Work Text:
Samira’s last sexual experience hadn’t been that exciting. Not in the least.
It had been with her partner at the time, an overzealous man her age who was just starting his career in politics. He’d been nice and all. Not unkind, not uninterested in her. But the relationship had lasted two years, and they had spent most of that time apart—texting each other and making plans for holidays rather than actually dating.
She still remembers distinctly what it was like to have sex with him. He loved kissing her and paying attention to her, but he slobbered against her neck and breasts, looking more like an eager dog than a man with intentionality.
So with that memory stuck in her head, even a year later, she isn’t too thrilled to go through the performance again: going out, meeting someone new, spending time together, and then finding out if they’re good at sex. It all seems too exhausting.
But then she can’t help thinking about it. She remembers how nice it had been to be a couple. She’s reminded of it every day, since most of the patients she sees are accompanied by a partner.
“You’ve got that weird dazed look on your face again,” McKay warns, her eyebrows shot all the way up. “Is this about freezing your eggs again?”
Samira’s attention snaps back. “What was that?”
McKay chuckles. “Woah, okay. This is something else then. What is it?”
She should really go back to picking up a new patient, finishing her charting, or even using this moment of quietude to eat a protein bar. Instead, she follows McKay’s lead, feigning focus on the monitor so they can keep chatting at the charting station.
“Have you ever, uh—” Samira peers side to side, just to make sure Princess and Perlah aren’t around, “—had a friend with benefits?”
“Uhh—” McKay is so shocked she goes completely still for a moment. When she finally speaks, every sentence sounds like a question. “I’m not sure if I’m the person to go to for this? If anything Santos and Whitaker would help with that? God, at this rate even Mel or her sister?”
She stops, shakes her head as if she’s malfunctioning. “Why, have you got one?”
Samira laughs at that, humorlessly. “Nope. Where would I find the time, right?”
“That’s a good idea, actually. Good thing we have drinks after work.” McKay trails off, pondering. “Huh. How would that even…”
She’s cut off as Robby appears down the corridor, calling her name.
“I’ve got a gas leak coming in.”
Robby stops on the way, his eyes landing on Samira.
It’s just like any other shift. They’ve fallen into this rhythm too many times over the past four years. He calls out tasks, assigning residents to various traumas when an influx rolls in—he’s the attending, after all, and her boss.
“Doctor Mohan, let’s get you in here as well.”
Samira is still thinking about her neck and that old memory when, somehow, Robby infiltrates her thoughts.
“Yeah,” she calls out, falling into step as the ambulance bay doors fly open. “Coming.”
Five hours later, Samira brings those thoughts with her into the sticky bar where they end up. The place is slightly smoky, overcrowded, and thundering with music—all because it’s a party for Dana, who insisted on smoking indoors.
The whole ED crew is crammed around a single, unstable round table, perched on stools that rock on uneven legs as everyone shouts to be heard.
Samira watches Santos reach across the clutter of empty pint glasses and slide a finger into Dana’s open pack of cigarettes.
“Hey! Don't steal my cigarettes. You didn't pay for this pack, Santos.”
Dana’s hand comes down on the pack by reflex, a playful glare on her face.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You can’t even spare one? Stingy.”
Robby chuckles, throwing an arm over Dana's shoulders. He looks loose, his cheeks flushed a distinct, warm red from the alcohol.
“Calm down,” Robby says. “You’re gonna scare the residents away. I’ll buy you a new pack.”
Dana rolls her eyes, leaning into his side. “Yeah? I thought you wanted me to quit.”
“Well, it's your night tonight,” Robby says, offering her a lazy smile. “So I'll do whatever you want.”
Samira’s eyes drop to Robby's arm. She stares at his hand, massive against Dana’s jacket, the knuckles relaxed.
She has seen his hands a billion times. She’s seen them under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the resuscitation bays while he stood over her, sometimes moving in close behind her to guide her fingers through a difficult central line or a chest tube.
“Alright, clear the table!” Whitaker suddenly yells, slapping a worn deck of cards onto the wood. “Let’s play something. Drink-and-gamble, come on!”
“Not on this table, man, it’s pure glue,” Matteo shouts, cut off by Javadi’s piercing chuckle.
