and practice as he could. He’d planned to spend it mainlining facts for his upcoming recertification, but his brain kept slipping sideways, turning every pharmacology chart into a what-if spiral.

What if he failed?

What if he choked, in front of Collins, or worse, in front of some kid who actually needed him?

What if he wasn’t good enough?

He stabbed a highlighter at the margin of a practice question, missed, and got a fat smear of yellow across the Formica table. He grunted, wiped it with his sleeve, and started over. “Osmotic diuretics,” he muttered. “Mannitol. Glycerol. Urea. Idiot, you knew that yesterday.”

A lunch tray clattered nearby, and Dennis flinched. The cafeteria was half-full, mostly night-shift nurses, a few paramedics in from the cold, and a handful of residents who looked even more ragged than he felt. Nobody paid him any mind.

He took a deep breath, picked up his flash cards, determined to push through. Dennis barely cleared three cards before a shadow fell over his table.

“Mr. Whitaker?” said a voice, flat and unfamiliar.

Dennis looked up. The person addressing him wore a courier uniform: black slacks, a polo shirt with a hospital logo, and a lanyard that said “Facility Services.” They held out a crisp manilla envelope, the kind that usually carried either a summons or an apology.

“Delivery for you.  Marked as urgent.  Your eyes only. Left at the front desk.”

Dennis’s pulse tripped. He accepted the envelope, muttered a thank you, and waited for the courier to leave before examining it. The weight was wrong for a hospital memo. The handwriting, in sharp blue fountain pen, read “D. Whitaker” with a curl on the W that made his stomach lurch. His mother always insisted on proper penmanship. As if writing his name in calligraphy would fix the fact that she never said it out loud anymore.

He stared at the envelope for a full minute before sliding his thumb under the flap and breaking the seal.

The first thing out was a single, glossy photograph.

Even a quick glance made the world tilt at a nauseating angle.  Him, with Robby.  A picture of him pulling the older man into their car, with a “come hither” look that needed no photoshop.  Another picture, behind it, was of them a dinners.  Most horrifying, there was one of them in Paris, in front of the lingere shop.

Beneath the photographs was a draft magazine cover. The headline, in a font Dennis recognized from the worst kind of “medical news” rags, screamed:

ROBONOVICH’S NEWEST GOLD DIGGER: ‘DR. DENNIS WHITAKER WINS BIG IN PARIS!’

The subhead: “Scandal-plagued dropout seduces billionaire doc, hospital insiders shocked.  Concern over Elliot Memorial Residency Program!”

Below that, there he was.

Dennis, unmistakably, arm-in-arm with Robby on the Avenue Montaigne. The photo captured a moment of perfect, effortless intimacy: Robby in a midnight-blue blazer, hand on Dennis’s waist, both laughing at something only they could see. In the background, a cluster of shoppers and a barista from the bakery, all blurred.

He peeled back the first photo and found another, lower-res, obviously snapped from a distance with a telephoto lens. This time, Dennis was standing in the window of their Paris suite, dressed in nothing but a silk shirt and, fuck, were those the pink panties? Dennis wanted to vomit. The camera caught everything, from the way the fabric clung to his thighs to the shy, delighted grin that lit up his whole face. The next picture was worse, somehow. A zoomed-in shot of Robby kissing him, open-mouthed and messy, on the balcony of the hotel.

There were three more photos: one in the lobby of the Ritz, one at a candlelit dinner, and a final one of them strolling hand-in-hand at dusk, bodies pressed close.

Then came the real blow.  An article.  He didn’t have to read far to see where they were going with this.

“All but confirmed is Dr. Robinavitch’s “relationship” with a man (Dr. Dennis Whitaker) half his age, in a variety of kinks and problematic power balances that come with him being the CEO and his lover being a subordinate.

We now must speculate whether Dr. Robinavitch is quite the “savior” of the medical field as many claim he is. Based on this pattern of deviant behavior, we have to ask ourselves, what else is he hiding in his closet?  What else has he hidden from the public?  What don’t we know about “the good doctor”?

 If Dr. Robinavitch is willing to give a discredited, dishonored, and dangerous doctor like Dr. Whitaker (as confirmed by his own parents, in an interview later in this article) , a second chance in his world-class facility, what else is he doing that might be just as dangerous?

Are the donations he takes going to the right places?  Or is he pocketing these donations and flying his latest lovers out to Paris, for “high class lingerie?” 

Are all the state-of-the-art equipment developed by him and his teams really everything they’re cracked up to be?  Could there be cut corners? More favors being traded for sex or pleasure? Is his engineers and scientists just another long line of lovers he’d taken to bed?

These are the questions we need to ask ourselves, and then think:  “Is the Robinavitch Medical Golden Age really just gold-plated?”

Dennis set the article down, hands shaking. He knew that cold, steady dread from childhood. The knowledge that every secret, every slip, would end up weaponized in the world’s most humiliating way.

At the bottom of the envelope was a single notecard, cream, edged in gold. His mother’s handwriting, careful and unyielding, filled the center:

Visit us or this goes public. Tomorrow. 7 p.m. Le Ciel.

He turned the card over. Nothing. No signature. No warmth.

For a moment, he just stared at it, vision blurring. He could feel the blood draining from his face, the raw animal panic under his skin. The message was clear: he hadn’t escaped. Not even a little. Dennis’ parents been watching him the whole time, waiting for just the right moment to snap the leash tight.

He shoved the photos and the note back into the envelope, sealing it with trembling hands. He forced himself to look up, scanning the room for witnesses. Nobody was watching. Not the nurses, not the med students, not the woman by the soup bar scrolling her phone. He was alone with the monster under the table.

His appetite gone, Dennis stacked his books and crammed them into his bag. The pressure behind his eyes pulsed, warning of a migraine on deck. He pressed his thumb to his temple and breathed, steady, counting backwards from ten.

This was a trap. He knew it in his bones.

Le Ciel was his parents’ favorite restaurant, a glass-and-gilt shrine to their own success, and the last place he’d ever expect to find absolution or forgiveness. But if he didn’t show, every person who mattered to him, including Dr. Collins, including his coworkers, including the nurses, would see those photos splashed across every screen in the city.  They’d know.  He was a fraud.  A charity case.  A whore.

Worse.  They’d all look at Robby differently.  They’d all think he was a fraud, or…  Worse.

He tried to think.

Options: He could run, but that’s what they wanted. He could tell Robby, but then the hospital would suffer, knowing good and well Robby would try and protect him. He could go to the press himself, but who would believe him, his parents had all but ruined his reputation. He had nothing but the memories, the history, and a few blurry pictures to prove what he’d been through.

He closed his eyes. Tried to conjure the taste of Robby’s skin, the warmth of the Paris sunlight, the feeling of finally belonging somewhere. But it all felt unreal, like a past life.

Dennis got up, slung his bag, and moved to the nearest trash can. For a second, he wanted to just dump the envelope, let it all burn, pretend it never happened. But he couldn’t. He needed the evidence. He needed to know what the enemy was holding.

He shoved the envelope deep into the pocket of his coat, zipped it shut, and started for the exit. The next shift would be agony.  The dinner would be worse.  The aftermath?  Who knew.

He paused outside the cafeteria, the cold air prickling at his cheeks, and tried to imagine what he would say. 

Nothing came to mind.

Dennis squared his shoulders and walked into the night, already mourning the peace he’d managed to build.

+++++

The next night, Dennis stood outside Le Ciel, breath smoking in the cold, collar pulled up tight against the city wind. The restaurant’s facade glowed like a minor cathedral, all arched windows and understated gold leaf. The kind of place where even the menu font had been selected by a committee of minor aristocrats.

Dennis remembered being here as a kid, birthdays, his parents’ anniversary, the one “graduation” dinner when he’d been inducted into the National Honor Society. Back then, Le Ciel had seemed impossible: the servers all bilingual, the dessert cart a rolling fantasy, every napkin folded to a geometry more elegant than his best childhood origami.

Now, it just looked like a stage set for a humiliation.

He checked his watch, 6:59, and slipped inside.

The maitre d’ recognized him instantly, offered a polite, “Mr. Whitaker, right this way,” and led him through the forest of tables. Crystal glinted from above, and the white tablecloths looked so aggressively starched they could have cut skin. The place was maybe a third full, most of the patrons in that transitional state between first glass of wine and main course, conversation soft but competitive, each table pretending not to notice the others but clocking every entrance, every slight.

His parents were at their usual corner table, facing out like a pair of dignitaries at a summit.

Sandra looked exactly as he remembered from childhood: shellacked blonde bob, a sharp navy suit, and the expression of a woman who could detect weakness at fifty paces.

George wore a dark blazer, tie, and the vaguely haunted look of a man who believed “good posture” was the only defense against the slow rot of time.

Sandra spotted Dennis, and in one flick of her hand, summoned a waiter. He barely had time to slide into the chair before she spoke.

“He’ll have the duck confit, medium rare, no sauce,” Sandra said, not bothering to check if Dennis wanted, or even liked, duck.

The waiter scribbled, nodded, and vanished.

George cleared his throat, voice pitched low. “Nice of you to come, Dennis.  Shame we had to get dramatic, but you ignored your mother’s texts, so naturally, we had to be a bit more forceful.”

Sandra answered for him. “Of course he came, dear. He knows we only call when it matters.” She eyed Dennis, lips tight. “You look a little chubby, dear. Is that the latest trend in your… new circle?”

Dennis ignored the dig, letting his hands rest on the linen, knuckles white. He tried to take in the room: the clink of glass, the scent of butter and fresh dill, the faint, expensive aftershave from the table beside them. He remembered a time when this all felt normal.

“Why am I here?  Just get it over with.” Dennis asked, voice flat.

Sandra smiled, the kind of smile that could slice a tomato without a knife. “Straight to business. Always refreshing. Did you receive our little package?”

He nodded. “Was that necessary?”

She tsked, like a disappointed teacher. “You’re a smart boy, Dennis. If we’d called, you wouldn’t have shown up, and this is the only venue in which I trust you to listen and not cause a scene.”

George folded his napkin, then unfolded it, hands shaking ever so slightly. “If you’d just done as you were told and done as you’d expected and married the girl, we wouldn’t have to do any of this.  Be grateful we’re giving you a choice here, boy.  We’re giving you a real second chance here.”

“Sure you are.” Dennis thought.

Sandra leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let me be clear. This is not about you. It’s about the family. The business. Your father and I have spent decades building the Whitaker name into something respectable. You… have made choices. Not all of them are flattering. Many of them have made us look bad and given us a number of uncomfortable dinners to go through with friends and donors.”

Dennis tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat. “This dinner is what, a prelude to total character assassination?  Your revenge?”

Sandra’s tone dropped, the veneer of politeness sharpening. “It’s a chance to correct course. To act in the best interest of everyone involved, including yourself. I know you’re fond of that man, Robinavitch,” she made the name sound like an imported disease, “…and frankly, we don’t care what you do in your private life, but public life is another matter.  If you’re going to pursue this kind of a relationship with a man like him, then…  We need to make sure certain provisions are in order.  So that we’re all one, big, happy family!”

George piped in, the words rehearsed. “We’ve discussed it, and we have a solution that works for everyone.  We don’t need to be cruel, so long as you are not cruel in return.”

Dennis forced himself to meet their eyes, but all he saw was calculation.

Sandra continued, “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to make your relationship official. Public. We want to see engagement, marriage, if possible, the sooner the better.  I’m sure you and Robinavitch can do something lovely for the press. Once you’re firmly established in that world, you’ll begin to work on Robinavitch for our behalf. Get him interested in the Whitaker Medical Advantage Group. There’s an opportunity here, Dennis. He’s philanthropic, but he’s also a businessman who turns water into wine in the industry. You’re going to help us broker that partnership.  Maybe even, say, a merger?  So we can operate independently, letting him have first naming rights, but have his vast assets to use on our behalf at our discretion.  We could finally reach the heights we’ve wanted in our world.”

Dennis blinked, genuinely speechless. “You want me to… seduce him?  Marry him. Then manipulation him.  For a merger?  For money!?  For the foundation!?”

“It’s not seduction if you already sleep with him.  I mean, from what I understand, you’ve been underneath him in bed for half a million, right?” Sandra said, not missing a beat.

Dennis flinched, his bank balance a tender subject for thought.

 “…and don’t be dramatic. All we require is that you act as a bridge, reforge a relationship with us that would fool Robinavitch and make us out to be the good, loving parents that we really are. It would help if you were charming, and loyal, and not… whatever you’ve been the last few years.  You’ll need to learn how to act properly again, but I’m sure you can manage.”

The food arrived. Duck for Dennis, steak for George, some pale fish for Sandra. Dennis barely registered it. His stomach had turned to ice.

Sandra picked at her plate, never breaking eye contact. “You have twenty-four hours to agree. If you refuse or if you try and play the hero, those photos go to every outlet in town. They’ll smear Robinavitch and make him and all his accomplishments look like he’s nothing but a dirty old man, and have everyone in the industry questioning him. They’ll destroy your precious hospital. Maybe you don’t care about us, or yourself, but I know you care about that man. I know you care about your image.  I know you care about being a doctor. So, I suggest you think about what’s at stake.  Because if you cross us this time, we’ll take more away than your inheritance and your credibility.” 

She smiled, twisted and cruel.  “We’ll burn your world to the ground, sweetheart, and leave nothing for you or anything in it to live for.”

Dennis balled his hand into a fist, biting down hard enough on his lip to draw blood.

George dabbed his own mouth, stained with sauce from his meal. “…and if you comply, Dennis, you can have your little doctor fantasy. We’ll make sure your re-certification goes through.  We have the examiners in our pockets.  You don’t even have to try.  We’ll also make sure that the blackballing goes away.  Forever.  We’ll get some D-rank nobody to take the fall instead.”

Sandra smiled, warm and false. “I hope we understand each other.  Really, this is for the best.  You get what you want, we get what we want, and Robinavitch barely notices his vast wealth getting shared.”

Dennis felt a wave of nausea. He tried to imagine how Robby would handle this, what he’d say. But he couldn’t conjure the man’s voice, just the look of disappointment that would flicker across his face when he found out what Dennis had done.

He looked down at his plate. The duck was perfect, of course, seared to a deep rose, the skin crisped just so. Yet, it looked disgusting in his eyes.  He didn’t bother to take a bite.

Sandra’s phone sat on the table, screen glowing faintly with the preview of the press release. “Last chance,” she said, almost gentle. “If you have any questions, ask now. Otherwise, I expect to hear from you by end of day tomorrow.”

Dennis tried to speak, failed, then forced the words out. “Why do you care so much? About any of this?”

