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The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, a stark white envelope with elegant gold calligraphy that looked comically out of place amidst the stack of bills and junk mail cluttering Robby's kitchen counter. It was for a wedding, of all things. An old colleague, someone who had traded the gritty reality of their emergency medicine residency for what Robby could only assume was a more glamorous, less soul-crushing medical practice somewhere overseas. Now, this former colleague was returning to not-so-little-old Pittsburgh to tie the knot.
Robby stared at the invitation for a long moment, his thumb tracing the embossed edges. His first instinct was to toss it directly into the recycling bin. Weddings were performance art, a carefully choreographed display of happiness that often felt hollow to him. But then he considered the alternatives: another Saturday night alone in his apartment, the television his only companion, or perhaps a shift at the hospital that would leave him emotionally and physically drained. The invitation promised an open bar, a crowd of strangers he'd never have to see again, and most importantly, the freedom to leave the moment the evening began to feel like a chore. There would be no obligation to be enthusiastically present, no requirement to dance or make small talk beyond a polite nod. It sounded, surprisingly, like a decent enough time.
Beneath the surface of his cynical calculations, however, something else stirred; a familiar pang in his gut, a quiet insistence that this was something he should do. Robby had learned long ago to trust these gut feelings, even when he wasn't working a twelve-hour shift in the emergency room. They had served him well more times than he could count, guiding him through split-second decisions that meant the difference between life and death. He figured they were probably good for navigating social situations too.
So he decided to go.
He dug out the suit he'd bought for Jake's graduation, a dark charcoal number that still smelled faintly of department store fabric and the faint scent of champagne from that day. No matter where he wore this suit, it would never compare to the pride and overwhelming love he'd felt watching him walk across that stage. He remembered crying openly, not caring who saw, taking photo after photo until his phone's storage was nearly full. He was so damn lucky Jake had forgiven him, had emerged from the shadow of his own grief to become the man he was today. The first few weeks after Lena died had been hell, a blur of funeral arrangements and hollow-eyed silences. Robby knew Jake didn't truly blame him for her death, not logically, but the memory of his psudo—son's hurt, tear-filled expression was still etched into the deepest part of his brain, a scar tissue of guilt that refused to fully fade.
****
He pulled into the venue's parking lot just in time to stop thinking about it, the familiar ache in his chest momentarily silenced by the sight before him. People were gathered outside, mingling near elegant white chairs arranged in neat rows on the sprawling green lawn. Each seat held a small card with a guest's name, a thoughtful touch that spoke of meticulous planning and, undoubtedly, a massive budget. The place was enormous, a historic mansion with pristine gardens and a view of the rolling hills beyond. Clearly fucking expensive.
His eyes scattered across the faces in the crowd, a sea of strangers dressed in their best attire. And then he saw them. Blonde curls, perfect in their imperfection, curling just so at the nape of a neck he had inspected more times than he could count. Dennis. It had to be. He'd watched sweat drip down the small, dark mole right on the posterior cervical triangle during those long, grueling shifts in the ED, had imagined tracing the line of his sternocleidomastoid muscle with his fingers more times than he cared to admit.
Before his brain had fully caught up with his body, his feet were moving, carrying him across the grass toward the familiar figure. He opened his mouth to speak, the name falling from his lips before he'd even decided what to say next.
"Dennis?"
He turned. Those big blue eyes—sad, beautiful blue eyes that Robby had seen filled with exhaustion and frustration and, occasionally, a spark of humor—met his. And then Robby realized Trinity was standing next to him, also wearing a suit, her expression unreadable as she looked from Dennis to him.
"Doctor Robby?"
Robby smiled, a genuine smile that stretched his cheeks and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. It felt incredible to see him, to see him here, outside the context of fluorescent lights and beeping monitors and the constant threat of death. He looked good. Really, really good. The suit fit him perfectly, accentuating his lean frame in a way that made Robby's mouth go dry.
"Yeah," he managed, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "What are you doing here?"
Dennis smiled, a weirdly fleeting expression that flickered across his face before he glanced at Trinity, some silent communication passing between them. "I know the bride," he said, his voice warm. "College friend."