“Towels! We need towels!”
Samira, glad for an excuse to break her stare, slides off her stool. “I’ll go get some from the counter.”
The table erupts into a chorus of drunken whoops and cheers.
The path to the bar rail is a gauntlet of sweaty shoulders and shouting patrons. As Samira squeezes through, she accidentally bumps into a guy in a leather jacket.
Instantly, the guy’s hand reaches out, his fingertips brushing her waist—that classic, uninvited tactic to establish contact and force a conversation.
“Hey, careful there, beautiful,” he starts to say.
Samira’s stomach drops in immediate fatigue as she tries to lean away. She doesn’t have the mental capacity for this: the small talk, the niceties, the energy. With a sharp tug, she backs away from his touch, retreating a step too quickly—and slams her back straight into a solid chest.
Two large hands immediately come up, gripping her forearms to steady her. A sharp, impatient huff of breath, smelling faintly of bourbon, brushes right against her ear. She looks to the side and up, at a familiar face.
“You okay?” Robby’s voice is low.
It sends a jolt straight down her spine. Working in the Pitt is a series of choreographies —knowing where to step, how to angle your body to see everything without bumping into anyone. Here, that movement is gone.
His eyes shift over her shoulder, locking onto the guy in front of her. His stare makes the stranger mutter something under his breath and scurry away into the crowd. A thrill of pure adrenaline shoots through her as she instinctively reads his look as territorial.
He firmly but gently directs her back into her own pocket of space. She turns to face him as he asks, “Is this normal for this bar?”
“Yeah, I think it’s psychological,” Samira says. “Dana wanted to see who cracks first.”
Robby chuckles.
“Yeah, honestly. I just think she hasn't gone out in ages. This is probably the first bar she remembers from her early career days. Back when we all actually had time to get a drink after a shift.”
Samira huffs. “Yeah? You’re telling me you never do that anymore?”
He looks down at her, his expression unreadable for a second under the flashing lights of the bar rail. “I mean... whenever I get a chance.”
“I’m not judging!” she adds quickly, her resident-brain kicking in for a split second to protect her. “I didn't mean that as a criticism.”
He shakes his head, a wry smile cutting through the flush on his cheeks. “Samira, in my early days, when I was a resident—probably twenty years ago now—I would go out every single night.”
Samira blinks. “Woah, every night before a day shift?”
“Yeah, I think it was an ego thing, or something,” Robby continues. “I loved the work, but I always had this ridiculous panic that real life was going to run out on me if I just went home to sleep.”
Samira holds his gaze. “Well, real life isn’t always found in bars.”
Robby pauses. His eyes scan her face, a little slower this time. “Yeah. I guess.”
She can see the shift happening in real-time; the momentary vulnerability is closing up, and he's about to make a polite, detached comment before heading back to the table.
“I'm pretty sure,” she murmurs with a shrug, “you could still go out to bars if you wanted to. You'd do just fine.”
Robby looks caught off guard. He raises a hand to rub at his beard—a restless, classic habit she’s seen him deploy at the hospital whenever people shower him with compliments. It’s a dead giveaway that she’s broken through his composure, an amused laugh hidden behind his palm.
“I think you overestimate me,” he says.
“Oh, definitely,” Samira teases. She rolls her eyes. “Please. You're hardly any woman's type.”
Robby has just taken a sip of his bourbon when the words leave her mouth.
The fluid hits the back of his throat, and his shoulders instantly jerk. She watches him swallow harshly, looking away as he tips his head back to finish the rest of his drink.
She swirls the last ice cube around the bottom of her own glass, downs the remaining splash of liquid, and sets it on the counter.
“Can you get me another gin and tonic?”
He nods absentmindedly, his voice rougher. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll... I’ll bring it over to you.”
“Thanks,” she smiles.
She grabs a stack of bar towels from the bartender, waiting for Robby before they make their way back to the round table together. The rest of the ED crew is already shouting over a game of cards. Samira tosses the towels into the center of the sticky table to cheers from Whitaker, but she doesn't sit back down on her old stool.