Sandra’s expression flickered, just for a second. “Because family is all we have, Dennis. I refuse to see mine end up as a joke in the society pages or as some dirty old man’s whore with everyone knowing you’re…  One of “those” people. You were supposed to raise us up, not embarrass us.”

George shifted in his seat, muttered, “We just want what’s best.  For the family.  For our future.  For you, even if you don’t realize it yet.  Be grateful, you spoiled brat.”

Dennis pushed his plate away, hands trembling.

He wanted to run, to stand up and smash the plate, to scream at them, at the room, at the whole world that let this happen.  Embarrass them.  Lunge over and strangle them.

Instead, he did what he’d always done. He swallowed the pain, forced a polite smile, and said, “Thank you for dinner.  I’m going to excuse myself now.”

Sandra beamed, victorious. “You’re welcome, dear.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.  With good news, I hope.”

Dennis left the table, and walked the long gauntlet past the other diners. He could feel eyes on him, cataloging the drama, weighing the value of the scene. Outside, the cold was a slap. He sucked in lungfuls of it, trying to find some oxygen in the mess.

He checked his phone. No messages from Robby. Not even a meme, or a lemon drop joke, or a “how’s the shift, baby?” Nothing.

Dennis felt absolutely, terrifyingly alone.

+++++

The city’s last winter storm of the year hit just as Dennis stepped out from the awning, and it was a beast: sharp, punishing flakes driven sideways by wind, icing over everything in seconds. He wrapped his coat tighter, ducked his head, and forged into the streets, half-blind and stinging from the cold. The world shrank to the crunch of his shoes on crusted snow, the pain in his ears, and the endless replay of Sandra’s words:

Make it public. Marry him. Deliver Robby to us, or everything burns.

He tried to focus on logistics, hospital protocols, medication schedules, patient rounds, but even those old safety nets had holes now. His mind ran in circles, chasing what-ifs like a junkyard dog.

What if he went through with it?

What if he ran?

What if he told Robby and the whole thing collapsed, just like every other good thing he’d ever tried to keep?

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t check it. He didn’t want to see his mother’s number, or worse, some blast from the press. He just kept walking, feet already numb. His loafers were a joke, slick with slush, and within a block the wet had soaked through to his socks. He trudged, hands balled in his pockets, shivering so hard his teeth hurt.

Block by block, the city transformed: boutique windows crusted with snow, lights half-blotted out by wind, the river below the bridges choked with ice floes. Nobody sane was outside; even the taxis were hiding. He counted the blocks, lost track, and counted again.

The hospital loomed out of the white like a spaceship, every window lit, every wall humming with life. He badged in through the side entrance, sloshed water all over the lobby floor, and barely registered the night security guard’s nod.

He could have gone home, could have changed, could have crashed for a few hours before the morning shift.

But the only thing that mattered now was the NICU, and the tiny fighter inside.

Dennis passed the elevator and hit the stairs, old muscle memory guiding him upward, past the half-lit hallways and the slow drag of the world outside. Each landing was quieter, the sounds of the city replaced by the soft, perpetual hum of the hospital: a code blue alert two floors down, the rattle of a cleaning cart, someone crying in an empty corridor.

The NICU was nearly silent at this hour, lights dimmed to spare the babies’ eyes. The glass doors slid open on a sensor, and the familiar, antiseptic scent hit him, clean and sharp.

Behind the station, the night nurse, Felicia, mid-40s, brash, deep accent he couldn’t place, looked up from her charting.

“Well, look who the storm dragged in,” she said, not unkind. “You got a death wish, showing up in this blizzard?  To your shift?  Early?  You’re crazy, boy.”

Dennis tried to smile, but it fell short. “Needed to see him right now, if that’s okay?”

Felicia softened. “Ezekiel’s a tough bastard, you know. O2’s good, sats are good, and if he keeps up, we might move him to the nursery end of the week.”

Dennis exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Hey, don’t thank me. Thank yourself. Half the staff thinks you’re some kind of miracle worker. The other half thinks you’re nuts. I think both can be true.  You’re a good man, Dr. Whitaker.” She gestured to the back corner. “Go say hi.”

Dennis threaded through the maze of incubators, each one a glowing, fragile world. He found Ezekiel exactly where he’d left him at the last shift: tucked in a nest of wires and heated blankets, his tiny body still a miracle to behold, eyes closed, chest moving in slow, steady rhythm.

He sat beside the incubator, pressed a hand gently to the plastic. The baby’s face, for the first time, looked less like a survival project and more like an actual, potential person. There was a future here, maybe.

Dennis let the tears come, this time. They streaked down his face, hot and shameless.

He leaned close, whispered so no one else could hear: “Stay strong, little guy. I love you. I’ll always think about you, no matter where I end up.”

The monitor beeped, a slow, contented thrum.

“Don’t worry.  I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, this hospital, or these programs.  They’re…  Important.  I’m not, you know?  I’m just a guy.  Who am I to…  Fighters like you, you know?  To the important people like Dr. Collins, or Robby.  I mean…  I’m not…  Worth any of this.  Not by a mile.”  Dennis paused, unable to form the rest of the sentence.

For a long time, Dennis just sat there, letting the hum of the room settle into his bones. The other babies slept, the nurses rotated quietly, and the storm battered the windows, but inside the NICU it was nothing but warmth and the promise, however slim, that tomorrow might be better.

He wiped his eyes, kissed the tip of his finger, and pressed it to the clear dome. “Goodbye, Zeke.  Love you, little guy.”

On the way out, Felicia offered him a cup of terrible coffee, which he accepted and finished in a single scalding gulp. 

“Where you going?” Felicia asked, as he started walking out of the NICU.

“HR.”

+++++

It had been another great morning for Robby, in the way that "great" sometimes meant "so completely fucked you can't even believe it." He’d spent the better part of three hours behind the smoked-glass door of his corner office, parsing quarterly reports while ignoring the growing stack of emails flagged URGENT.

The hospital was running at capacity, two new patent applications were in the final review phase, and somewhere in the building, a TV crew from a local station was waiting for his quote about the new children’s wellness initiative.

Robby was halfway through an internal memo about insurance compliance when the phone on his desk buzzed, the old-fashioned landline reserved for strictly internal emergencies.

He pressed the button, voice low. "Dr. Robinavitch."

A woman’s voice, clipped and dry: "This is HR. We have an urgent issue regarding one of the residents that needs your immediate attention. Do you have a moment?"

His heart rate doubled. "Which one?"

"Whitaker. He’s submitted his resignation, effective immediately. He cited, quote, 'impending irreparable harm to the hospital’s image.'"

Robby blinked, brain stumbling. "He what?"

"He requested we fire him if possible," the woman continued, unflappable. "Said, and I quote, on our recording, 'Please, just fire me, make something up if you have to. Tell people I was a fraud or whatever, just make sure nobody thinks I was a risk to patients or the program and make it big and public so nobody questions your image.' I’ve never seen anything like it, sir. Is this… do you have context?  What kind of harm are we talking about here?  Do you know something we don’t?"

Robby pushed out of his chair, the reports scattering across the floor. "Where is he now?"

"He didn’t say. His badge was returned, and he cleared out his locker. Is this a wellness check situation, Dr. Robinavitch?  Should we be concerned for this young man’s life?"

"Maybe," Robby asked, already dialing Dennis’s cell on his other line. "If he contacts you, let me know immediately. Otherwise, forward everything to my phone and restrict all external calls regarding him to me. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

He hung up and tried Dennis again. Straight to voicemail, no ring.

He fired off a text: Where are you? Please answer. I’m worried.

Nothing.

The city outside was still half-crippled by last night’s storm, but Robby didn’t care. He pulled on his coat, snatched his keys from the drawer, and was in the elevator before he remembered to grab his wallet.

The drive across town was a fever dream of red lights, horns, and near-misses on the unplowed intersections. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home, just the image of the penthouse lobby, empty, sterile, a security guard blinking up from a crossword puzzle as Robby barreled through.

The apartment was dark. He expected to find Dennis in bed, or on the couch, or even curled up in a chair with one of the study journals for his upcoming exam.

Every room was empty, lights off, no sign of life.

Except for the note.

It was on the bed, in the center, the expensive stationary Dennis had joked about using for "baby’s first lawsuit" now filled with lines of cramped, desperate handwriting.

Robby sat on the edge of the mattress and read:

I’m sorry.

I wish I could explain this in person but I know you’d talk me out of it or do something stupid, and I’m not strong enough to resist you.

My parents threatened to leak everything about our relationship, to the press, to your board, to the hospital.  I left the pictures and the article on your desk if you need the proof, but it’s bad.

They want to paint you as a lecherous old man who’s got no self control and giving me a job so I’ll fuck you, and that you’re doing it in other places too.  Knowing them, they’re going to try and turn the medical industry on you for their own gain.

They wanted me to seduce you for their benefit, to marry you, then persuade you to get tied up in some business merger bullshit with their foundation and give them lots of money to play with.

If I played along and got my hooks in you, they’d keep quiet and not leak everything, even offering with my recertification exams; if I didn’t, they’d take down everyone. 

They’re insane, Robby, they’ll burn the world just to keep themselves warm.

I can’t let them hurt you, or the kids at the hospital, or anyone else I care about.

I can’t be a weakness or a weapon. Not for the people I love, respect, and care about.

So, I’m making myself the worst weapon possible and giving you and the hospital a chance to get ahead of this.  I told HR I was a fraud and rambled for about an hour, so they’re going to probably say I’m a nutcase.  Say whatever you need on your end to make it go away, I promise it won’t hurt me, and I consent to it.  Destroy me.  Use me as a cautionary tale.  Say I manipulated you and tricked you, and you discovered it before it got too deep.  Something.  Anything.

I love you, Robby. I always will.

I refuse to be the reason you lose everything you built, and I refuse to use or manipulate you.  I’m sorry it came to this.  I’ll always have memories of Paris. 

That was the best night of my life and I’ll never forget it.  It’ll keep me warm and loved until I’m your age.

All my love,

D.

The script wobbled near the end. The last three lines were smudged, like he’d written them through tears.

Robby crushed the paper in his fist, then forced himself to smooth it out again, reread it, memorize every word. His hands shook with rage and something deeper, a hurt he’d thought had died with Elliot decades ago.

He should have known. He should have seen the play coming. The Whitakers were predators in the medical world, always had been, and he’d underestimated their willingness to eat their own.  Or burn down the good in the world for their own gain.

“I’ll fucking kill them.” Robby thought.

He was still sitting, shell-shocked, when the quiet sound of a throat clearing at the door drew his attention.

Mr. Winters, immaculate as ever, stood with his arms folded, a subtle crease of concern in his brow.

"Sir," he said, voice gentle. "Is there anything you need?"

Robby inhaled, steadied himself.  All the kindness in his face melted away. In this moment, he was no longer Dr. Robinavitch.  In this moment, he was a young twenty-something, readying himself to do untold damage to the world of medicine.  Ready and willing to do anything to get what he wanted.

Except now, it wasn’t wealth or power he was after.  It was Dennis.  His Dennis.  His love.

God have mercy on whoever got in the way of that, because Robby had no mercy to give.

“Harold, I need all the controlling shares of the Whitaker Medical Advantage Group in the next six hours, except for the Whitakers themselves.  Then I need you to call Beverly at the IRS and tell her that Robby is calling in a favor to have someone ripped to shreds.  Afterwards, I need a call to the Surgeon General and tell him to fly down here and be in my office first thing tomorrow morning.” he said. "I don’t care about the price or the intermediaries or bargains you have to make. Just do it.  Do whatever, and I mean, whatever, you need to accomplish this.  This is a Code Black, Harold.  I’m at war."

Mr. Winters nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Of course. I’ll have it done in half the time.  Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Yes," Robby said, voice flat. "I need to find Dennis. He’s not picking up, and I’m not waiting for his parents to destroy the rest of his life."

Mr. Winters inclined his head, clearing his throat.  “If I may, sir…  While he was in a rush, I might have observed him ordering a ticket on his phone.  If I had to make a guess…”

“I’m on it,” Robby said, nodding as Harold went off to do his own part in this plan.

Robby sat for a long moment after the door closed, the empty apartment echoing with the memory of Dennis’s laugh, his terrible jokes, the way he’d called Robby "Daddy" with just enough passion to make it real.

He wouldn’t let the Whitakers win. He wouldn’t let them take Dennis away, or turn his own heart into another monument to loss.  He would make them loathe the day they thought they could ever hurt his lover or try and manipulate him. 

Robby stood, dusted off the last tears he’d allow himself, and made a plan. War, he remembered, was just business by other means.

Chapter Text

The departures concourse at Westport International was a throbbing, barely-controlled stampede of humanity, the sort of place designed to break even the hardiest of modern men.

Robby navigated the labyrinth, his tailored suit only slightly ruffled, shoes tapping out a tempo of impatience against the tiled floors. He’d never truly appreciated the unique hell of air travel until now, until every fluorescent glare, every indecisive family clogging a moving walkway, every echoing call for a final boarding became a personal affront to his mission.

“I’m going to buy the aviation industry next.”

He moved with focus, parting crowds with a glance, cutting straight through the inertia of lost tourists and mid-level executives shuffling toward their inevitable destination. He barely registered the persistent hum of the climate control, the chemical tang of disinfectant and burnt espresso that permeated the terminal. He ignored the faces, old, young, weary, hopeful, until he caught a flash of familiar, out-of-place brown hair in a corner near gate 14B.

Dennis.

He was smaller than Robby remembered. Or maybe it was just the way he’d curled himself up, hoodie pulled over his head, knees tight to his chest, backpack wedged like a shield in front of him. He’d found a half-abandoned alcove beside the vending machines, the blue glow of the ticketing kiosk throwing shadows over his face. The rest of the world moved past him, oblivious.

Robby stopped a few paces away, pulse thudding. He let the moment hang, giving Dennis a chance to sense him, to run if he needed, whatever his baby needed. Instead, Dennis just sat there, the only motion in him the slow, mechanical click of his thumb as he scrolled his phone, probably for flights that didn’t exist or numbers he’d never dare call.

He crouched, and said, “It’s not a great disguise, you know. The world’s most beautiful man in the world’s worst fake mustache might have thrown me off, but a hoodie? Amateur hour.”

Dennis didn’t look up. “You should go, Robby. I’m doing you a favor.”

“That’s not really how favors work.” Robby’s voice was softer now, pitched to the hush of the corner. “Besides, you don’t look like you’re going anywhere.”

Dennis set the phone down, fingers trembling just enough for Robby to notice. “I was going to fly somewhere. Maybe a town with no hospitals, no Wi-Fi, no…” He choked on the next word. “No parents trying to burn down everything I love.”

Robby exhaled, slow. He reached out, knuckles brushing the edge of Dennis’s sleeve. “Are you okay?  That’s all I are about righ tnow.”