Robby nodded, his eyes still fixed on Dennis's face. He let his gaze trail down to Dennis's teeth, to the small gap between his two front incisors. It was an imperfection that Robby had always found impossibly endearing, a flaw that made his otherwise perfect features feel real, attainable. He selfishly hoped Dennis would never get them straightened out.
"I know the groom," Robby finally answered, tearing his eyes away from Dennis's mouth.
Just then, an announcer's voice crackled over a hidden sound system, instructing everyone to find their assigned seats. Of course, Robby thought with a private sigh of resignation. Dennis was all the way on the other side of the aisle, on the bride's side. The bride was young, clearly Dennis's age, and Robby couldn't help but wonder what she and Grant, the groom, a man Robby knew to be at least a decade older and considerably less charming, could possibly have in common. Money, probably. Maybe love. Robby wasn't sure he truly believed in love anymore, not the lasting kind, and marriage? Well, marriage was just a legal contract with a fifty percent failure rate and a lot of expensive parties.
The ceremony was cute, he supposed. Pretty and frilly and undeniably Catholic. For most of the wedding, he found himself looking over at Dennis, watching him and Trinity as they giggled and whispered to each other, their heads bent together in shared conspiracy. Thick as thieves, those two were now. It reminded him of himself and Abbot when they were young, before life had gotten so complicated.
***
The ceremony concluded with a final, resounding blessing that sent a ripple of movement through the crowd. Guests who were not part of the immediate family began to migrate inside, drawn by the promise of shelter and, more importantly, the open bar. The reception hall was even more impressive than the grounds outside, with high ceilings draped in white fabric and tables adorned with towering floral centerpieces. A small army of staff was already at work, but Robby noticed with a familiar sense of wedding-weary cynicism that the food stations were conspicuously closed. They were withholding the sustenance until the bride had changed into her second dress and the newlyweds had completed their endless parade of photos.
He was hovering awkwardly near the entrance, trying to decide if he should head straight for the bar or find a table first, when he saw Dennis waving him over from across the room. There was no hesitation. Robby immediately obliged, his feet carrying him through the throng of chattering guests.
"Hey! You should sit with us," Dennis offered, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
Robby did, sinking into the plush velvet seat and immediately feeling the warmth of Dennis's thigh next to his own. He couldn't help but notice how well Dennis was dressed. The dark navy of his tie made his blue eyes seem impossibly deep, and the charcoal grey of his suit was tailored to perfection, the fabric draping elegantly over his frame. He and Trinity were matching, though her tie was a bold, vibrant red that contrasted sharply with his more subdued palette.
"Is the bar open?" Trinity asked, her eyes already scanning the room for the nearest source of alcohol.
Dennis nodded. "Pretty sure. If you go up, get me something sweet."
"Whiskey sour, got it," she quipped with a wink, and he just laughed, his eyes following her as she walked away before he turned his attention back to Robby.
He looked Robby up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal that made Robby's skin tingle, before realizing Robby was already staring at him. He seemed to falter for a moment, then spoke.
"So you know the groom?"
"Yeah. Used to work at The Pitt, actually. He was a med student when I first started working there," Robby explained, his voice a little steadier now that he was sitting down.
Dennis nodded, listening intently. "The wedding is beautiful. Cecilia's dress is gorgeous, she is too, of course."
Robby nodded along, though he'd barely registered what the bride was wearing. As Dennis spoke, his eyes wandered around the room, and Robby took the opportunity to look his fill. His legs, long and slender, filled out the suit pants amazingly well, the fabric pulling taut over his thighs in a way that was both professional and deeply distracting. Robby wondered if it was rented; Dennis didn't seem like the type to just own a suit this nice, not when he spent most of his days in scrubs.
He looked good enough to eat. The thought flashed through Robby's mind, unbidden and visceral. His thoughts were fucking sick. Wanting to jump this guy who was half his age. He couldn't help it, though. Dennis brought something out in him, something primal and possessive, yet paternal at the same time. It was a disgusting, confusing combination of desires, and he hated himself for it. By the time Robby managed to pry his eyes away, Trinity was back, carefully balancing three drinks in her hands.