Instead, she lets herself drift toward the empty space right next to Robby’s jacket, claiming the stool where his coat hangs over the back. When he returns from the counter, he slides her fresh glass onto the wood in front of her before squeezing into the narrow gap to take his place at her side.
The noise at the table has reached a fever pitch. One by one, the rest of the ED crew has tapped out, McKay having already won the round.
Now, the entire game has dwindled down to a tense, final showdown between Samira and Trinity Santos. Squeezed onto her stool, Samira is wedged between Dana on her left and Robby on her right.
Robby has fully sprawled out, his long legs invading the limited space under the table. He holds a fresh drink in his left hand, while his right arm stretches lazily along the back of Samira’s chair.
She’s left with only three cards.
Testing her boundaries, Samira leans over to her right. She tilts her body directly over Robby’s lap, demanding his help. She raises her cards just high enough to block the rest of the table from seeing their faces, creating a makeshift tent for just the two of them.
“So,” Samira murmurs. “What do you think I should do?”
Across the table, Trinity immediately squawks. “Hey! You shouldn't be asking for assistance!”
“Oh, come on,” Donnie yells over the music, throwing his hands up. “You’re both terrible at this! Just do whatever makes the game go faster!”
Samira ignores them, keeping her eyes locked on Robby. “Come on, Robby. What do you think has a better chance?”
Robby doesn't look at the cards right away. He takes a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes watching her over the rim of the glass. When he sets the glass down, his eyes move slowly, tracing the curve of her brow, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, and finally lingering on her lips.
“Hmm,” Robby hums.
He shifts his weight, his free hand rising to brush quickly against her bare shoulder as he leans in. The brief contact sends a wave of goosebumps down her arm. Robby brings his hand up to cover his mouth, leaning his head close to hers so his whisper tickles her ear. His cologne is sharp, made illicit in its intensity by the proximity.
“She’s bluffing, but your hand is weak,” he says, his breath hot against her skin. “Play it safe. Fold.”
But the competitive, stubborn streak in her wakes up. She can do exactly what her strict, cautious attending just told her to do—show him she is a good listener, that she can follow his lead. As she always does, as she ought to during the daytime. Or she can take the risk.
She looks from him to Trinity, her adrenaline spiking.
“I’m all in,” Samira announces. With a definitive snap, she throws her remaining chips into the center.
Trinity groans, burying her face in her hands. “Oh man, I do not trust you.”
But when Trinity reluctantly flips her cards down, showing a mediocre pair, Samira slaps her own cards face-up onto the sticky table.
“Oh, come on!” Trinity wails, tossing her cards into the pile. “I really am too poor for this game. Is there any way I can just pay for everyone's coffee tomorrow morning instead of buying the next round right now?”
The table immediately erupts into a chorus of loud, piercing boos and drunken laughter.
Dana rolls her eyes, winking at Samira through a cloud of exhaled cigarette smoke. She reaches into her purse, slaps a crisp fifty-dollar bill onto the table, and shoves it toward Trinity. “Go on. I'll pretend I let you buy us drinks. You're such a bad loser, Santos.”
Trinity beams, snatching up the cash and sliding off her stool to head to the bar.
Excited by the win, Samira shifts, jumping a little in her seat with a triumphant laugh. As the chaos around the table resets, Robby’s arm naturally settles back into its position across the top of her chair. Samira grins at him, finally letting herself lean back.
The second her shoulder blades press against the solid, heavy warmth of his arm, the goosebumps return in full force. She fixes her posture but the ends of her curls linger against his bare wrist.
Another hour melts away through rounds of drinks and loud music. By the time the clock crawls past 2:00 AM, the alcohol has finally caught up with everyone.
“Alright, I’m done,” Dana groans, rubbing her face. “I am entirely too drunk. Someone needs to split a cab with me right now.”
“We’re on it,” Whitaker says, throwing an arm around Santos. “We live in the same direction anyway. Let’s get her moving.”
The group disperses into the night in a chaotic wave of slurred goodbyes and rustling jackets. Samira stays behind, slipping away to the bathroom under the guise of washing her hands after telling the remaining residents she’ll just call an Uber when she’s done.