Dennis finally looked at him. His eyes were red, rimmed with the unmistakable mark of too little sleep and too much grief. “No I’m not okay! They’ll destroy you, Robby. They’ll burn everything down just to hurt me.  I’ve seen them do this my entire life.  Watched them eviscerate someone from existence.  What they did to me?!  It’s child’s play.  What they’ve done to others?  To threats?  To people they wanted something from?  They’re…  They’re heartless.  They’re cruel.  They’re not human.  Trust me, I’ve seen…  I’ve seen the aftermath.” His voice was small, edged with a hopeless anger that sounded foreign coming from him.

There it was.  The real fear.  Dennis was genuinely, truly, terrified of his parents.  Of what they could do.  This was all he’d known as a child, a growing youth, and then as an adult. 

“What did they make you see?  What did they do to make you think this was the only way?  I’ll never forgive them.”

“They can try,” Robby said, and surprised himself with the steadiness in it. “Though, you should know, the last time someone got cross with me, I built a multimillion-dollar company just to spite them. I’m not going anywhere without you, Dennis. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”

Dennis shook his head, gaze darting. “If you make this public, if you let them drag you through the mud for me, you’ll lose everything you built. The hospital, the foundation, your whole reputation. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.  You’ve done so much good, I…  I can’t stand the idea of me being what did everything in.  Not when you’ve given me so much.”

Robby smiled, sad and fond. “That’s where you’re wrong, princess. You don’t get to put words in my mouth.  I decide what’s worth it, that’s my right, and right now, you’re my only priority.”

He waited for Dennis to push him away, to say something cutting or cruel or self-effacing, but instead Dennis just stared, hollow and brittle.  Like he wanted to trust, like he wanted to believe someone could keep their world safe, but that he wasn’t quite sure how to take that final leap.

Robby leaned in, close enough to smell the bitter trace of cheap airport coffee on Dennis’s breath, the familiar detergent in his shirt. He slid his hand under Dennis’s chin, gently tugged the hood back.

“Do you know the worst part about having someone you love jump on a grenade for you?” Robby whispered, brushing his thumb along Dennis’s jaw. “You never get the chance to repay the favor. It’s inconsiderate, if you think about it.  Why do you get to be the only self-sacrificing one here, if I can’t do it back to you?  Or, if I can’t sacrifice myself for you, at the very least, you should let me spank you for running off, you know?  While you’re in that cute baby blue jockstrap you’re so fond of.”

Dennis blinked, caught between disbelief and the first spark of a smile.  A laugh.  A blush.

Robby pressed a soft, careful kiss to Dennis’s cheek. “You have nothing to be afraid of, Dennis. Not anymore. I’m not the one who should be running scared right now.  Your parents are.”

Somewhere overhead, the boarding call for a red-eye to Seattle echoed. Dennis flinched at the noise, but Robby just kept his eyes on him, steady, unwavering.

“Do you trust me?” Robby said, not letting go. “Do you trust Daddy to take care of you, even if it means facing the worst nightmare of your life?”

Dennis hesitated, the answer fighting its way through the layers of guilt and history and everything he’d been told to believe about himself. Yet, despite everything, he nodded, small at first, then bigger, until it was the only thing he could do.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I trust you.  I’m just…  Scared.  You’ve not seen what they can do.”

“Good,” Robby replied. He stood, and, without asking, pulled Dennis up with him. He settled an arm across Dennis’s shoulders, drawing him in, turning them both away from the cold gaze of the neon departures board and the digital clock counting down to nothing.

“Let’s get out of here,” Robby said. “-and let me explain exactly how Daddy goes to war with those that try and harm his princess.”

Together, they slipped back into the river of humanity, Dennis close and protected at his side, the future uncertain but, a little less terrifying.

Outside, the sun had started to rise over the city, the light slow and merciful, promising that for the next act, at least, they’d be in it together.

+++++

Sandra Whitaker was not a woman who arrived late. It was a point of pride, and in her world, a weapon. She and George strode into the boardroom at precisely 9:00 a.m., the entire 31st floor of Whitaker Medical Advantage Tower vibrating with the anticipation that always preceded an emergency board meeting. Her heels clicked in perfect time with her husband’s hush-toned commentary about market volatility and “the optics of the current situation.”

George’s suit was immaculate, shirt pressed to a knife-edge, every gesture controlled, but even he seemed to shrink as they entered the sanctum.

The boardroom itself was every inch as funereal and intimidating as Sandra had demanded in the original design spec: walls of polished mahogany, a table long enough to host a minor summit, lighting so cold and directional it left no room for imperfection. She had expected a dozen faces arrayed around the table, all waiting to bow their heads at her arrival, so she could share the future of their world.

Instead, she found exactly two people at the far end.

Dr. Robinavitch sat at the head, immaculate in midnight blue suit and tie, his expression bored, almost lazy. Next to him, perched on the arm of his chair, was Dennis, legs elegantly crossed, a champagne flute in one hand and the ghost of a smirk on his face, dressed in a deep crimson suit, almost like something out of Dante’s Inferno.  A demon.  A devil.  A harbinger.

Behind them, lining the wall in an orderly phalanx, stood a row of men and women in near-identical black suits, briefcases arrayed like artillery and tablets at the ready with figure and contracts.  She knew those expressions.  Accountants, Lawyers, and PR.  None of them were from their team.

Sandra registered all this in a single glance, and for the first time in years, felt the temperature in her blood dip a degree.

She rallied, striding forward with George at her flank, projecting every ounce of force and assurance she could muster. “Dr. Robinavitch,” she said, her voice gliding on the edge of civility. “You’re looking… well.”

Robby didn’t rise. “So are you, Sandra. Blue is your color, though I would have pegged you for black today, given the morbid nature of the board meeting.  Preparing for your funeral dirge?”

Sandra ignored the barb. “I assume this is a closed session?” She swept the empty chairs with her gaze, then glanced at the attorneys. “Or is this some sort of… legal revue for something else?  Has our son...  Spoken to you of things?”

Robby gestured to the table, indicating two seats. “Please, sit. We’re keeping it intimate.”

Dennis, to his credit, managed not to flinch as Sandra lowered herself across from them. He met her gaze with something she couldn’t quite name, pity, maybe, or relief, or the distant echo of an emotion she’d spent a lifetime training out of herself.

George cleared his throat, face tight. “What’s the agenda, exactly? I was under the impression we were having our board meeting today.  Why are you occupying our space?  Frankly, I'm a bit insulted you took the head of the table.  That's where the controlling members of the board sit.”

“Allow me to explain,” Robby said. “But first, a brief presentation.”

He nodded to the attorney at his right, who flicked a tablet and cast a spreadsheet onto the monitor behind them.

“Effective as of opening of business this morning, controlling interest in Whitaker Medical Advantage Group is held by Robinavitch Group Holdings.  Which were then divided to Dennis Whitaker and Michael Robinavitch.  Effective this morning, these two now act as the majority stakeholders of this company. To be precise, their combined shares mark sixty percent to your forty percent.”

Robby didn’t look up from the document in his hands, but Sandra felt the eyes of every lawyer in the room on her, a swarm of sharks scenting blood.  “You’re welcome to verify the purchase, but I wouldn’t recommend contesting the numbers.  Everything is finalized.  All former voting members of your board with voting rights have signed them over and quit.   Dennis is the new legal owner of this company.  I gave him 59% and I retained 1%.  Though my vote is his vote, just so we're clear.”

For a second, Sandra’s brain refused to process it. “That’s not possible,” she said, perfectly calm. “We had lockup agreements on every member.”

“Expired. Mr. Winters discovered that in half an hour. You never thought to renew them since you thought you had everyone in your pockets out of fear and desperation,” Dennis supplied, smiling faintly. “I know. I was as surprised as you are.  Bad move on your part, should have really locked that up tighter.  Amazing the weaknesses you can find in people if you're looking to break their kneecaps at every turn.”

George fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, then blanched. “But, no, that,” He looked up at Sandra, panic flickering. “He’s right.  Did you know about this?”

Sandra stared at Robby, trying to see the trick. “This is illegal. You must have had insider trading knowledge.  No way you were able to gather all of this in such a short span of time!”

“We did it by the book and it was verified by our contacts with the SEC,” said a lawyer at the wall, her voice flat. “…and since you’re no longer majority, you might want to choose your words carefully, as your future with this company is now out of your hands.”

Dennis sipped his champagne, legs still crossed.  He leaned on Robby’s shoulder. “It’s an impressive amount of paperwork, Mom. You really ought to have more staff for these things.  Though you never really did trust anyone but yourself, did you?”

Sandra’s hands curled on the table, the knuckles whitening. “You brought us here for this? To gloat? To think you've won?”

Robby finally looked at her, and she saw, to her horror, that he wasn’t gloating at all. He just looked… bored.  As if she wasn't even worth his time or energy.  “I brought you here to let you down gently and let you bow out of this “situation” gracefully.  Walk away now and you only lose your jobs and your company.” he said. “If you want to escalate, we can do that, too.  Though I promise we will make it ugly for you.  Uglier than you want.  Don't try me, Sandra.”

George found his voice. “You don’t want a war, Robinavitch. If you destroy the company, you destroy yourself too.  We have plenty of dirt on you. Think of the optics. Think of your precious reputation. We can blow it up in an instant.  You take us down?  We take you down with us.  Plain and simple.”

“Good.  I hoped you would escalate.  That means I get to drop the bombs,” Robby said, smile curdling at the edges. “Though here’s the thing, unlike some, I’m not afraid to air my dirty laundry. In fact, I called in the press myself.”  He snapped his fingers, with a roaring crack in the room.

Sandra’s eyes snapped to the door as a man entered, camera in hand, press badge visible. He set up in the corner, silent as death, not making eye contact.  It was the private investigation, the one she'd hired to shadow her son for years.

“Why not cut to the chase?” Robby said, his eyes gleaming. “You want to talk about secrets? You want to play the scandal card? By all means, Sandra, let’s see it.  What do you have to say about us?”

For the first time, Sandra lost control. Her voice spiked, sharp and brittle: “You think you can parade your sick relationship around like it’s some badge of honor? The medical industry, your own board, everyone will eat you alive. The donors, the city, your own staff, nobody is going to stand by while you-”

“While I what?” Robby said, barking with laughter. “Date a man half my age? Rescue a talented doctor from the blacklisting you orchestrated? Or maybe just let myself be happy for five seconds after a lifetime of misery, and after finally getting over the tragic loss of my first partner?  Pick your poison. I can spin anything.  Unlike all of you, I'm liked in the industry.  I'm going to be believed.  I'm going to be trusted.  I'm not a liar.”

Dennis’s hand found Robby’s, fingers lacing. He looked right at Sandra, and in that moment she saw not her son, but a man she couldn’t control.  With dark, confident eyes, far crueler than she’d ever seen in her life coming from him.

“You shouldn't have tried to hurt him, Sandra.” Dennis said, sweet as lemon drop. “Turns out...  You're not the scariest person I know anymore.”  He leaned in, making a pose with Robby, the two of them obviously in love, sharing a kiss.

The photographer flashed a picture, of them at the head of the table, in a stellar pose, and the whole room seemed to go silent, the only sound the mechanical whirr of the lens.

“In fact, Daddy bought the Private Investigator you hired to follow me around.  Then he bought the whole company you paid to make that ridiculous headline in that trashy medical journal.  Though, I have to admit, he probably overpaid on it.  Turns out, a bunch of servers caught fire and tons of data are lost forever just this morning.  Oh, and the reporter you were so fond of, who had all those interviews with people you were going to publish against Robby?  Well, he’s retired now.  Signed a lengthy NDA, too.  I hear he’s already halfway to some tropical country now for the rest of his life.  Never to return.”

Sandra tried, one last time, to rally. “This isn’t over,” she said. “We’ll fight you every step.  Press or no press, we’ll…”

Another lawyer cleared his throat. “If I may, Mrs. Whitaker. Under the circumstances, I’d recommend accepting the terms of the sale and beginning transition immediately. Protracted litigation would only draw further attention to… current issues.”

Dennis smiled, setting his glass of champagne in front of himself, where Robby poured him another drink.  Robby pulled Dennis off the armchair and into his lap, pressing a deep kiss into his throat. 

“I call for a vote of the Whitaker Medical Advantage Group to be sold, immediately, to the Robinavitch Group Holdings.  That all upper management be dissolved, all existing contracts and bonuses of said upper management be cut, and that Sandra and George Whitaker be permanently banned from any and all assets, benefits, or accounts once held, now and in perpetuity.  Plus, whatever Daddy's lawyers put in the fine print.” Dennis said.

“I second the motion, baby,” Robby said, pressing another kiss into Dennis’ cheek.

Sandra sagged, her posture collapsing in on itself. “You’re ruining us, Dennis. You’re ruining your family!”

“No, I’m not.  My family’s right here,” Dennis said, voice quiet. “Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

“Of course it is, baby.  Who needs those two old relics when you can have me instead?”

One of the lawyers cleared their throat.  “All in favor of the vote, say “aye”.”

Dennis and Robby, in unison, said “aye”.

“All opposed?” the attorney asked.

Sandra couldn’t open her mouth to speak.  George stammered to the opposition, but it didn’t matter.  Not in the long run.  They were done.

“The motion passes.  Legal will be drafting up merger documents.  We’ve already cleared the sale with the appropriate parties.  Thus ends today’s emergency board meeting.  Sandra, George, security will escort you out after you have gathered your personal belongings.  Your accounts are frozen, and we will be working with a transition team shortly.” The attorney said, pushing a paper in front of Robby and Dennis.

Dennis signed the page, with a whisk of a pen. 

Just like that. 

In the span of 10 minutes, decades of work and grueling sacrifice came to an end. 

“We’re ruined.”

Robby stood, pulling Dennis up with him. “We’ll leave you the dignity of the closing press release to say what you will.  Just understand that defamation lawsuits are a bitch.  Keep that in mind when you think to open your mouth ever again. Have fun with your life.” 

Sandra watched as her legacy, her son, and her enemy walked out of the boardroom together, leaving her in the ruins of what she’d built. 

What’s worse, neither of them glanced their way.  Like the two of them were ants, being stepped over, lower than the dirt.

“Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker?  This was left at the front desk.”

Just before the doors closed, a courier entered, bearing two envelopes. The same color and style as the letter she’d sent her son.

One for Sandra, one for George. She took hers, hands shaking, and opened it to find a summons: IRS audit.  Going back the last 10 years for personal, and 20 for their business accounts.  Notations of “suspicious activities” that Sandra knew immediately was the IRS finally discovering their hidden accounts.

The second envelope, a hand-addressed letter from the Office of the Surgeon General, with an official stamp and a polite request for her presence in Washington to discuss “alleged irregularities” in her past lobbying and medical recordkeeping of their organization.  Referencing names and dates of malpractice incidents she’d tried to keep hidden.