"Figured you'd want one too," she said, handing Robby a whiskey neat and Dennis something pink and frothy. She kept a margarita for herself.
Some hip, thumping Gen Z music was playing in the background, the bass a steady pulse beneath the rising tide of chatter in the room. People were beginning to form a line to congratulate the groom, and Robby reckons he should do the same. It was the polite thing to do, after all.
"Be right back," he said, his hand moving by itself, patting Dennis's shoulder in a gesture that felt both casual and intimate before he got up and walked over.
"Robby!! It's been so long, buddy!!" Grant exclaimed, his face flushed with happiness and champagne. He pulled Robby into a bone-crushing hug, and Robby patted his back, the motion feeling stiff and awkward.
They pulled away and fell into a chat about how long it had been, how stunning his new home in Barcelona was, how he didn't regret moving but still loved the grit and authenticity of the Pitt. Then, inevitably, he asked about Adamson. Of course he did. Robby informed him of Mont's death, and the jovial light in Grant's eyes dimmed. He frowned and patted Robby's back, the gesture feeling hollow and performative.
"That sucks, I remember you guys were close."
Robby only nodded, unable to form the words to confirm it. Thank god Grant's mom came over and swept him away, her presence a welcome interruption. He needed a fucking drink, so he walked over to the bar and ordered another whiskey neat for himself, and whatever pink drink was on the menu, assuming it was the one Dennis had been enjoying.
"Got you another while I was there," he said, his voice gruff.
Dennis smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that made Robby's breath catch. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice faint. Their fingers brushed when he took the drink, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity up Robby's arm.
Robby sat and downed his first whiskey, then the second, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his mind. Trinity and Dennis chatted animatedly while he drank, their conversation a blur of inside jokes and pop culture references that flew right over his head. Robby realized he probably looked out of place at a table with two people in their twenties. He probably looked like one of their dads. The thought of someone mistaking him for Dennis's dad made Robby's lower stomach churn, a sickening mix of shame and a heat he refused to name. Disgusting.
"I'm getting another, want anything?" Trinity asked, already rising from her seat.
Robby nodded. "Thanks, whiskey again."
Dennis nodded too. "Shot, of anything."
Trinity nodded and disappeared into the crowd, and Dennis immediately turned to Robby, his expression suddenly serious, his blue eyes locking with Robby's in a way that felt both questioning and knowing.
The ambient noise of the reception—the clinking glasses, the DJ's bass-heavy music, the distant roar of a hundred conversations—melted away until all Robby could hear was the frantic thumping of his own heart.
Dennis leaned forward, his forearms resting on the pristine white tablecloth, closing the distance between them. The serious expression on his face was a stark contrast to the lighthearted grin he'd worn just moments before. His blue eyes, usually tired and shadowed by the brutal hours they worked at the ED, were now sharp and intensely focused, pinning Robby in place with an unnerving, knowing look.
"You know," Dennis began, his voice dropping to a low murmur that was meant for Robby and Robby alone. "I've been thinking about that trauma case last week. The MVA with the bilateral femur fractures."
Robby blinked, his mind scrambling to catch up. He'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't a damn case review. "Okay?" he said, his voice rough. "What about it? We reduced and splinted, sent him up to ortho. Standard protocol."
"Standard protocol, yeah," Dennis agreed, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"But that's not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about you in there. The way you took charge. When that BP started to tank and everyone was panicking... you were so calm. So in control." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "It's... really something to watch, you know."
A hot flush of shame and something else, something dangerously close to pride, crept up Robby's neck. This was a compliment, but it wasn't. It was an observation, an assessment, delivered with the same precision Dennis used when starting an IV. He was dissecting him, peeling back the layers of 'Doctor Robby' to see what was underneath.
"I was doing my job," Robby managed, his voice tight. He adjusted his sleeves, his hands needing something to do.