When she finally pushes open the heavy front door of the bar and steps onto the sidewalk, the street is mostly empty. She assumes everyone has bolted. But as she turns toward the curb, she spots a small orange ember glowing in the shadows near the brick wall.
It’s Robby.
He leans back against the brick, a cigarette clamped between his lips. Samira pauses, surprised. “Oh. I didn't know you smoked.”
Robby turns his head, his dark eyes catching hers in the dim street lamp light. He looks a little caught. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth, sending a slow exhale of silver smoke curling into the cool air.
“I don't. Dana didn't want to waste this one before she got in the cab, so she handed it off to me. Just being a good friend.”
Samira smiles, stepping closer into his space. They linger by the road, the silence between them changing now that the buffer of the team is gone. Samira instinctively reaches for her pocket to pull out her phone, but her fingers hesitate on the fabric. Pulling it out feels like building a wall. She lets her hand drop.
She leans back, tilting her head against the brick wall right beside him. “I don't know what it is,” she keeps her tone light but honest, “but I’m still a little too restless to head home.”
Robby takes another slow drag.
In the ER, his movements are always sharp, dominant, and decisive. But out here, the way he holds the cigarette between his index and middle fingers looks surprisingly delicate. Gentle, even. He pulls the cigarette away, dropping the butt onto the pavement. He brings his heavy boot down, stubbing out the remaining embers against the stone, before picking it up and tossing it into the trash bin beside them.
He adjusts his posture, turning his body fully toward her as his dark eyes lock onto hers.
“How do you want this night to end, Samira?”
The cool night air should clear her head, but instead, it makes everything sharper.
“Oh, I–,” she says, her voice steady despite the adrenaline. “I don't want to go back home alone.”
Robby stares at her. He lets out a low huff of a laugh, as if she’s just told him a ridiculous joke. Then his expression snaps back to serious. He retrieves his phone from his pocket, his thumb sliding across the screen to open a ride-share app.
“Type in your address.”
He holds the phone out to her. His eyes stay locked on her face, heavy and searching, as if he’s daring her to chicken out and hand it back empty.
The click of her front door locking behind them sounds incredibly loud in the dead silence of her apartment. Samira stands by the entryway, her heart hammering against her ribs as the adrenaline from the sidewalk begins its inevitable crash.
Suddenly, her brain is flooded with noise.
How the hell had they managed to sit side-by-side in the back of a cab for twenty minutes without uttering a single word? The mundane reality of the ride should have broken the spell.
She watches Robby slide his heavy coat off his shoulders. In the dim, ordinary light of her apartment, he looks like any other man she’s had overnight. Has she completely hallucinated the tension of the night? She finds herself staring at his face, wondering if the dynamic has been entirely in her head.
But while Samira falls into a spiral of overthinking, Robby looks completely at ease. As if he’s been at her small apartment a thousand times before. As if this is not new for him at all. A distant thought breaches Samira’s racing mind.
How many times has he done this with personnel from PTMC?
He calmly drapes his jacket over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. Robby crosses the small distance of her living room rug, his tall frame completely cutting off her exit.
There is no romantic hallway kiss. Nothing sweet is said.
Instead, he steps directly into her personal space.
Samira’s breath catches as his large hands come down, gripping her sides. He maneuvers her around by the waist and reaches for the back of her dress.
He unzips it slowly, perfunctorily, as if he’s doing what he’s owed. The track parts, and cool air hits the bare skin of her spine, making her shiver. With a practiced hand, the dress slides off her shoulders and pools at her feet.
In the middle of her messy living room, with used teacups and open books strewn about the table and couch, Samira stands exposed in just her underwear.
And instead of feeling vulnerable, awkward, and a little bit shy, as she’s always been with a new man who’s seeing her for the first time, she feels confident. It is all due to the look in Robby’s eyes as he takes her in, pupils blown out, as he stands before her, his breath sharp and loud, as if the motion of undressing her has left him weak. His hands linger at her sides, searing in their warmth.
She thinks he might kiss her, but when he drags her in sharply, his mouth goes instead to her long neck. Robby fits his face there, his nose bumping against her skin, sending a violent shiver down her spine as he breathes her in.