She dropped both on the table, finally understanding the truth.

The war was not only lost, it had never been winnable in the first place.

+++++

The city’s late-afternoon haze filtered through the penthouse windows, gilding every surface in a weary, almost peaceful gold. Dennis sat on the edge of the living room’s sofa, hands balled in the hem of his shirt, every muscle in his body humming with leftover adrenaline. He’d shed his blazer the second they got through the door, left his shoes somewhere in the entryway, and now he just stared at the glassy spill of skyline, blinking hard against a headache blooming at the back of his skull.

Robby watched him from the open kitchen, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, two tumblers in hand. The entire apartment felt like a museum after hours: empty, echoing, just the two of them and the hush that came after an earthquake.

“Drink?” Robby asked, voice soft.

Dennis tried to laugh, but it stuck in his throat. “Is there anything strong enough to unfuck a day like this?”

“Scotch, mostly,” Robby said, setting a glass in front of him. He sat down, closer than necessary, and waited.

For a minute, neither spoke. The apartment was so quiet Dennis could hear the thud of his own heart.

It was Dennis who broke first, hands trembling as he tipped the glass and took a gulp far too large for the flavor. “Sorry,” he said, after. “I think I’m having a stroke. Or a panic attack. Or both.”

Robby’s hand landed on his knee, steady and warm. “You did incredible today. You held it together.”

“Not really.” Dennis stared at the swirl of amber in his glass. “I kept thinking I was going to throw up. Or cry. Or run. Or wait for them to play an uno reverse card.”

“But you didn’t,” Robby said, voice fierce. “You stayed. You won. The war is yours.”

Dennis let out a shuddering breath, and the dam finally broke. He didn’t sob so much as collapse, whole body curling in on itself, the tears silent but inexhaustible. He buried his face in his hands, felt the shame and relief mingling in the salt.

“I’m free.  They’re gone.  They’re ruined.  They can’t touch me anymore.  My life is my own.”

Robby didn’t say anything for a long time. He just wrapped both arms around Dennis, pulling him against his chest, letting Dennis’s cheek press against the cotton of his shirt.

“It’s over,” Robby murmured, stroking the back of Dennis’s neck. “You’re safe. I promise you, Dennis, nobody’s going to hurt you now.  Nobody.”

Dennis just clung, knuckles white.

When the shaking subsided, he managed: “Are you sure? I mean, really sure? What if they…”

Robby kissed his temple. “It’s handled. HR will call off any press releases about your ‘resignation’ you made, I made sure of it. Collins is on your side, I told her why you missed your shift.  She thinks you’re and idiot, but a loyal idiot, and that says something. You’ll go back to work, just like before, only now you’re free.  Once news about your parents gets out, we can handle your blackballing and start to unravel that.  Life goes on.”

Dennis closed his eyes. “I’m not sure I know how to be free.”

Robby laughed, a real one, and kissed him again. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dennis sat up, wiped his face on his sleeve, and met Robby’s gaze. “Thank you. For everything. For… being willing to blow it all up for me. I know what this place means to you.”

Robby’s smile softened. “You mean more.”

Dennis looked away, face burning, then snorted. “That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Robby replied, and they both cracked up, the sound a little wild but entirely real.

When the laughter faded, Dennis asked, “So what happens now? Do I go back to being your sugar baby, or is there a different title for ‘horrible mess who ruined your corporate enemies’?”

Robby grinned, slow and hungry. “Nope.  The sugar baby arrangement is done for.  I’ve decided a promotion is long overdue.  How about ‘boyfriend’? Or, if you want to be formal, ‘partner’? I’d even settle for becoming your ‘trophy husband’ if you keep wearing those silk panties.”

Dennis choked on his drink, then set the glass down.  He sniffled. “Deal. I’d like to negotiate an upgrade to the boyfriend package, though. More pancakes, less crying, more of both of us just…  Being together.  No more past, for either of us.  Just the now and the tomorrow.”

“Done.” Robby took his hand, kissed the inside of Dennis’s wrist. “God, I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

They sat together, side by side, hands intertwined, until the shadows grew long and the first city lights started to flicker on. Dennis felt the weight in his chest go light.

He sighed, content, and rested his head on Robby’s shoulder.  They sat there, pressed together, until Robby said, “There’s a press conference in a few days. I’d like you to be there. For us.  To announce our relationship.  So that nothing like this ever happens again, and the world knows who you are to me.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Robby’s voice was absolute. “We’re not hiding anything. Not anymore. Not from them, not from anyone.  I’m proud of my partner, and I know he’s proud of me, so why should we hide anything?”

Dennis nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

He leaned into Robby, letting the warmth soak in.

For the first time, “together” didn’t sound like a lie or a fairy tale.

+++++

The sun rose slow and benevolent, flooding the penthouse with the sort of gold that made even the memory of winter seem like a fever dream. Dennis had the bedroom to himself for the first hour, propped up on the edge of the king-sized bed, hair tousled, wrapped in a cloud of white linen and, his favorite detail, the soft stretch of new pink lace panties and the thigh-high stockings that matched. He’d found them in the walk-in closet, a gift bag from “Princesse Chérie Paris,” tissue paper and all, with a note in Robby’s tidy hand: "A reward for my bravest baby. Try them on and wait for me.”

He’d rolled his eyes, of course, but the moment he slipped them on he felt… different. Not powerful, exactly, but seen. Maybe even cherished, if he let himself believe in things like that.

A city’s worth of news lay scattered across the bedspread, most of it unread, except for the one article in the top fold that had come out after the bombshells Robby dropped in the world of medicine:

"New Golden Era for Medicine: Robinavitch & Whitaker Announce Visionary Alliance."

The headline left him giddy and nauseous in equal measure.

Underneath, a smaller story with his own face, “Dr. Dennis Whitaker Returns to Practice After Blackmail Scheme” complete with a photo of him, looking almost like a person who belonged.

The article summarized the purchase of the Whitaker Group, with Robinavitch Group promising to “clean up” the corruption within the group.  Sandra and George Whitaker’s crimes, including “alleged” tax evasion, overseas bribery, medical malpractice, falsifying donations, and a slew of other terrible things were also brough to light.  The article included Dennis being blackballed, and the truth of his “firing” due to being an openly gay doctor and their opposition to his lifestyle.  There was also a lengthy portion discussion of how his “contributions” led to the truth of the Whitaker Group being brought to light, including thanks from high ranking members of the medical community.

Since then, his social media exploded.  Old coworkers, professors, and new coworkers and new friends sent him well wishes, apologies, and everything in between. 

Dr. Collins just sent him a simple text of “don’t fuck up your recertification or all of these articles will make you look really bad”, with a winky smiley face.  Dennis chuckled, and reminded himself to study harder soon.  He didn’t want to let her down.

Robby emerged from the bathroom at precisely 10:00, hair slicked back, robe cinched just barely at the waist. He caught Dennis’s gaze in the mirror, smiled, and made a show of adjusting the robe so that it gaped at the chest, hint of skin and salt-and-pepper hair on display.

“You look like you’re about to seduce me.  Or is this roleplay?” Dennis called, voice brighter than usual.

Robby grinned, prowled across the carpet, and sank to his knees at the side of the bed. “That depends. Are you wearing pink lace, or am I being outmaneuvered again?”

Dennis laughed, then tucked his knees up, shy all at once. “You’re being outmaneuvered, obviously.  Do you know who you’re dealing with?”

Robby’s hands found Dennis’s calves, thumbs circling the silk. “These are almost too good to take off.”

“I agree,” Dennis said, emboldened. “So don’t. Just, you know… admire.  Maybe if you beg enough, I’ll let you play with me.”

“I intend to.” Robby’s lips pressed to Dennis’s knee, then higher, trailing over the band of lace and the thin skin beneath. He looked up, and his eyes were soft, hungry in a new way, not devouring, but savoring.

Dennis’s pulse thrummed in his ears. “You’re extra corny today. Is this your post-victory personality?”

“Maybe,” Robby admitted, voice low. “Or maybe I just can’t believe I get to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.”

Dennis wanted to say something clever, but the only word that made it out was, “Same.”

They were quiet for a beat, the hush filled with the morning sounds of the city, distant horns, a train, nothing that mattered at all.

Then Robby hooked a finger into the hem of the lace and tugged, gentle, just enough to leave a mark. “Can I take them off now?”

Dennis flushed, then arched a brow. “I don’t know…. They’re imported, you know.  Maybe I should just lay here and let you stare.  Maybe I don’t want my Daddy’s present to stretch.”

“Then I’d better be careful,” Robby said, and nipped at the skin just above the stocking, making Dennis shiver.

It was different, this time, no rush, no proving ground, just the slow burn of two people who knew they were exactly where they should be.

Robby took his time, exploring every inch of Dennis with hands and lips, learning the new landscape as if it was both familiar and entirely undiscovered.

Dennis let himself go soft in Robby’s arms, no armor, no scripts, just the raw pleasure of being wanted. He gasped when Robby found the spot behind his knee, moaned when Robby’s tongue dipped under the waistband of the panties, as if it were the prize at the end of every awful war.

They tumbled together, limbs tangled, lace and silk catching on skin, laughter breaking the heat every time someone lost balance, when Dennis’s cock popped out of side begging for release from the silken prison, or kissed the wrong spot. Dennis felt like he was floating, weightless and anchored all at once, every touch a promise that he was alive, desired, deserving.

When Robby finally pushed the panties aside and pressed inside, Dennis clung to him, nails digging crescents into Robby’s back, breathless with joy. They moved together, slow at first, then fast, then slow again, like neither wanted it to ever end.

After, they lay twisted in the sheets, bodies still humming, city sprawled out below.

Robby nuzzled Dennis’s hair, kissed the crown of his head. “How are you feeling?”

Dennis turned, smiled against Robby’s shoulder. “Like I just survived the end of the world, and also the best sex of my life.”

Robby barked a laugh. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

They lapsed into silence.

Dennis pulled the covers up, wrapping them both, and whispered, “Are you really okay with all of this? You’re okay with…  In the next couple of days, telling everyone about…  Us?”

Robby squeezed his waist. “I’ve never been more okay and ready in my life.”

Dennis giggled, then shut his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. He rolled onto Robby’s chest, tracing lazy patterns over his heart. “So, what now? Do we take over the medical world by storm, or just, you know, brunch?”

Robby grinned, voice soft. “Both. Always both.”

Chapter Text

A few months passed.  Months of peace.  Months of tranquility.  Months of love.

Yet, this morning, for Dennis anyway, the hours before sunrise lasted longer than all of those months combined.

He prowled the penthouse, barefoot, wearing nothing but a threadbare t-shirt of Robby’s that he wore like a dress. The apartment was palatial, but he still managed to wear a circular track into the Turkish runner between the glass-walled bedroom and the far corner of the living room, each lap punctuated by a glance at his phone. Sometimes the signal bars winked out, only to repopulate a second later, dashing his heart up and down like a yo-yo.

By 8:14 a.m., he’d checked the exam portal so many times that Safari started autofilling his username and password as soon as he tapped the address bar.

“Nothing,” he muttered, for the fiftieth time.

He checked again.

Still nothing.

He ran a hand through his hair, nails catching at the scalp, then hunched over the balcony railing, letting the morning’s pre-chill scrape his skin. The city was just starting to wake up: a few pale headlights blinking along the river, a delivery van parked crooked on the curb below, the distant shriek of a garbage truck reversing into eternity.

Dennis was so tense, he didn’t hear Robby come up behind him. Only noticed when a strong arm wrapped around his waist, and a warm chin landed on his shoulder.

“Morning, princess,” Robby rasped, his voice still full of sleep. “You know, if you keep pacing at that rate, you’re going to leave a groove in the floor.”

Dennis snorted, but his voice was brittle. “At least then I’ll have something to show for myself if I fail out.”

Robby tsked. “You won’t fail. If you do, I’ll buy the testing board and have them re-certified under new management.”

Dennis twisted, meaning to push him away, but found himself wrapped even tighter, Robby’s cheek against the side of his neck.

“I mean it,” Robby said, breath warm. “Worst case, I’ll give you a job managing my charity. Or running the world’s most overqualified smoothie bar,” he teased.

“Stop,” Dennis said, finally letting his body go limp, letting Robby hold his weight. “If I don’t pass, I can’t go back. I can’t see the NICU kids. I can’t…”

Robby tightened his arms, squeezing the panic from him, and whispered, “Then it’s a good thing you’re going to pass. Because you’re the most brilliant, hardworking, neurotic man I’ve ever met, and the exam is a formality at this point.”

Dennis closed his eyes, just breathing for a moment.

“I’m still terrified.”

“I know, but you’re also starving,” Robby said, pulling away, then steering Dennis back inside by the small of his back. “Come eat.”

On the dining table waited an architectural marvel: a tower of pancakes, each layer spaced with strawberry slices, crowned with a single lemon wedge. Next to it, a bowl of fresh-cut mango and an absurdly tiny cup of espresso.

Dennis sat, fighting the urge to check his phone again.

Robby slid into the chair opposite, shirtless and smug. “Eat. I watched three videos on how to make those pancakes. You owe me at least a bite.”

Dennis picked up a fork, broke off a corner, and took a tentative bite. Sweet, tart, perfect.

“Better than Paris?”

Dennis hesitated, then nodded, voice caught in his throat.

“Good,” Robby said. “Because the minute those results come in, I want you to be at full energy for a day of celebration.”

Dennis raised an eyebrow. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, but you’ll have to wait for the surprise.” Robby nudged the mango bowl closer. “Eat more. You’re going to need your strength.”

Dennis chewed, barely tasting. His mind kept cycling back to the hospital. The babies. The possibility of walking back into the ward as Dr. Whitaker, not as a visitor or a fraud or a charity case. He kept seeing Ezekiel’s face in the glass of his phone screen, every time it went black. What if the other residents resented him? What if Dr. Collins regretted ever taking a chance on him?

He was halfway through his third pancake when his phone vibrated.

A high, desperate sound came out of his mouth, more squeak than word.

He stared at the notification, afraid to touch it. The screen said, simply, “Subject: Pediatric Recertification Exam – Results Available.”

Dennis’s hand shook so badly he dropped the fork, metal clattering against plate. He tried to tap the notification but missed three times in a row.

Robby, all calm and confidence, reached across and took the phone from his hands.

“Do you want me to read it?” Robby asked, voice gentle.

Dennis couldn’t speak. He nodded, lips pressed tight.

Robby unlocked the phone, scanned the email, then looked up at Dennis with a slow, widening smile.

“Well?” Dennis whispered.

“You passed,” Robby said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just passed, you destroyed it. Top three percent. Collins is going to eat her hat.”