"You do your job with a certain... intensity," Dennis continued, completely undeterred. He leaned even closer, the scent of his cologne—something clean and vaguely citrusy—cutting through the smell of stale beer and wedding flowers.
"It's the same way you are now. Sitting here. Like you're constantly assessing, planning for the worst-case scenario." His gaze flickered down to Robby's hands, then back up to his eyes. "You ever just... turn it off?"
The question was a scalpel, deftly sliding between Robby's ribs and probing at the soft, vulnerable parts he kept hidden from everyone. This was the test. The water. Dennis wasn't just dipping his toe in; he was wading in chest-deep, his eyes daring Robby to join him. Every instinct Robby had, honed by years of navigating the high-stakes, hierarchical minefield of emergency medicine, was screaming at him. ***Danger. Wrong. Unprofessional.
Dennis worked for him. He is an intern under his supervision. This wasn't just a line; it was a chasm, and Dennis was standing on the other side, grinning and asking him to jump. The power dynamic wasn't just a suggestion; it was the foundation of their entire professional relationship. To cross it would be reckless, irresponsible. It could get them both fired. It could ruin everything.
"Right," Robby said suddenly, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. The sound was jarringly loud in the small bubble of intimacy Dennis had created. "I should... Go speak to the bride."
He stood up so fast he almost knocked the chair over. He couldn't look at Dennis. He couldn't look at that knowing, challenging expression that was silently calling him a coward. He knew he was running. He knew it was obvious. But he also knew it was the only thing he could do.
Robby didn't make it ten steps before he heard footsteps behind him that he recognized instantly. He didn't have to turn around to know it was Dennis.
"Robby, wait up," Dennis called, falling into step beside him as they navigated the throng of guests. "Cecilia's an old friend. I should say hello too"
They reached the head table, where the bride, Cecilia, was holding court, her face glowing with a champagne-fueled happiness. When she saw Dennis, her entire face lit up.
"Dennis! You made it!" she exclaimed, pushing past her new husband to pull him into a tight, affectionate hug.
"Oh, it's so good to see you!" She pulled back, her eyes, bright and mischievous, flickered over to Robby, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. "Oh la la," she purred, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Dennis, darling, you always did have a type."
A hot, prickling sensation crawled up the back of Robby's neck. He felt like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, except the cookie was a man half his age and the jar was a crowded wedding reception. He needed to shut this down, immediately.
"I'm his boss," Robby piped in, his voice tight and strained. "Robby"
Cecilia's eyes widened slightly, the hazy flirtation in them clearing for a moment as she processed the information.
"Oh!" she said, a delicate blush creeping up her cheeks. "Oh, I... well. I've had a few drinks, I don't know what I'm saying." She waved a dismissive hand, her massive diamond ring catching the light. "It's so lovely to meet you, Doctor. Dennis speaks so highly of everyone he works with."
They chatted for a few more agonizing minutes, a stilted conversation about the venue and the weather and Cecilia's plans for a honeymoon in Bali. Robby stood there, his hands shoved in his pockets, his smile feeling like a brittle mask that was about to crack. Every time he caught Dennis's eye, he saw that same infuriating, knowing smirk, as if he was enjoying Robby's discomfort immensely.
Finally, they made their escape, walking back to the table in a silence that was far more uncomfortable than the one before. As they neared their seats, Dennis leaned in, his breath warm against Robby's ear.
"She's right, you know," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "I do have a type."
Robby's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird beating against its cage. He felt a surge of anger, at Dennis for pushing, at himself for letting it get this far, at Cecilia for putting the thought into the real world. No longer shamefully locked inside his mind.
When they got back to the table, Trinity was already there, three fresh drinks arranged neatly in front of their seats. She looked between them, her eyebrows raised in silent question, but she didn't say a word.
Robby didn't hesitate. He grabbed his whiskey and downed it in one smooth, practiced motion, the burn of the alcohol a welcome, familiar fire in his throat. Dennis did the same with his shot, slamming the small glass back onto the table with a soft click.