His fingers dig into her waist, bruising. And then his mouth—the rough texture of his beard, ticklish and enticing—lands on her throat.
It’s targeted — that’s Samira’s solitary thought, one that lasts for only a few seconds. As if he’s been given a sketched-out plan of her body, complete with highlighted circles over her most erogenous zones and what makes her feel good.
Then he drags her earlobe softly between his teeth before kissing the spot right below her jaw — and she stops thinking entirely.
Her mind blanks out, her body melting, and he carries her weight easily, drags her in and then back, bumping her spine against her overflowing bookshelves.
Robby has to bend over her at his height to keep those movements languid, crowding her space entirely. He trails kisses and bites along her collarbone, one of his hands reaching up to tangle her hair in a fist, moving it to the side so her curls don’t hinder his attention.
And it is attention delivered with aggression.
Samira doesn’t even realize when he’s driven a leg between hers, as if to hold her pliant body up. But then his hand at her waist forces her to bear down on him, just as his mouth closes over her nipple, his hot breath fanning the skin into a hard peak.
The rough texture of the lace covering her breasts makes her eyes squeeze shut. It is nothing compared to the movement he orchestrates — the drenched cotton of her underwear bearing down against his jeans, his hands coaxing a rhythm from her hips over his thigh while his mouth closes around her nipple, his tongue laving it through the lace.
She stifles her moan at the last second. She can’t control how wet she gets solely from that, though.
He’s unrelenting.
He urges her to chase her pleasure, his hand at her side squeezing her too tight, no words exchanged. And he must be enjoying it too — she thinks distinctly — patient as he is to keep kissing her like this, with her lacy bra still on.
He leans back, and there’s a sense of impatience she catches a glimpse of for the first time ever, before his hand roughly tugs her bra down beneath her breasts. When his mouth is back, closing over a hardened bud, he hums — a strong vibration in his throat that makes her hiccup a broken moan. His mouth clamps down, leaving a biting, sucking kiss on the flesh of her breast, reddening it. Her body twitches as if trying to escape his onslaught.
It makes her movements below change — the rhythm of her hips stutters against his clothed thigh, and her underwear drags to the side, exposing her. The direct contact is blinding. Her orgasm sneaks up on her. It makes her body arch, as if a wave of pure relief is consuming her.
Robby doesn’t let her go. He moves her effortlessly while she’s still getting her bearings, depositing her onto the sofa.
Samira’s consciousness sharpens into pure instinct the second she feels the soft leather of the furniture against her front. She moves to get comfortable, shoving notebooks, books, the remote, and a discarded blanket to the floor, creating a clatter she doesn't mind at all. Then she looks over her shoulder at him.
He stands there, as if unaffected, breathing loudly, a line of sweat shining at his throat. He drops his flannel to the floor, leaving him in just a dark t-shirt.
Her fingers seize the hem of her underwear at the sides. She keeps eye contact as she arches her back, putting weight on her knees, and pushes the flimsy material down her legs, uncovering herself. He holds her gaze all the way until the fabric is at her feet and she can’t reach down anymore.
Then his eyes snap to the center of her, and she’s never felt hotter — a steady blaze running through her veins. The distance doesn’t last. Robby moves quickly, frantically, keeping her there as she arches into the air, his large hands brushing reverently over her hips and the curve of her buttocks. He drops to his knees right between her coffee table and the sofa, stretching out over her.
She winces — he bites softly at a spot on her backside. It feels almost like a reprimand, as if he’s faulting her for making him act this way.
It happens again — a harsher bite at her supple roundness, as if he wants to chew on her, as if he can’t help himself, as if he wants to swallow her whole. It hurts more, but a sudden gush of slick from her cunt follows the pain. The sight of it makes him groan, and he presses a soft kiss right over the fresh bruise.
Samira stretches her arms over her head, gripping the sofa and moaning as he bites into her again — smaller this time, tracing a path to her other cheek before applying the remedy of a kiss.
It’s a slow undoing, running her patience thin, especially when his breath and his low groans vibrate against her cunt. She thinks it must be deliberate, meant to make her mindless with want and build her up again — but then he bites the side of her waist, and she huffs out in frustration.