Dennis let out a sob, part laugh, part gasp. He pressed his hands to his face, not caring that he probably looked like an idiot.

“Hey, hey,” Robby said, moving to kneel beside him. “It’s over, baby. You did it.”

Dennis folded, sobbing into Robby’s shoulder. The floodgates opened, years of tension and fear and self-loathing pouring out at once. He couldn’t stop. He shook, clinging to Robby with both hands, soaking the man’s neck with tears and snot and spit.

Robby held him through it, rubbing slow circles on his back. “Let it out. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m a real doctor again,” Dennis finally managed, breath hitching. “I did it. I can go back.”

Robby kissed the side of his head. “You can do anything. I never doubted you.”

Dennis started to say something, but his phone rang, still clutched in Robby’s hand.

Robby checked the screen. “It’s Dr. Collins. Want me to answer?”

Dennis nodded, wiping his eyes.

Robby put the call on speaker and set it on the table.

“Whitaker,” Collins barked, not bothering with hello. “Is it true? Did you check your results?”

Dennis sniffed. “Y-Yes, Dr. Collins. I got them. I passed.”

There was a long silence, then a low, grudging, “Congratulations, you stubborn shit. I hope you know you’ve now obligated me to throw you directly into the worst rotation I have.”

Dennis laughed, still watery. “You said I could visit Ezekiel first, remember?”

“You can do more than visit. You’re on the next shift, in charge of his care. I’ll see you tomorrow, and if you so much as show up a minute late, I will make you sort bedpans for a week,” Collins said.

“Thank you, Dr. Collins. I mean it. Thank you for,”

“Oh, cut the mush,” she interrupted. “I’m still watching you like a hawk, and if you think this means you can slack off, you’re dead wrong. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dennis said, voice steadier now.

“Good. Now go celebrate. Tell Robby I said congrats, too. He owes me a bottle of something expensive.”

She hung up before Dennis could respond.

Dennis stared at the phone, then at Robby, then back at the phone. “Did that just happen?”

“It did,” Robby said. “…and if you don’t mind, I’m going to savor the image of you crying like a baby for the rest of my life.”

Dennis shoved him, but the moment was too bright, too big, for any real embarrassment.

Robby stood, pulled Dennis to his feet, and spun him in a ridiculous, impromptu waltz across the living room.

“What are you doing?” Dennis laughed, voice still ragged.

“Dancing with the best doctor in the city,” Robby said, dipping him. “Now, are you ready for your surprise?”

Dennis raised a brow. “Hit me.”

Robby walked to the entryway, rummaged through a drawer, then returned with a long, slim envelope. He handed it over, the smile on his face more boyish than Dennis had ever seen.

Dennis opened it and read:

You are cordially invited to the Elliot James Harrington Memorial Hospital Annual Gala. Black tie. Tonight.

Below, in Robby’s handwriting: “Let’s make a scene.”

Dennis looked up, overwhelmed. “This is real? Like, for us?”

“For you,” Robby said. “I want to show you off. The world deserves to see what a real comeback looks like.”

Dennis felt his knees threaten to buckle again. “I don’t have a tux.”

“I took the liberty,” Robby said, with a flash of teeth. “Mr. Winters has it all sorted.”

Dennis barked a shaky laugh, pressing the envelope to his chest. “Is this my life now? Pancakes, passing exams, and galas?”

Robby drew him in close, holding him until the world steadied.

“Yes,” Robby said. “…and whatever else you want. You earned it.”

They stood there, wrapped together, as the city outside shook off its darkness and let in the light.

+++++

Dennis thought he’d learned what luxury was: the feel of thousand-thread-count sheets, the perfect melt of truffled butter, the slow drift of a morning spent in bed with Robby’s arms around him and the world held at bay.

He was wrong.

Luxury, as it turned out, was Mr. Winters.

That morning, promptly at ten, Winters appeared at the bedroom door with a garment bag in one hand, a silver tray in the other, and the air of a man about to conduct for a symphonic orchestra.

“Your fitting, Dr. Whitaker,” Winters intoned. “The tailors have outdone themselves.”

Dennis, half-buried in the duvet, groaned. “Are you sure it’s not overkill? I’ve never worn a tux in my life.  I’m not going to end up looking like Robby’s kid, am I?”

“Not when I’m through with you,” Winters said, smug. “Now, if you’ll kindly shower and don appropriate undergarments, preferably something not pink and frilly, we can proceed.”

The tuxedo, when Dennis finally dared put it on, was a revelation: black silk, impossibly light, tailored so perfectly he wondered if Winters had sedated him for measurements. The lapels, cut razor-slim, shimmered with a faint blue cast when the light hit just right. The shirt was crisp and white, the buttons mother-of-pearl.

Winters appraised him with a clinical eye, then, to Dennis’s horror, reached out to adjust the fit himself. He tucked and pinched, smoothed and pressed, moving Dennis as if he were nothing more than a particularly expensive mannequin. With each adjustment, Winters’s mask cracked just a little, pride in the result surfacing as a faint upturn at the corner of his mouth.

The finishing touch was the bow tie: deep midnight, pre-tied but designed to look just off-kilter. Winters tied it twice, hands precise, then stepped back for final inspection.

“Well?” Dennis said, suddenly shy.

Winters regarded him a moment, then nodded. “If I may be so bold: you clean up better than most. Shall I inform Dr. Robinavitch you’re presentable?”

Dennis shrugged, straightening his cuffs. “Is he nervous?”

Winters’s lips twitched. “Terrified, sir. He’s rearranged the order of the gala speeches three times already, and is currently debating whether to cancel the shrimp tower in favor of ‘something less ostentatious.’”

Dennis grinned, feeling braver. “Tell him I’m ready for the shrimp tower.”

Winters gave a rare, genuine smile. “As you wish, sir.”

+++++

The gala was exactly as Robby had promised: a jewel-box of a ballroom, ringed in blown-glass chandeliers, every table smothered in peonies and blue hydrangeas. String quartets competed with the sound of laughter and the pop of champagne corks. Every person in the room looked like they’d been focus-grouped for maximum glamour.

Dennis, standing just inside the doors, wanted to melt through the floor.

Robby arrived at his side, dashing in a velvet jacket and a sly, devil-may-care smile. He offered his arm.

“You look incredible,” he murmured, lips at Dennis’s ear. “Did I mention I have a thing for bow-ties?”

Dennis blushed, feeling the heat run all the way to his toes. “You look okay, too. Is that a new cologne, or is it just victory I’m smelling?”

“Mostly victory,” Robby said, steering them inside. “Though for you, I wore the aftershave you like.  The herbal spice.”

Dennis squeezed his arm, heart pounding. “This is crazy. Everyone’s staring.”

“They’re allowed. I’d stare at you all night, too, if I could.”

Dennis rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop grinning. Together, they swept through the crowd: board members, donors, the mayor, a smattering of high-society types who seemed to float above the rest of humanity on clouds of old money and better breeding.

At first, Dennis kept his eyes down, unsure where to look, afraid of tripping, of being called out as an imposter, or worst, a gold-digger.

Thankfully, Robby was an expert at making space. He navigated each introduction with smooth precision, making sure Dennis was never left alone, always the center of attention but never the object of ridicule.

“Dr. Whitaker, have you met Dr. Schelling? He’s heard all about your work in the NICU.”

“Dennis, this is the head of the Pediatric Board. She saw your paper on neonatal care and wanted to ask a few questions.”

“Baby, meet Governor Strauss. He wants to know if we’ll ever get a hospital as good as Harrington in the state capitol.”

Each time, Dennis shook hands, smiled, nodded, then answered the question. By the third round, he realized he was being listened to, actually listened to. People were quoting him, referencing his work he’d published with Dr. Collins, asking about his experience in the NICU and his future plans. Nobody brought up the scandal, the parents, the past, or his age.

It was dizzying.

A tray of champagne swept by. Dennis grabbed a glass and sipped, then let his fingers linger on the stem, letting the coolness settle the nerves.

He found himself at a high table with the hospital’s biggest donors, Robby by his side, as the conversation turned, inevitably, to babies. The woman across from him was regal, imperious, and wore a sapphire necklace that looked heavy enough to fracture a clavicle. She fixed Dennis with a pointed gaze.

“We hear you’re something of a miracle worker in the NICU,” she said, voice rich with expectation. “Is it true you were the one who helped saved that one abandonment case? The one everyone thought was gone for sure?”

Dennis hesitated, then nodded. “Ezekiel. He was born at twenty-six weeks. He had a lot of complications. But… the NICU has such an amazing team, the nurses are amazing and Dr. Collins is a world-class doctor, and Ezekiel himself was a fighter and a champ. I was just lucky enough to get to hold him for a few hours and make the world feel charming enough for him to want to stay with us.”

The woman leaned forward, hungry. “What was it like, holding a life that small? Did you think he would make it?”

Dennis looked down at his hands, remembering the weight of Ezekiel on his chest, the faint pulse, the impossible fragility. “I hoped,” he said. “Mostly, I just didn’t want him to be alone if he wasn’t going to make it. Sometimes that’s all you can do, just… be there, so they don’t have to be afraid.  Because being alone and cold is terrifying without someone to hold you close.”

He glanced up, startled by the silence. The woman’s eyes were wet, her mascara spidering at the corners.

“I lost a grandson,” she said, voice thin. “He was premature. They told us not to get attached.  I did, anyway.  We lost him.”

Dennis reached out, covering her hand with his. “I’m so sorry.  That has to be awful to go through.  Though, I imagine he went peacefully, knowing how much he was loved.  How much you and your family cared for him.  Life was short for him, but well-loved, you know?”

She squeezed his hand, and thanked him for the kind words. When she excused herself, she promised a large donation to the hospital’s NICU, Dennis turned to Robby, dazed.

“You’re a natural,” Robby said, pride shining in his face. “Told you.”

Dennis shook his head, unable to keep from grinning. “I almost cried. I felt so sorry for her.”

“Everyone cries at these things. It’s tradition,” Robby said. “Come on, let’s mingle. There are a few more people dying to meet you.”

By the time the speeches began, Dennis had collected a dozen business cards and shook hands with tons of people in his field that all promised to get in touch someday. The room seemed to accept him, not as an accessory, but as a real doctor, a real partner.

He was so high on adrenaline, he barely registered the approach of the press until they were boxed in by cameras and microphones.

A reporter, young, sharp, wearing a lipstick so red it could have signaled an air raid, zeroed in on them.

“Dr. Robinavitch, Dr. Whitaker, mind if we ask a few questions for the society page?”

Robby nodded, all smooth poise.

“We’re hearing the merger is going to change everything for the hospital. Is that true?”

Robby smiled, deflecting with practiced ease. “The only thing changing is how much good we can do, now that the right people are in place.  Corruption in the Whitaker group was vile, but without it, they have great staff and good people.”

Dennis tried to fade back, but the reporter caught him with her gaze. “Dr. Whitaker, what’s it like coming back to medicine after so much public scrutiny and your own parents lying about your aptitude as a doctor? Is it true you and Dr. Robinavitch started your relationship as as… “business” partners?  A little sugary sweet, if you know what I mean?”

Dennis swallowed, then decided to own it. “It’s true. I was very lucky. He gave me a second chance when nobody else would. I wouldn’t be here without him.  Coming back to medicine was my dream, and it’s amazing to be back and be supported like I am.”

The reporter’s eyes glittered. “Is it just “business” now? Or is there something more?”

Robby answered before Dennis could, sliding an arm around his waist. “Dennis is my partner and lover,” he said, loud enough to reach the edge of the crowd. “And I can’t wait to see what we do with our life together.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a flutter of cameras, flashes popping like fireworks.

Dennis, speechless, could only blush.

The reporter leaned in, lowering her voice. “Does this mean wedding bells?”

Robby grinned. “One thing at a time, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The media mob drifted away, satisfied for now.

Dennis spun to face Robby, mind whirling. “Was that real?”

“Every word,” Robby said, cupping his cheek. “You deserve the world seeing you, just as you are.”

Dennis laughed, dizzy and happy and terrified. “You’re making me into more than I am.”

“Not at all,” Robby said. “It’s about time you had your time to shine in the sun.”

The ballroom erupted in applause as the hospital CFO took the stage for the night’s final speech and heckling for donations. Dennis barely noticed. He stood with Robby at the edge of the floor, their hands linked, the rest of the world a blur.

The gala lights glimmered.

+++++

They slipped away just before midnight, following a side corridor past the coatroom, then up a short flight of stairs to the private balcony above the ballroom. The city unfolded in every direction: rivers of headlight, the mirrored blades of glass towers, the bright little gems of party-goers reflected in every window.

Dennis leaned over the stone railing, letting the wind lift his hair and flush his face. The music and voices from below were nothing but a velvet hum, softened by the distance and the press of night.

Robby came up behind him, settling a heavy hand at his hip.

“Too much?” he asked, voice low. “We can go home if you want. I can have Winters run interference.”

Dennis shook his head, staring at the city. “No, it’s perfect. I just… I needed a minute. I think my brain is still buffering.”

Robby laughed, drawing him closer. “You’re allowed. It was a big night.”

Dennis inhaled, the air sharp and clean, carrying a hint of honeysuckle from the rooftop garden below.

He turned to look at Robby, half-lit by the glow of the city. “Do you ever think about the future?”

Robby cocked his head. “I’m a chronic over-planner. That’s ninety percent of my job.”

“I mean, like… us. Do you ever think about what comes next? Marriage. Maybe even kids?”

Robby went still. The silence stretched, broken only by the gentle pulse of the streetlights far below.

“More than I’d admit to anyone,” Robby said finally, voice gone soft. “I always thought my life was over in that way. That I’d had my one chance, and the rest was just damage control. But with you… I think about it all the time.”

Dennis felt his cheeks heat. “Good. Because you’re not getting any younger, and I don’t want to wait until you’re old and decrepit to push you down the aisle in a wheelchair.”

Robby snorted. “You’d look good in a tux. Or a dress, for that matter.”

“I’d only do a dress if it had pockets and it were just the two of us,” Dennis said. “For snacks. And maybe a small bottle of whiskey for when your speech gets too long.”

“Rude,” Robby muttered, but the smile in his eyes was electric.

Dennis shifted, suddenly serious. “What if I said yes? To all of it?”

Robby took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Then I’d say you just made me the happiest man in the world.”

He turned Dennis’s hand over, pressing a kiss to the ring finger, then looked up, eyes bright and unwavering.

“Marry me,” he said, simple and true. “Not for the optics. Not for the story. Just for us.”

Dennis’s heart did a somersault.

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He just looked at Robby, really looked, and saw not the doctor or the billionaire or the legend, but the man who’d held him when he was broken, who made him breakfast, who never once let him fall without a net.