The buzz hit him then, a warm, pleasant haze that settled behind his eyes, blurring the edges of the room and softening the sharp, jagged edges of his anxiety. He still hadn't eaten, and with three whiskeys now coursing through his veins, the world was starting to feel a little unsteady, a little less real. He looked at Dennis, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, and for a moment, he forgot why he was fighting so hard to get away.
Trinity, bless her, chose that exact moment to push her chair back, her movements a little unsteady.
"Okay, I'm gonna go find the ladies' room before I start seeing double," she announced with a grin, pointing a finger vaguely toward the grand hallway. "Don't you two move. I'll be right back with reinforcements."
She disappeared into the crowd, her red tie a bright slash of color in the sea of neutral tones. And just like that, they were alone. The silence that descended on their small table was immediate and absolute, a vacuum that sucked in all the ambient noise of the reception, leaving only the frantic, thumping bass of the music and the sound of Robby's own heartbeat in his ears.
"We should get some air," Dennis said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the swirling chaos of Robby's mind.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, an inevitability. Robby found himself nodding, his body moving on autopilot as he pushed his chair back and stood.
They didn't go far, just through a set of heavy oak doors and out onto a stone balcony that overlooked the now-darkened gardens. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome shock to his overheated skin. The music from inside was muffled here, the chatter of the guests reduced to a distant, indistinct roar. For a moment, they just stood there, side by side, looking out at the darkness, the silence between them stretching, taut with unspoken words.
Then Dennis moved, turning to face him, his body blocking the light from the ballroom, casting them both in shadow. He was close, so close Robby could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could see the faint freckles on his cheeks, the blue of his eyes almost black in the dim light.
"This is a bad idea," Robby heard himself say, the words slurring slightly, a final, feeble protest from the rational part of his brain that was rapidly being drowned in whiskey and desire.
"Probably," Dennis agreed, his voice a soft murmur. Then he closed the remaining distance between them, and his lips were on Robby's.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a hungry, demanding kiss, a kiss that tasted of vodka and something sweet and undeniably Dennis. Robby's brain short-circuited, all thoughts of age gaps and inappropriateness and Adamson vaporizing in a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated need. He kissed back, his hands coming up to tangle in Dennis's perfect blonde curls, pulling him closer, deeper. He felt Dennis's hands on his hips, gripping him tightly, pulling him flush against his body, and a low groan escaped his throat.
"We can't stay here," Dennis gasped, pulling away just enough to speak, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
Robby could only nod, his lips swollen, his body thrumming with a desperate, primal need he hadn't felt in years. He let Dennis take his hand, his fingers lacing through his own, as he was led back through the ballroom, past the tables of laughing, oblivious guests, and down a long, dimly lit corridor. Dennis found a door, a small, unmarked room that turned out to be a private office, and pushed it open, pulling Robby inside before locking the door behind them.
The room was dark, the only light coming from the city glow through a large picture window. Dennis pushed him up against the door, his mouth finding his again in a frantic, desperate kiss. Robby's hands were everywhere, fumbling with the buttons of Dennis's shirt, tracing the hard lines of his chest, his stomach. He felt Dennis's hands on his belt, the buckle coming undone with a soft click, and then his trousers were pooling around his ankles.
He was lost, completely and utterly lost in the sensation, in the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against his. He forgot about the wedding, forgot about his life, forgot about everything but the man in front of him, the man who was making him feel alive again, making him feel something other than grief and guilt and the crushing weight of his own loneliness.
Dennis broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against Robby's.
"I've wanted to do this since that first day," he rasped, his voice raw with desire. "Watching you work, so in charge... all I could think about was what it would feel like to have you lose control with me."
The words sent a fresh jolt of electricity through Robby's already overloaded system. He didn't respond with words. He couldn't. Instead, he fisted his hands in Dennis's shirt, yanking him closer and crushing their mouths together again. This kiss was different. It wasn't frantic anymore; it was deliberate, deep, a claiming. He poured weeks of suppressed longing, of stolen glances at the ED of late-night fantasies into it, his tongue exploring Dennis's mouth with a hunger that bordered on violence.