“Shhh,” he murmurs against her skin. His hand massages the tight muscle there as he rests the side of his face against her, his beard scratching over the fresh marks and making her inhale sharply.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, mock-gentle, brushing a soft kiss to her side. “Shhh.”
It is a soothing repetition, a moment of grace that forces her to lean into the comfort of it, calming her racing heartbeat.
His palm massages her softly, moving round and round while his fingers pull at her skin. His fingertips brush against her center —soft, tender, gentle— and her limbs twitch when his hot breath hits her cunt directly as he exhales.
“Shh,” Robby mumbles, his voice acting like a balm as he leaves her muscle behind to delve his middle finger deep into her heat.
“Ah,” Samira sucks in a sharp breath, her nails digging into the sofa.
He doesn’t hear her, far too focused on watching his finger move in and out of her — slow and soothing, the same way he’d massaged her before. The knowledge that he’s watching everything makes her slicker than the raw sensation of him stretching her inside out.
But then, the next time he breaches her, he uses two fingers — his ring and middle — to slide in deeper.
“Fuck,” Samira blurts out, the first word spoken between them since leaving the sidewalk.
He scissors them open inside her, and she gasps — they feel massive, too much — but then her hips begin to move of their own accord. She begins riding his fingers, all while Robby’s face hovers over her.
He lets her set the pace, allowing her to dictate the rhythm as she moves tentatively. She rocks back and forth, relishing the fullness, then undulates in circles as if it’s not his fingers she’s riding but his cock. She hears herself moan over the low, wet squelch every time his palm connects with her ass.
She bites her lip, shaking her head from side to side. The pressure is building up, hot and consuming in the deep depths of her belly, but it’s not —
Robby removes his hand completely. Her mouth drops open in immediate protest, only to snap shut an instant later — because his mouth is on her.
The scorching wetness of his tongue as he laps up her cunt from the back. Samira collapses helplessly into the couch, her eyes rolling back.
He doesn’t let her go, his arm latching around her belly to drag her closer, pushing her straight into his waiting mouth. He kisses her with his mouth wide open, his tongue out as if he’s making out with her lips instead. He laps her up like he’s intent on consuming her, and it’s the sheer desperation of it that makes her wild.
She opens her legs wider, and he hums deeply in approval, his tongue spearing into her, his nose bumping against her center as if nothing else matters.
He’s intent on it, searching inside her, experimental at first, as if he’s learning her taste. Then it becomes more serious, more direct; he’s decided he has to have her like this, to feel her unravel right against his mouth.
Samira doesn’t even realize she’s moving against his face, positioning herself right where she needs him most. He licks at her clit, then sucks it into his mouth. The directness of it shatters her composure.
She comes, with her fist in her mouth.
Robby presses her legs back down against the cushions, leaving a brief, wet kiss against her skin before pushing himself up. His hand cups her there, resting heavily. Samira is still breathing a mile a minute, feeling the weight of the sofa give as he moves over her.
He hovers over her on the sofa, his body a furnace, his weight almost claustrophobic. He kisses the spot between her shoulders. His free hand brushes her hair tenderly, his mouth at her ear as he whispers:
“I can’t fuck you.” His words are blunt, but his voice is scratchy, untethered. “Is this okay?”
One of his knees forces her legs apart. His hand moves slowly up and down against her cunt, tentative once more. When she doesn’t shiver or twitch away, his fingers delve into the familiar heat of her.
Samira nods, salivating against the leather.
His hand brushes aside the tangled curls clinging to the sweat of her neck.
“Yeah?”
She turns her head as much as she can, meeting his eyes. His scent is deep in her nostrils, a heavy lump forming in her throat. Like this, he completely smothers her.
She nods like he does.
He fits his arm under her. His palm wraps around her throat, his fingers and thumb pulling her chin up to force her eyes to stay on him. He’s tender to her here, but his fingers inside her cunt move fast and hard, leaving no respite.
The grip on her face is unyielding, demanding.
“Yeah,” she mumbles, eyelids heavy.
He seems satisfied with the answer; letting her go, he leans his full body weight over her. His arm drops to her front, fingertips finding her clit as he fucks her with his other hand.