He nodded, blinking fast to keep from crying. “Yeah. I will.”

Robby laughed, wrapping both arms around Dennis and pulling him in tight. “We’ll get you a ring tomorrow. Hell, we’ll get you two.  As many as you want.”

Dennis let himself melt against Robby’s chest, the world below spinning on, irrelevant.

They stood like that for a while, watching the city, the distant red blinks of airplanes, the hush of traffic. From the ballroom below came the sound of laughter, clinking glass, the faint, familiar chords of a song Dennis once heard at a high school dance. It all felt so far away, like another life.

Dennis laughed, full of disbelief and joy all in the same breath, then leaned back to take in the man beside him. “Thank you,” he said. “For not giving up. For fighting for me.”

Robby’s hand found his again, steady as ever. “You’re worth every damn second of it.”

Below them, the city shone, full of promise.

Dennis rested his head on Robby’s shoulder, and together, they watched the future come into focus, bright and clear and entirely, beautifully, theirs.

Chapter Text

Robby appreciated their wedding had been a private affair.

They’d both agreed, neither of them wanted something flashy and public, not for this.  Without so much as sharing they were engaged to anyone, they were married on a Sunday evening, just before the sunset, in a privately rented park at the start of summer. Mr. Winters had been their only witness.  The entire affair took an hour, with the exchanging of vows, rings, and a brief ceremony.  Afterwards, they shared a lovely dinner, just the two of them, on a high-rise that oversaw the entire city.  They were on top of the world, as far as either of them was concerned, sharing crisp champagne and the best food either of them ever had eaten. 

“We’ll do something for the public and our friends later.  This?  This is for us.”

“Thank you, Robby.”

Their honeymoon started the way all the best honeymoons did: with Dennis drowning in luxury and Robby refusing to let him come up for air.

They picked an island not even rich people had heard of, somewhere the sand squeaked underfoot and the water was so clear you could spot your own reflection drifting on the reef. The house they rented was a glass jewel perched above a private beach, the kind of place where drinks appeared the moment you thought about being thirsty, and the only other people for a mile were the silent, sun-bronzed staff who ghosted around, refilling towels and vanishing when not needed. 

Dennis, by the second day, had shed the last of his inhibitions. He wore nothing but a blue speedo that fit so perfectly it might have been vacuum-sealed to his skin, hair slicked back from the ocean and cheeks sun-kissed enough to make him look vaguely feral. Robby, who could afford anything, had picked out his own swim trunks for maximum offensive visual effect: a riot of watermelon and Hawaiian flowers, as if daring the world to say he didn’t deserve to have fun.

They spent entire days on the sand, just lying there, lizardlike, under the relentless sun.

Dennis grew bolder with each hour, wandering farther into the surf, flipping Robby off when he called him “Baywatch,” and splashing back to collapse in Robby’s lap with saltwater streaming down his ribs and legs.  After shooing away the staff, they fucked on the private beach, letting the water crash over them, and enjoying the feeling of the sun crossing over their naked bodies.

Sometimes they brought out books, sometimes they made up stories about the clouds, but mostly they just watched the horizon, as if they could see all the old troubles evaporating into heat shimmer.

Tonight, Dennis ended up precisely where he wanted to be: perched sideways across Robby’s lap on a low lounger, sipping a drink so sweet it had to be illegal, and letting the last rays of sunset bake away the taste of all the mornings he’d ever woken up alone.

He wore his wedding ring like a moment to everything they’d been through.  It was platinum, heavy, and glinted almost indecently on his left hand, catching every stray sunbeam.

Robby’s own was similar but thicker, subtle as a thrown brick.

“I don’t think I could ever get bored of the sunset.  Every day, it’s new an beautiful in a different way,” Dennis asked, lazy and buzzed.

Robby chuckled, a glass of rum balanced on his own thigh. “Me either.  It’s like a promise that one good day is done, and we’re going to wake up to something new and beautiful.”

Dennis let his head fall onto Robby’s shoulder, the old familiar scent of him (oakmoss, vetiver, the distant ghost of hospital soap) cutting through the sticky perfume of sugarcane and lime in their drinks.

“That’s a little dramatic for you,” Dennis said, but he nuzzled closer anyway. “You talk like you invented the sky yourself.”

Robby ran a hand over Dennis’s thigh, slow and possessive, settling him more firmly into his lap. “I didn’t invent it. I just improved it, by bringing you here to reflect off of it.”

Dennis felt a rush of happiness that was, for once, too big to hide. He let himself smile into Robby’s chest, watched the ocean burn orange and purple, and wondered what the hell he’d ever done to deserve this. He was still bracing for the moment when someone from his old life would call and tell him it was a mistake, that happiness was a clerical error and he’d need to come in to HR and surrender his badge.

Robby sensed it. He always did.

“Let me see your hand,” Robby said, setting his drink down and gently prying Dennis’s fingers from where they’d been clutching the side of the chair.

He twisted Dennis’s wrist so the ring caught the sunset, tilting it back and forth, as if he could hypnotize himself on the reflected gold.

“Do you know how long I waited to see you in this?” Robby asked, voice rougher now.

“How long?”

Robby grinned, ear to ear. “After Paris.  I knew then.  I knew what I wanted.  I just…  Wasn’t sure how or when we’d get to it.  Everything after Paris happened so fast, but…  I’m glad we made it.”

He traced his thumb over Dennis’s knuckles, then up, ghosting the line of vein beneath the skin. “How does it feel, being a Robinavitch?”

Dennis blushed, and Robby saw it, eyes greedy for every flicker of embarrassment. “It’s weird. I haven’t even changed it on my medical license yet. But,” He broke off, made a face, “It’s good. It’s… it’s real.  Glad to be that rather than…  A Whitaker.  Got my own family now.  A good one.”

Robby’s smile faded to something less performative, more raw. “It is real. That’s what’s so fucking terrifying. You’re my husband now. I could scream it off the balcony and nobody could stop me.”

Dennis glanced around at the empty horizon, then leaned in and pecked Robby on the lips, quick and furtive. “Do it. Scream. I dare you.”

Robby shrugged him off, lifted Dennis bodily by the waist, and stood, nearly tipping them both into the sand. He marched down the short path to the shore, Dennis wriggling and laughing in his grip, and bellowed:

“MY HUSBAND IS DENNIS ROBINAVITCH AND EVERYONE CAN FUCK OFF, HE’S MINE!”

A flock of gulls startled from the water’s edge. The wind tore the words out of the air and scattered them, but Dennis’s cheeks stayed red even after Robby dumped him in the surf and kissed him until he choked on laughter.

They lay there, damp, the water licking at their calves. Dennis stared up at the indigo sky, at the one star just visible over the palm trees, and felt something unclench in his chest that he’d never quite put words to.

Dennis rolled over and straddled Robby, pinning him to the sand, and kissed him until the moon was high and the only sounds were their breath and the distant thump of waves.

When they finally came up for air, Robby brushed a thumb along Dennis’s cheekbone. “You’re a beautiful man, you know that?”

Dennis snorted. “You’re blind. Also, you have sand on your face.”

They staggered back to the house, hand-in-hand, bodies damp and sticky with salt. Inside, the house was cool and dim, the furniture so soft it seemed designed to swallow them whole.

Robby closed the door, then caught Dennis by the wrist, pulling him to the foot of the enormous bed.

“Stay,” Robby said, voice suddenly dark.

Dennis obeyed. He stood, hands at his sides, as Robby knelt in front of him and peeled the speedo down, inch by inch. The air was cold against his skin, and the sight of Robby’s eyes so intent on him made everything hotter.

Robby ran his hands up Dennis’s thighs, tracing every line, every new tan mark, every place the sun had kissed and the salt had roughened. He looked up at Dennis, not blinking, and mouthed the words: “You’re perfect.”

Dennis flushed, and for once, didn’t argue.

Robby stood, shoving off his own ridiculous trunks, and together they tumbled onto the sheets, a flailing tangle of arms and salt-sticky legs. They kissed until their lips hurt. They laughed every time Dennis’s foot cramped or Robby’s knee made a cartoon squeak against the mattress. The sex was rough and needy at first, then slowed, gentled by the rhythm of their own breathing. They moved together, sweat and sun and the musk of sunscreen melting into one new, perfect smell.

Dennis bit at Robby’s shoulder until he left marks. Robby raked nails down Dennis’s back, pulling him close, chanting, “Mine, mine, mine,” with every grind of their hips. When Robby pushed inside, Dennis let his head fall back and moaned, loud enough to startle the gulls again. They moved slow, savoring, teasing, stalling every time they got too close to the edge.

It was so good, so easy, Dennis could barely believe it was real. He came first, a shiver and a gasp, squeezing Robby so tight it nearly hurt. Robby followed, groaning Dennis’s name and collapsing, sweaty and trembling, onto the pile of sheets.

After, Dennis lay on top of Robby, nose pressed to his chest, breathing him in. Robby stroked Dennis’s hair, slow, untangling salt-knots, and whispered: “Love you.”

Dennis laughed, sleepy and raw. “Love you too.”

Robby’s arms circled him tighter, then loosened as his breathing slowed.

Dennis closed his eyes and listened to the waves, the wind, the low thrum of Robby’s heart. He’d never felt safer, or more sure that this was exactly where he belonged.

Eventually, they drifted off, twined together, rings clinking as their hands found each other, even in dreams.

+++++

When they got back to the city, the hospital corridors looked even more antiseptic than before. Robby strolled them with the confidence of a newlywed man with only mild sunburns and sore hips from how often they consummated their marriage.

He’d missed this place, in a weird way, its certainty, its predictable ebb and flow.

Robby had a meeting, technically, but he detoured to the NICU first, feeling that old tug of unfinished business.

Ezekiel.

The baby Dennis had saved, and who continued to observe. Robby had made damn sure the best possible foster family was lined up.  Though they didn’t quite know it yet, they were about to receive a full trust fund for the kid, free lifetime medical coverage, a college fund, the works. A handoff worthy of royalty, or at least a minor member of the hospital’s extended family.

Today he’d be picked up and finally be able to live somewhere other than the hospital.  The foster family would sign the last of the release papers, and as an additional surprise, Robby had intended to hand off a check to the parents, enough to pay off their home and let them focus on the new baby.

After all, Ezekiel had been instrumental in making Dennis a full-fledged doctor again.  He’d gotten the passion and drive to be the best, and was one of the most beloved residents in the NICU.  Robby owed that child the world, and he’d make sure the kid got it.

Yet, as he approached the frosted glass doors, there was a thick silence inside.  One that unnerved him.

NICU was never quiet, not with the endless parade of alarms and beeping IVs, the nurses gossiping over charting, the too-bright optimism everyone wore like a uniform to fight off the grim realities around them. But now, there was only the hush of machines and the soft, measured steps of the staff.

Something had cracked the rhythm. 

Something was off.

Something awful, he guessed.

He saw Dennis first, slumped in a visitor’s chair in his pink scrubs and doctor’s coat, with his face in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. Next to him, in a heated bassinet, Ezekiel kicked at nothing, a tiny socked foot just visible through the blanket.

Dennis looked like he’d been up for a week, and from the shimmer in his eyes, he was about two minutes from either screaming or breaking down into tears, barely holding it together.

Dr. Collins hovered nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight, just as distraught in her own way, quietly fuming with anger. She spotted Robby and came over, her usual flinty confidence sanded down to something less certain.

“Problem?” Robby asked, low.

Collins nodded. “Foster parents bailed.”

Robby blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Came for their final pre-discharge, got the full briefing on Zeke’s likely health issues, future asthma, maybe allergies, complications with ear nose and throat, possible surgeries in the future if anything else crops up.” Collins’s lips twisted, disgusted. “Dennis told them everything by the book.  I listened.  He was fine.  He kept it simple, kept it professional, didn’t over or underexaggerate the conditions.  Thing is, I guess they didn’t anticipate the idea of their first kid having so many problems. They said they wanted “normal” and “healthy” and accused us of lying about his conditions,  They left ten minutes ago.  No way they’re coming back.  They got spooked.  Bad.”

Robby scanned the ward. The other nurses were studiously not looking at Dennis, but he could feel the solidarity anyway. They all wanted to fix it, but nobody knew how.

“He’s not even sick,” Collins whispered. “Not in the way that matters.  That baby is going to live a fine life, just…  Different.”

Robby watched Dennis, who’d straightened up and now hovered over the bassinet, one hand brushing the baby’s head, speaking softly. He looked shattered.

“I’m sorry, Zeke,” Dennis shook his head.  “Little man, I should have done better. Maybe worded things differently.  It’s not fair you have to go through all of this again.”

“Zeke?” Robby said, just loud enough to carry. 

Dennis jerked, then laughed, a raw, broken sound. “That’s what he likes to be called. Zeke. He hates Ezekiel. He gets all fussy if you use his full name. I tested it, like, eight times.  Isn’t that right, sweetheart?  Isn’t that right, Zeke?”

As Dennis gently tickled the baby’s stomach, it cooed with a big smile.

A thump grew in Robby’s chest.  The way Dennis looked at the child, it set something off in him.  Something warm.  Something he hadn’t expected. 

Robby approached, setting a hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “Why do you care so much, baby?  We’ll find him another set of parents.” he murmured, asking a question he knew would ignite his husband.  Right now, he needed to see the truth.  Needed to see the passion.

Dennis glared, eyes wild.  He looked angry.  Not at Robby, but at the whole situation.  As Robby expected, the passion flourished. “Because he’s been passed around since he was three hours old. You know that? His mom was gone before the ink dried on her signature, he almost died more times than I care to remember, getting passed to and from machines and my chest, his foster situation fell apart, and now nobody wants him because he might not be able to play sports without an inhaler, won’t be “the perfect son” like they want, or have a runny nose when he’s four and maybe needing some extra care.” He choked back a sob. “It’s not fair. He didn’t do anything wrong!  My Zeke deserves better!  He deserves…  Someone to love him!  Someone to be with him!  Not just…  Get abandoned constantly.”

Robby bent, looked at the baby, at Zeke, whose face was a perfect mix of confusion and fierce concentration, as if trying to remember how to keep breathing. He understood, on a visceral level, why Dennis couldn’t let go.

Honestly, it was the same reason why Robby couldn’t let go, either.  He looked at the child, and nodded.  Knowing exactly what he needed to do.

“Maybe we should keep him, then.” Robby said.

The air in the NICU went still. Even the monitors paused, or maybe Robby just imagined it.

Dennis blinked. “What?”

“Adopt him,” Robby said, matter-of-fact. “He already loves you more than anyone else on this planet. And you love him, I can see it. Why not?  We can be the ones to help him be loved, because we love him already.  We both agreed on having children, someday, and…  I’m not getting any younger.”