Dennis met him stroke for stroke, his own hands roaming with possessive intent. One slid up Robby's back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. The other traveled south, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers to cup the firm curve of his ass, squeezing hard. Robby groaned into his mouth, grinding his hips forward, the hard length of his erection pressing insistently against Dennis's thigh.
"God, Robby," Dennis breathed against his lips, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just behind his ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."
He spun them around, maneuvering Robby away from the door and deeper into the room until the back of Robby's legs hit the edge of a large, mahogany desk. Dennis's mouth never left his, kissing him with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs. His hands were busy, pushing Robby's suit jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Then came his tie, yanked loose and discarded with the same careless urgency.
Robby was shrugging off his own shirt, his fingers clumsy with lust. He wanted to feel Dennis's skin against his, all of it. He finally succeeded, and the sensation of their bare chests pressing together, the friction of their chest hair, the heat radiating between them, was almost enough to make him come right then and there.
Dennis's lips left his, trailing a path of fire down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. He nipped at the sensitive skin where Robby's neck met his shoulder, not hard enough to leave a mark, but just enough to make him gasp, his head falling back in surrender. Dennis took advantage of the exposed skin, licking and sucking his way across Robby's chest, his tongue flicking over one hardened nipple, then the other.
Robby's hands were tangled in Dennis's blonde curls, holding him in place, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Dennis," he gasped, his voice a broken plea. "Please..."
Dennis looked up at him, his blue eyes dark with lust, a wicked grin playing on his lips. "Please what, Robby? Tell me what you want."
But Robby couldn't form the words. He could only make a desperate, needy sound in the back of his throat, pulling Dennis's head back up for another kiss. Dennis chuckled against his mouth, a low, triumphant sound. Then, without warning, he broke the kiss and took a step back, his eyes never leaving Robby's.
With a slow, deliberate movement that made Robby's breath catch in his throat, Dennis turned and placed his hands on the large, mahogany desk. He shot a look over his shoulder, his blue eyes dark with invitation, a silent challenge that was more potent than any command. Then he bent over, arching his back in a way that was both submissive and utterly in control, presenting himself to Robby with a confidence that was breathtaking.
The sight hit Robby like a physical blow. Dennis, his intern, the man who followed his orders in the ED, was now offering himself to him in the most primal way imaginable. The power dynamic, already dangerously blurred, was now completely shattered, replaced by something raw and hungry and desperate.
Robby's hands shook as he fumbled to pull Dennis' pants down. His fingers were clumsy, his mind reeling from the sheer, overwhelming reality of the moment. His eyes fixed on the sight before him, the smooth, pale skin of Dennis's back, the curve of his ass, the way his legs were spread slightly in anticipation. He leaned over, his lips brushing against Dennis's ear.
"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
Dennis didn't answer with words. He just pushed back against him, a silent, desperate plea that was all the answer Robby needed.
He slid his hand between Dennis's legs, his fingers finding the slick, wet heat of him. He prepared him slowly, carefully, his fingers exploring, stretching, listening to the soft sounds Dennis made, the way his breath hitched with every touch.
Then, finally, he entered him slowly, inch by inch, his eyes closing as the overwhelming sensation of being inside him washed over him. Dennis was tight, hot, and perfect, and the sound he made as Robby filled him, a low, guttural moan of pure pleasure, was the most beautiful thing Robby had ever heard.
He began to move, his hips finding a rhythm that was both slow and deep, his hands gripping Dennis's hips, holding him in place. The desk creaked beneath them, a rhythmic protest that mingled with their ragged breaths and the soft sounds of their bodies coming together. Robby leaned forward, his chest pressing against Dennis's back, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of his neck, licking, sucking, biting.
"Robby," Dennis gasped, his voice a broken plea. "God, don't stop."
Robby had no intention of stopping. He drove into him harder, faster, his control finally shattering as the pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo.
The rhythm of their bodies grew more frantic, a desperate, primal dance in the dimly lit office.
"Robby," he gasped, his voice a ragged, desperate plea. "Don't... don't pull out. I want you to finish inside."