Samira feels suffocated, tasting blood as she bites down hard on her lower lip to keep her moans from echoing through the living room.
Robby tears her in two — or at least, that's what the sheer intensity feels like. Her wetness is loud between them as he drives her out of her head, out of her body, and into pure sensation.
It’s nothing like she’s ever felt before — a mounting build-up that makes her eyes well with tears, making her lungs stutter until she's completely breathless, so exhausting it feels like she’s on the verge of a heart attack.
His mouth moves over her shoulders and the back of her neck, leaving heavy, sucking kisses that drive her higher. Overstimulated and whining, caught between wanting to run away and wanting to remain frozen — she can only hold on as Robby catapults her over the last line.
She comes sobbing.
Her body seizes, her legs trapping his hand as the orgasm stretches out, feeling as though it will go on forever. His thumb doesn’t leave her clit until she finally stops squirming against him, completely sure that she’s drenched his jeans through.
He unlatches from her back with a huff, moving so his knees bracket her legs.
The cool air is biting against her sweaty back. Samira breathes in and out, trying to calm herself down as the shot of endorphins to her bloodstream makes her laugh. To think they didn’t even have sex.
She then registers his hands brushing up and down her back in the semblance of a massage. She’s already fucked out, but the movement stirs something inside her again.
The feeling intensifies when his thumbs trace down to the dip of her spine and then to the sore spots on her cheeks.
She shivers. Her body is going to be a map of marks and bruises tomorrow.
The heavy weight of his body leaves the sofa, the leather groaning in protest as he stands. She remains turned toward the back cushions, her cheek pressed against the smooth material, her mouth dry as she listens to the quiet rustle of fabric while he gathers his clothes.
A moment later, the sound of running water echoes from her small kitchen. When his heavy footsteps return, she still doesn't sit up, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He bends down, scooping up the discarded throw blanket from the floor to gently drape it over her exposed shoulders. The weight of the fabric settles over her, instantly sealing away the cool air and her nakedness.
Samira’s chest tightens. They probably need to address this.
But Robby sets a glass of water down on the coffee table before he straightens up and steps back. Samira pushes herself up on an elbow, pulling the blanket tight around her chest. She reaches for the water, her throat parched, and drinks it all down in long, desperate swallows. When she sets the empty glass back down, she looks up.
His flannel is buttoned halfway, and he’s already sliding his arms into his dark, heavy jacket. The silence between them stretches, thick and heavy, but it isn't malicious.
Robby runs a hand through his hair, his dark eyes finally locking onto hers.
“Yeah,” he says, offering a small shake of his head. “Drinking like that... it doesn't agree with me anymore, at my age.”
Hearing it, a strange sense of calm washes over Samira. The self-deprecation brings him back to the man she’s known over the last four years.
“That’s okay,” she murmurs.
Robby pauses. He stands by her entryway, his hand hovering near his keys.
An intrusive thought pops into Samira’s mind.
She wonders what would happen if she asked him to stay the night. If she demanded he take off the jacket and climb into her actual bed. Would he take the request seriously? Or would his defenses go up, prompting him to write it off as her just feeling vulnerable, or worse - thinking she owed him something?
Before she can decide, Robby breaks the gaze. He gives her a single, definitive nod.
“Goodnight, Samira.”
The next time they’re on shift together, they’re back to their normal dynamic. He’s tough with her as always, reprimanding her whenever she lingers too long with a patient, and their July fight is still raw between them. The physical intimacy hasn’t breached through all that.
At least, she thinks.
But then, when they’re stuck together after a trauma the only two people left in the room or when they both happen to be in the small kitchen waiting for coffee, or whenever they have to work in close proximity with Robby hovering over her, the air between them tints with a quiet knowing.
It’s a tension she would want to explore if she had the courage. Something within reach whenever she's lonely. It surfaces especially when she’s back in her apartment alone after a bad shift, or when her dates tire her out, making her feel insecure and self-conscious.
Her phone screen lights up as she sits cross-legged on her sofa, her fingers hovering over his name in her messages.
It’s an itch - or perhaps she’s completely overtaken by someone else, another version of herself that is adventurous and impulsive, the way she is in private with a lover.
Do you want to come over?