Collins’s eyes shot wide, then narrowed, as if calculating every possible fallout.

Dennis shook his head, dazed. “That’s not, it’s not, I can’t just—”

Robby smiled, gentle and fierce. “We can. I’ll call the foundation, and my lawyer, and whoever the hell else needs to sign a paper. We’ll take him home as soon as the government lets us.  Which, given we’re both good people, shouldn’t take too long.”

For a second, Dennis looked like he’d been hit. Then he smiled, slow and incredulous, and it lit up his whole face.

“Are you serious?” Dennis asked.

“I am.  We both want a family.  Zeke wants a family.  We’re married.  We have stable incomes.  A good home.  Good support.  Seems like the best possible outcome, don’t you think?”  We can give Zeke the best life he could ever want. Robby replied.

Collins watched, a kind of grudging awe settling in. “You’re both nuts,” she said, voice thick. “…but I think you’d make a hell of a family.”

Dennis hovered over the bassinet, tears streaming, but he was laughing now, laughing and holding Zeke’s hand.  “Yes.  Yes, please!  Please, I…  I’d always wanted to ask, but I was scared, and-“

Robby dialed his lawyer before Dennis could finish his sentence, already drafting a plan in his head.

The NICU buzzed back to life, all the old noise and warmth seeping in again, but in the middle of it, Dennis stood frozen in joy, as if he’d been given permission to hope.  He began babbling to Zeke about the view from the penthouse and how they’d get matching pajamas and go to the zoo to see the silly penguins. The baby, oblivious to anything going on, gripped Dennis’s finger with a tiny, perfect fist and didn’t dare let go.

Robby watched them, feeling a wild and unfamiliar thrill: the certainty that he’d done exactly the right thing, for the right person, at exactly the right time.

+++++

A week was all it took.

If you knew the right judges, the right notaries, and maybe, just maybe, you’d spent a lifetime building up enough IOUs in the city that every phone call resulted in three returned before you’d even hung up, well, a week could change everything.

Dennis stood in the penthouse entryway, walking through, bouncing a baby in his arms and wiping snot from the baby’s nose from the cold.

Robby watched from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, unwilling to interrupt the moment.

“Say hello to the art, Zeke,” Dennis whispered, bringing the baby up to face a Chagall. “No, don’t look at that. That’s the gross painting. Winters likes to move it around as a prank. Ignore him. You’re the art now, okay?”

Zeke gurgled, the sound bright and gratifying, and twisted to claw at Dennis’s hoodie string. He was tiny, still too small for a normal newborn, but now with just enough chub to survive a strong breeze. 

Dennis drifted from room to room, narrating the tour in a singsong that sounded like a religious devotion.  “This is where we’re going to build your bedroom. Right now you’re sleeping with Daddy and Papa, because Daddy is scared to death of being too far away from you.  Over here is where Mr. Winters works, that’s the bathroom, and here’s the guest bedroom, that’s Papa’s office, and over here is the living room where we’re gonna cuddle all the time.”

Zeke blinked, eyes wide, taking everything in as an infant would.

Dennis slowed, pausing in the living room. “That’s the couch you’ll never be allowed to touch, because the butler says it’s hand-woven from Albanian yaks and if you pee on it, we’ll both get kicked out”

From behind, a voice: “He’s never going to understand a word of this, you know.”

Dennis turned. Robby leaned against the kitchen island, smirk alive and well. He wore an apron, which was both hilarious and weirdly hot.

“He knows more than you think,” Dennis said. “He already hates the Chagall. Watch.”

He swayed closer to the painting, and Zeke burst into a squall so loud Robby nearly dropped his mug.

“See? He’s a genius.  I say we sell it and make two people happy in this house,” Dennis declared.

Robby closed the distance, wrapping an arm around Dennis’s waist, and kissed the baby’s forehead, then Dennis’s hair.

“You’re a genius, too,” Robby said, soft. “I know I already said it, but… thanks for not giving up on him.”

Dennis shrugged, but Robby felt the tightness in his posture, the way he clung a little harder.

“He’s family now,” Dennis said. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

Robby hesitated, letting himself feel it: the weight of two other hearts, the fact that for once, he wasn’t solving anyone else’s problems. He was just, living. Breathing. Home.

“Yeah,” Robby said, “It’s what I wanted.”

A familiar sound interrupted, the low cough of Mr. Winters, standing at the entryway in his absolute finest attire. He held a bottle, perfectly warmed, on a silver tray.

“Forgive the intrusion, sirs, but the young master appears to require sustenance at this time per his feeding schedule.  Let’s not miss it.”

He offered the bottle with a slight bow and a prideful smile.

Dennis grinned, took the bottle, and retreated to the den with Zeke. Robby followed, settling beside them on the sofa.  Dennis sat back, cradling Zeke in one arm, the bottle in the other, feeding him with a competence and gentleness that made Robby weirdly envious. Zeke nursed like a little engine, pausing only to gaze up at Dennis as if memorizing his face.

Robby draped an arm around Dennis’s shoulders, pulling him close enough that their cheeks touched. He let his hand rest on Zeke’s tiny foot, feeling the faint pulse through the fabric.

They sat like that for a long time, the city stretching below, the baby breathing steady and full of life. The apartment was so quiet, Robby could hear Dennis’s heartbeat, fast but steady, syncing to his own.

When Zeke finished the bottle, Dennis pulled it away and wiped his chin, then turned to Robby, eyes bright.

“Do you want to hold him?” Dennis asked, like it was the most dangerous question in the world.

Robby nodded, reached out with hands steadier than he expected. Dennis shifted the baby into Robby’s arms, careful and slow, showing him how to support the head, how to curve his palm so the back was safe.

Zeke was lighter than Robby imagined. He looked up, gurgled again, then latched onto Robby’s finger, refusing to let go.

Robby felt the same shock he’d felt the first time Dennis called him “Daddy.” Like he’d been handed something beautiful and breakable, and somehow, against all odds, he’d managed not to ruin it.

He pressed Zeke to his chest, one hand cradling the back, the other supporting the bottom, and rocked him gently.

Dennis watched, smiling, then laid his head on Robby’s shoulder.

“You saved his life, you know,” Dennis whispered. “You made the hospital, you made the staff, and you let me be there for him. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but you did that.  You made all of this happen because of who you are and what you accomplished.”

Robby swallowed, throat thick.

“Maybe,” Robby said. “…but you made him want to stay with us.”

They sat like that until Zeke nodded off, breath warm against Robby’s shirt.

Mr. Winters peeked in, gave a rare, approving nod, and left them alone.

Dennis kissed Robby on the cheek, then tucked his legs under himself, curling up, as if they could sit there, together, forever.

Robby didn’t think about the ghosts, or the past, or the things he’d lost. He thought about now. About the impossible future in front of them. He looked at Dennis, then down at the sleeping baby, and thought:

You’d be proud of me, Elliot.

No.  More than that.

Robby was proud of himself.  He finally allowed himself to have all of this.  A lifetime of work and sweat, finally paying off. He closed his eyes, letting himself feel it all. The love. The weight. The hope.

“I love you, son.” Robby whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on the baby’s head.  Letting the word finally spill out, naturally. 

In the warmth and quiet of their home, the only sound left was the slow, sure heartbeat of Zeke, steady and strong.

Chapter Text

Zeke hated getting his lungs checked, but he loved Dr. Collins, his godmother.

She was the only grownup who could look you in the eye and not make you feel small.  Okay, sure, he was the smallest kid in his class, but the teachers didn’t have to treat him like a baby!

She was also, in Zeke’s humble opinion, the only doctor in who didn’t smell like gloves or that awful green hand sanitizer. Today she smelled like lemons.

Dr. Collins sat on her rolling stool, hands folded, reading Zeke’s chart on her tablet. She had new glasses this time, big red frames that made her look less like a dragon (like Daddy called her) and more like a Grandma. Zeke liked dragons and grandmas both, so either was fine.

“Alright, Zeke.  My bravest little seven-year-old,” Dr. Collins said, finally breaking the silence. “Want to tell me how many times you use your puffer lately on a weekly basis? Be honest, or I’ll call the school nurse and check.”

Zeke grinned, proud to beat her to the punch. “Mostly three.  Sometimes four. Two at gym, one at recess, and once when my friend Edgar made me laugh so hard I choked.”

Dr. Collins gave a nod, like a judge handing out medals. “…did you remember the backup inhaler I put in your backpack?  For the big times when your lungs burn real bad and you can’t breathe?”

“Still there,” Zeke said, patting his chest. “Promise.”

She tapped her tablet, then leaned in, dropping her voice to a mock-whisper. “Now, this is the really important question.  Are your Daddy and Papa still the biggest nerds on the planet and do you need me to rescue you?  Blink once for yes, twice for no.”  She asked, with a bright, silly smile.

Zeke considered. “Papa’s pretty cool. Daddy says Papa’s a nerd, but I think Daddy’s just jealous. Papa got asked to do a TED talk last week.”

He didn’t know what a TED talk was, but apparently it was important enough that his Papa was on TV.

“TED talks are for nerds,” Dr. Collins confirmed, poker-faced. “…but cool nerds. You can tell your Papa Robby I said so.”

She went through the usual checkup: heart, lungs, reflexes. When she pressed the stethoscope to his back, it was cold but not as bad as he’d remembered. Zeke thought she went easier on him than the other kids. Or maybe he was just getting used to it.  He saw her pretty often, at least once every couple of months.  Daddy said his lungs were “rough”  because he’d been born way too early, and he wanted to make sure that he could have fun at school and stay healthy.

Dr. Collins gave his shoulder a squeeze and smiled. “You’re good, kiddo. Keep taking your medicine, stay out of dust, remember to take breaks when you get tired, and don’t let anyone beat you at dodgeball.  Remember, go for the vital spots.”

“What’s dodgeball?” Zeke pondered.

Zeke sat up straighter, trying to look as grownup as possible. “I won’t, and I’ll tell Daddy to bring you cookies again if you want.  The good kind!”

“Best bribe in the city,” Collins said, winking.

She handed him a sticker, a shiny dragon this time, plus a lemon sucker from her coat pocket. “For bravery and surviving having big nerds for dads,” she said.

Zeke pocketed the sticker, then looked up, serious. “Dr. Collins? Will I always need the puffer?”

She went quiet for a second, studying his face. “Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to say right now.  Some kids get stronger lungs as they age, and some don’t, but the important part is, you’re strong, you don’t let anyone keep you down, you’re smart, and you have the best family a kid could ask for. That’s what matters.”

Zeke nodded, taking this as the best possible answer.

“Now go. I hear your Daddy is waiting outside and he’s a terrible patient when he’s nervous. See you in six months, okay?  Be good and stay healthy!”

Zeke hopped off the table, slung his backpack from school, and zipped out the door.

His Daddy, Dennis, was there, arms crossed, half-distracted by his phone but still managing to look like he’d been holding his breath the entire appointment. He wore his badge clipped to the collar of his button-down pink shirt, “Dr. D-Robinavitch, Pediatrics,” bright and shiny.

“Everything good?” he asked, pocketing his phone.

“Perfect.  Dr. Collins says I was so good I should get extra dessert,” Zeke said, offering up the lemon sucker as proof. 

“She said that, huh?”  Dennis asked, with a lopsided grin.

“Not really, but I think I deserve extra dessert anyway!”  Zeke giggled.

Dennis ruffled his hair, then pretended to fake out slug him on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here before she ropes me into a night shift.”

They wove through the halls, Dennis steering Zeke with a hand on the shoulder, saying hi to nurses and orderlies and, sometimes, real-life patients.

Most people at Harrington Memorial knew Zeke by now, he’d been “the little miracle” for about seven years running, and half the staff treated him like their personal mascot.

Near the elevators, a group of young residents waited, coffee in hand, wearing identical blue scrubs. Zeke spotted Dr. Klemp, the one with the beard and the Star Wars crocs. Klemp smiled and said, “Hey, Zeke! How’s soccer season going?”

Zeke didn’t play soccer, but he lied and said, “Great!” because sometimes grownups just wanted you to say “great” and keep walking.  Papa taught him that.

Inside the elevator, Dennis finally relaxed a little, leaning against the mirrored wall. Zeke swung from the handrail, careful not to scuff his shoes. They had two floors to go before the parking deck, but the elevator stopped at five and a lady in a sharp gray suit stepped in, holding a stack of folders.

She did a double take when she saw Dennis.

“Dr. Robinavitch?” she said, then grinned. “Well, you actually exist. My team’s been waiting months for you to answer our email.”

Dennis looked sheepish. “Sorry. Things have been a little crazy lately.  NICU is crazy right now, and I’m sort of all over the place.  Um…  You are…?”

She offered her hand, balancing the folders in the other. “Not a problem, I’m Karen Isler. Robinavitch Foundation.”

“Oh!” Dennis said. “You’re with the board.”

She nodded, then lowered her voice, “We were hoping to see you at the next meeting. We’re really hoping you will head up the new pediatric outreach program.  I know it’d take you away from patients some, but outreach, teaching, and speaking are incredibly important in this industry, and Dr. Collins is refusing to budge with us.  We need someone strong, and they don’t come any stronger than you.”

Zeke watched as his dad did a weird smile-frown, the kind he got when he had to answer questions about jobs he didn’t like. 

“I’m still thinking about it,” Dennis said. “I love my work in the NICU, but…” He looked at Zeke, then back at Karen. “I might want to spend more time with my family. Normal evenings. Less on-call. That kind of thing.”

“Don’t say yes or no yet,” Karen said, pushing the elevator button as they hit the ground floor. “Just know there’s a whole bunch of us rooting for you. You’d be a great fit. You never met a case you didn’t treat like it was the most important one in the world.  We need that.  Patients need that.  Doctors need to see and hear that.”

They stepped out into the lobby, sunlight pouring through the giant glass windows. Zeke blinked at the glare.

Karen gave Zeke a little wave, then went about her business.

Dennis walked Zeke out to the parking lot, silent for a few steps. He ruffled Zeke’s hair again, then crouched to look him in the eye.

“Did you have a good day at school?” Dennis asked, like he really wanted to know more than anything in the world.

Zeke nodded.  “Yeah!  We got to go to the library today and check out books and I got the one I wanted!”  He then remembered his sticker and pressed it onto Dennis’s badge. The dragon shone in the sunlight.  “For you!”

“Aww, thanks buddy.”  Dennis picked Zeke up, carrying him the last of the way.

“Can we get hot chocolate on the way home?  The place Papa likes?”

Dennis grinned. “Only if you let me have a sip.”