The words, raw and possessive, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through Robby's veins. He felt Dennis's hand reach back, tangling in his hair, holding him close, and then he was coming, his body convulsing, his vision going white as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over him.
He collapsed against Dennis's back, his body spent, his heart hammering in his chest. For a long moment, they just stayed like that, tangled together, breathing in the same air, the only sounds in the room their ragged breaths and the distant thump of the wedding music.
Robby didn't care about the wedding anymore. He didn't care about the consequences. All that mattered was the man beneath him, the man who had just given him a piece of himself, and in doing so, had given Robby back a piece of himself he thought was lost forever.
For a long moment, they just stood there, breathing in the silence of the office, the world outside the locked door ceasing to exist. Then Dennis tilted his head up, his lips finding Robby's in a slow, deep kiss that was full of a newfound intimacy, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had just passed between them. It was a kiss that said more than words ever could.
"We should probably get back," Dennis murmured, his voice soft and a little husky. "Trinity's going to kill us. Well, me."
Robby nodded, a reluctant agreement. They straightened their clothes, their movements clumsy and slow, the post-orgasm haze still clinging to them. As they walked back into the ballroom, the scene had shifted. The long-awaited food was finally being set out at buffet stations, and the crowd was swarming the tables, plates in hand.
And there was Trinity, standing by their table, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression a thundercloud of annoyance. Her eyes narrowed as they approached, a silent, deadly glare that said she knew exactly where they'd been and what they'd been doing. She looked from Robby's disheveled hair to Dennis's swollen lips, and a slow, knowing smirk of triumph played on her own.
"Took you two long enough," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I was about to send a search party."
They ate, the food a welcome distraction from the electric tension at the table. They drank more, the whiskey flowing freely, but the easy camaraderie from earlier was gone, replaced by a charged, unspoken awareness. Robby could feel Trinity's judgment like a physical weight.
Eventually, Trinity set her fork down with a soft clink. “I should head out,” she said, almost too casually. “I still need to feed my cat.”
It wasn’t really an excuse, but it worked like one.
Dennis glanced at her, caught the signal, and pushed his chair back.
“Yeah—okay.” He stood a little too quickly, the room tilting just enough to remind him how much he’d had to drink.
The cool night air hit them the second they stepped outside, sharp and grounding. For a moment, none of them spoke.
"I can give you a ride," he offered, his voice low, meant only for Dennis.
Dennis's face lit up, a genuine, unguarded smile that made Robby's chest ache. "Yes," he said, a little too quickly. "I'd like that."
"Well, you're welcome for your ride here," Trinity interrupted, her voice sharp and brittle. She was rightfully annoyed. She'd come as his plus one, his wingman, and he'd abandoned her for a chance to get lucky.
Dennis's smile faltered, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. He turned to Trinity, his expression earnest. "I'm so sorry, Trin. I'll make it up to you. Let me walk you to the Uber."
He did, and Robby watched as they spoke in low, urgent tones. He saw Dennis hug her, saw her give him a final, pointed look before she got into the car and it drove away. Dennis walked back, his phone in his hand, already tapping away.
"I've got a Lyft ordered," he said, his eyes meeting Robby's. "It'll be here in ten."
Robby felt a surge of irritation. He wanted to take him home, to have this last bit of control, this last private moment with him.
***
The ride was a blur of city lights and muffled silence. Dennis pressed himself against Robby the entire time, his thigh a warm, solid weight against his own. His hand would occasionally drift to Robby's leg, his fingers tracing teasing patterns on the fabric of his trousers, a silent, torturous promise of what was to come. By the time they pulled up in front of Robby's house, Robby was so hard it was painful, his body thrumming with a desperate, renewed need.
They barely made it to the door. As Robby fumbled with his keys, Dennis was all over him, his hands roaming under his jacket, his mouth hot and demanding on his neck. He was a live wire of energy, a desperate, hungry need that mirrored Robby's own. The moment the door clicked open, Dennis pushed him inside, kicking it shut behind them, his mouth finding his in a frantic, desperate kiss that promised the night was far from over. He wants to go **again.