+++++

Zeke wasn’t sure what “sort of retired but not really” meant, but all he knew is that it meant Papa Robby got to stay home with him a lot more.  They went on a lot of day trips after school, to places where Papa said he could “spoil you rotten”.  Usually, they went to get snacks, or walked in the parks, went to places with cool paintings (he didn’t like the one with the “Chagall”, that one always scared him), or sometimes to the clothes store.   

Today?  Today was one of their best days they spent together.  Toy day.  The one day every month Papa was allowed to buy him toys.  Because Mr. Winters and Daddy had “cut him off” a long time ago, back when he was still a baby.

The toy store was the best part of the mall, except maybe for the Cinnabon, which Zeke could smell from three stores away.

He walked with Papa Robby, hand in hand, past displays of winter jackets and shiny shoes, through a river of shoppers and teenagers who pretended not to notice him. Zeke liked the mall at Christmas time, even though it was too loud, too crowded, and the people in the perfume kiosks always tried to squirt you. He liked it better with Papa, who wore sunglasses indoors and was so tall that people didn’t bother them.

Zeke couldn’t stop looking at the toy catalog he’d grabbed from the front of the store. The cover was blue and gold, with a big red ribbon on the corner. “THE ULTIMATE GIFT GUIDE,” it said, and Zeke had circled six things before they even got past the entrance.

“You may pick anything you like, as long as it doesn’t require a permit or violate local noise ordinances,” Papa said, squeezing Zeke’s hand.

Zeke grinned. “What if I want a dirt bike?”

“Then we’ll buy you a helmet to go with it and keep Daddy in the dark as long as possible.”

Zeke almost believed him. Papa had that way of saying things, where it was maybe a joke, maybe not, and you had to decide if you wanted to risk finding out.

They hit the Hot Wheels aisle first, because it was tradition and Zeke’s favorite toy in the world.  He liked to play pretend that he was a racecar driver, because racecar drivers didn’t have to run or use their puffer, so he could go super fast all day long and never get tired.

Zeke ran his finger down the packages, admiring all the new models. There was a blue racecar with orange flames, a helicopter, and a huge mega-loop set that claimed it could launch cars “at the speed of light.” Zeke wasn’t sure about that, it sounded “unrealistic” like Mr. Winters would say, and he “tempered his expectations” (whatever that meant) but it looked awesome.

Papa stood behind him, hands clasped behind his back, as if he was at an art gallery. “Is this the section for high-octane thrill seekers?”

Zeke nodded, grabbing the biggest set he could lift. “This one has a loop-de-loop and a shark that eats the cars.”

Papa inspected the box. “Does the shark come with a warranty?  I don’t want to buy a second-hand shark that’s not going to completely eat the cars after a few months.”

Zeke snorted. “Probably not. Can I have it anyway?”

“Of course.” Papa took the set, adding it to the shopping cart with a flourish. “Do you want anything else? Action figures? Drones? A skyscraper?  Football team?”

Zeke hesitated, then remembered. “Can I get two things today?”

“Papa permits this.”

He steered Papa to the Legos, where he found a cool set of blocks that he could build a small pirate ship.  Without a doubt, he grabbed, knowing that he’d get to spend an afternoon with his Papa and Daddy putting it together.

Yet, when they passed the plush animals, he stopped.  In his mind, he remembered walking with his Daddy up and down the Pediatrics wing of the hospital.  He remembered hearing about all the kids who were sick and remembered one girl in particular.  One that made Daddy tear up real bad.  Daddy said she had “sickness in her blood” that they were treating, and to get better, she had to take medicine that made her feel bad and sleepy.

Zeke then turned to Papa, suddenly shy.  “Can we get a bear, too?  The one that talks?  I can put back one of my toys if I can’t so we just get two.”

Papa crouched to his level, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t think you liked stuffed toys.”

Zeke looked down and shook his head. “I don’t.  There’s a girl in the hospital, her name’s Kaylee. Daddy says she’s been there forever and she won’t get to go home for Christmas. She likes bears.  Daddy told me she sleeps with one every night.  I think he should have a friend, too.  One that talks!  That way, she and her other bear can talk to someone.”

Papa smiled, not the big CEO smile he put on for boring people but the real one he only did at home for him and Daddy. “Then let’s get her the best bear they have.”

They picked the softest one, the kind so silky smooth it almost felt like a blanket.  As they walked to the register, Papa stopped in the middle of the aisle, suddenly serious.

“Zeke, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

Papa Robby nodded, considering. Then his eyes narrowed. “Zeke, do you think we should get other kids besides Kaylee some toys for the hospital?  Maybe just try and buy out the whole store?  Just go full on fire sale?”

Zeke nodded, eagerly.  “Yeah!  Daddy says Santa comes to visit them, but he doesn’t come until Christmas!  I’d be bored at the hospital if I didn’t have toys until Christmas!”

“Well then, we need to fix that, don’t we!?”

“Yeah!”

Papa grabbed a store employee, started talking about some things, which made the employee look excited.  Before long, they had several shopping carts and were starting to fill each one of them up.

“You know, I don’t know what kids like these days. I only know what you like.  What do you think we should get everyone?”  Robby asked.

Zeke mulled this over. “If you really want to know, you have to ask Daddy. He’s there all the time. He knows what the kids want.”

“An excellent point,” Papa said, pulling out his phone. “Should we call him, or will he be mad we’re not eating enough vegetables?”

Zeke giggled. “Text him!  No vegetable speeches!”

Papa chuckled, took out his phone, typing with one hand, and waited.

A reply buzzed a few moments later.  Zeke peeked.

“Dennis says: ‘Art sets, stuffed animals, action figures, barbies, and model trains are popular.  Legos for the older kids. No slime, no putty, no Nerf. You know why.’”

Zeke made a face. “The Nerf darts gave Dr. Collins a black eye last year.”

“Disaster,” Papa said, mock-stern. “We’ll get a few anyway.”

They looped all the aisles again, Zeke showing Papa the best toys for each category, and together they loaded the cart until it overflowed. Zeke was pretty sure it was the biggest haul in toy store history.

At the checkout, the cashier’s eyes bulged. “Is this all for one kid?”

Papa grinned. “One very important kid, and several important kids at Harrington Memorial.”

The cashier smiled and rang them up. Zeke helped bag the toys, careful with the big bear.

When they finished, Papa handed Zeke the receipt, which trailed to the floor.

“Congratulations,” Papa said. “You have helped make a lot of kids very happy.  Which is what a Robinavitch should always do.  Make others, including themselves, very happy.”

Zeke felt warm all over, like the time they went to the beach and Papa let him bury him up to the neck in sand. It was a good feeling, the kind that stuck.

As they left the store, Papa stopped and knelt, so they were face to face.

“I’m proud of you, Zeke. That was very nice of you to think of Kaylee and the other kids.  Love you, buddy.”

Zeke hugged him, hard. Papa’s arms closed around him, strong and safe.

“Thanks, Papa,” Zeke said. “Can we get a cinnamon roll now?”

Papa stood, scooping Zeke up and setting him on his shoulders. “I think we’ve earned it.”

They walked toward the food court, Papa carrying all the bags, Zeke steering him by the ears.

+++++

Zeke set up the new Hot Wheels track in the middle of the living room, getting ready to show off the cool tricks his cars could do before they got eaten by a shark.

He lined up the cars, blue against orange, red against yellow, and gave the start gate a hard slap. The cars shot off and looped through the plastic twist, then crashed at the end, which was Zeke’s favorite part. He counted, “Three, two, one—crash!” and every time it made him laugh.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of the washing machine and, somewhere down the hall, the hum of his Papa’s playlist. Zeke liked the quiet. It meant he could do whatever he wanted, as long as he cleaned up afterwards.

He was halfway through resetting the cars when Mr. Winters appeared, moving so silently you could almost believe he teleported. He wore his usual tie and crisp pants, but today’s sweater was bright red, which made him look more like a nice grandpa than a butler. Zeke liked that about him. Also, he made the best apple slices in the world.

“Snack, Master Zeke,” Winters said, placing a plate on the coffee table.

Zeke looked up, grinning. “You didn’t put any peanut butter on these, did you?”

“I recall a certain incident with the new rug last time,” Winters said, lips twitching. “Just apples, as ordered. No peanut butter, no honey, no chocolate syrup. You may thank me later.”

Zeke popped a slice into his mouth and chewed, then waved for Winters to sit. Winters always claimed to have too much work to do, but sometimes he gave in and watched cartoons for a bit.

“Daddy and Papa are going out for their gross smoochy date,” Zeke said, launching two cars at once. “Are you in charge?”

Winters nodded, settling into the chair with a sigh. “Only until they return from their important meeting.”

“They call it ‘Private Business,’” Zeke said, rolling his eyes. “But all they do is go eat, visit a hotel for a few hours for their meeting, and come back home.  Isn’t that silly?  Couldn’t they do that here?”

Winters’s mustache twitched. “Your fathers are entitled to a night away. It is important for partners to spend time together, and if I may speak frankly, there are some things that they do that should be kept as far away from the two of us as possible.  I heard enough before you came along, trust me.”

Zeke made a face. “You mean like their gross smooching?”

“Something like that,” Winters allowed, eyes grimacing with forbidden knowledge.

As if summoned by the mention, Dennis and Robby emerged from the bedroom, dressed nice but not “board meeting” nice. Dennis wore a button-down shirt and dark jeans. Robby wore a sweater with a blazer, looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine.

“Did you wear the-“

“Yes!  Hush!  Not in front of Winters!”

They stopped over by Zeke on their way out, each giving him a firm hug and a kiss goodnight on the forehead.

“We’ll be back after bedtime, but we’ll see you in the morning,” Robby said, pausing by the hallway to adjust his watch. “If you need us, just call. We’ll keep our phones on.”

Dennis bent down, kissing Zeke’s head. “Be good for Hal,” he said, gesturing to Mr. Winters.

Zeke flashed him a thumbs-up. “I’ll be good,” he said, like a secret agent. “Promise.”

Robby grinned. “…and try not to launch any cars at the chandelier again.”

Zeke gasped in mock offense. “That was an accident!”

Winters handed them their coats with a smirk. “Enjoy your “partners” meeting,” he said, just loud enough for Zeke to hear.

Dennis turned bright red. Robby gave him a gentle elbow. “We’ll try not to get into any trouble, Hal. But if we do, we’ll call for bail money.”

They left, still bickering. Zeke listened for the sound of the elevator, then went back to his cars.

“Want to watch Bluey with me?” Zeke asked, patting the spot beside him on the couch.

Winters checked his watch, then settled in. “Only one episode,” he said. “I have important laundry to fold after, and I won’t be drawn in by those little heelers and their adorable antics again.  Last time I lost an hour to them.”

Zeke picked the episode where Bluey and her sister pretend to run a hotel, because it made him laugh every time. He and Winters watched in silence, except for the times Zeke quoted the best lines under his breath.

When the episode finished, Winters stood and went to the kitchen. Zeke followed, peeking over the counter as Winters assembled a tray of yogurt, more apples, and, secretly, two small chocolate bars for them to share. He carried it back and set it on the table.

“Tonight,” Winters said, “we are allowed dessert.”

“Did Daddy approve it?” Zeke asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Tonight, I am in charge,” Winters said, mock-serious. “…and I say dessert is approved.”

They ate, watching the city lights flicker on through the big windows. Zeke dipped his apple in the yogurt and pretended it was an asteroid slamming into the sun. He liked how Mr. Winters didn’t tell him to use a napkin unless things got really bad.

When the tray was empty, Winters cleared it, then returned to the couch. Zeke looked at the clock.

“Think they’re having fun?” he asked.

Winters smiled. “I imagine they are. Your fathers love you very much, but it is good for them to enjoy each other’s company, too.  They waited a long time to find each other.”

Zeke nodded, suddenly sleepy. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, “even if they’re embarrassing sometimes.”

Winters agreed. “Most parents are, Master Zeke.”

They watched another episode, then Winters herded Zeke to his room. It was tidy, the way Winters always left it, but with his favorite toys gathered up in their usual places. His favorite blanket was already turned down.

“Good night, Master Zeke,” Winters said, flicking off the light.

Zeke snuggled under the covers, listening to the distant sound of the dishwasher and the city hum. He was halfway asleep a few hours later, when the apartment door opened and the familiar voices drifted down the hallway.

He perked up, blinking in the blue light of his nightlight. He could hear Papa’s deep laugh and Daddy’s quieter giggle, and then the soft click of their shoes as they headed straight for his room.

“Are you awake?” Dennis whispered, poking his head around the door.

Zeke tried to look as sleepy as possible. “Maybe,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow.

Robby entered next, tossing his blazer onto the reading chair. “We brought you something from our top-secret dinner,” he said, waving a little white box.

Dennis sat on the edge of the bed and ruffled Zeke’s hair.

Zeke sat up, a little more awake now. “What is it?”

“Chocolate cake,” Dennis said, opening the box with a flourish.

Robby cut a slice with the plastic knife. “From the best restaurant in the city,” he declared. “….and you’re the only kid I know who gets dessert after bedtime.”

Zeke grinned. “Mr. Winters said it was allowed tonight. He’s in charge, you know.”

From the hallway, Winters coughed delicately. “Only for tonight, and only if you brush your teeth again, Master Zeke.”

Zeke took the cake and ate it slow, savoring each bite. It was creamy and rich, not too sweet, with a sprinkle of gold dust on top. He didn’t even mind the idea of brushing again.

Robby stretched out on the bed, shoes off, and pulled Zeke onto his lap. “Did you have a good night with Hal?”

Zeke nodded. “We watched Bluey and had apples and yogurt. No peanut butter. He says you ruined the rug.”

Dennis made a face. “Winters exaggerates. It was only a little stain.”

“You still owe him a new one,” Robby pointed out, poking Dennis in the ribs.

Zeke licked the frosting off his fork and leaned into Papa’s chest. “Are we doing anything tomorrow?”

Dennis exchanged a look with Robby. “Actually, we are. I got us tickets to the zoo.”

“Really?” Zeke bounced up, nearly dropping his fork.

“Really,” said Robby. “All day. We’ll see the penguins and the new gorilla baby, and maybe even the birds.”

Zeke’s heart soared. “Can we get ice cream, too?”

Dennis nodded. “Anything you want.”

When the cake was gone, all three went to the bathroom to brush again. Robby timed Zeke’s brushing with his phone, and Dennis made faces in the mirror until Zeke couldn’t stop laughing.

Afterward, they tucked him in together. Dennis smoothed the covers, and Robby pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Love you, Zeke,” Dennis said, soft as a secret.

“Love you, kiddo,” Robby echoed.

Zeke snuggled down into the sheets.  “Thank you, Papa,” he murmured. “Thank you, Daddy.”

In the dark, he could hear them talking, quiet and happy, just outside the door.

He fell asleep to the sound of their voices, the warm certainty that tomorrow would be just as wonderful as the day before.