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You were flicking through one of Robby’s old photo albums, the kind that smelled faintly of dust and developed film. Each page turned with a soft crackle, revealing a younger version of him — bright-eyed, still a med student, just beginning to step into the life he would build. Back when photos were printed, when memories had weight, texture, a gloss finish. And thank the heavens for that, because now you have tangible proof of just how much of a heartthrob he was.
He appears in the doorway a moment later, half-laughing as he walks toward you, the sound low and unguarded. “Don’t look at that,” he protests, though there’s no real conviction in it. He leans over your shoulder instead, warmth radiating off him, his chin brushing the top of your head.
“Robby,” you breathe out, shaking your head as you flip to another page. You squeeze his cheeks playfully, unable to help yourself. “You were so— God, you were the sweetest boy alive.”
He hums a little, noncommittal but pleased, sliding his arms around your waist as you both peer down at the snapshots. Some make him wince — nights out with too much alcohol and too little dignity, blurry smiles, hospital shift photos where he’s clearly running on caffeine and adrenaline, the little surgical cap making him look both ridiculous and endearing. Chicago years. A whole life ago.
You can almost see him there: the fluorescent-lit ER, the sound of pagers and heart monitors, the younger Robby who still carried all that eagerness in his eyes.
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice has softened, his breath warm against your neck.
“I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “if we’d been born around the same time… if you’d been there, back then.”
You glance back at him, smiling. “What then?”
His gaze lingers on the photo — on himself, so much younger, so certain and lost at once. Then it shifts to you, slower, more deliberate.
“I would’ve been obsessed with you,” he says simply, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, “even then.”
And the way he says it — like he’s realizing it might’ve always been true — makes your heart stumble all over again.
“Yeah? Would you pine after me for way too long before doing anything about it?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes, leaning in to press a kiss to your neck. You smell like something warm and familiar — laundry, skin, a hint of perfume — and when his beard grazes your skin, a shiver curls down your spine before you can stop it.
He hums against you, low and rough. “Mm, I was different back then,” he murmurs. “Way too confident. Total show-off. I would’ve made a fool of myself just to make you look my way.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, lips tugging up. “So… nothing’s changed?”
He huffs a laugh, squeezes your hips, and trails his mouth across your throat again — open-mouthed kisses that feel both playful and deliberate. “Shut up,” he mutters against your skin. “I would’ve been more straightforward. And faster. Wouldn’t have wasted any time.”
You grin, tilting your head a little to give him more room, pretending to keep your eyes on the photos while feeling him fight for your attention. His breath is warm against you, and the quiet rhythm of the album’s pages almost disappears under it.
He pauses just long enough to speak again, voice gentler now. “You would’ve hated me back then. Thought I was loud. Annoying. A complete child.”
You laugh softly, eyes flicking to the next page — a photo of him, maybe mid-twenties, beer in hand, shirt wrinkled, cheeks flushed. You notice something then: the faint glint of black nail polish on his fingers.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, bursting into laughter. “Not true. I would’ve thought you were so cool. Look at you — black nails and all. That was a brave move for the ancient times.”
He glances over your shoulder, scoffing, but there’s amusement tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, I was so hip,” he deadpans, dripping sarcasm.
You giggle, studying the photo again — that same soft grin, the same crinkle in his eyes, the same warmth that still lives there now. And then something catches the light — a small flash at the edge of his face.
Wait.
You lean closer, squinting. Tiny silver hoops glinting against his skin.
You blink, then whip your head toward him, eyes wide, scanning the curve of his ear like you might’ve missed something monumental. He looks puzzled, a little exasperated that you’ve stopped reacting to him mid-flirt.
“What?” he asks, suspicious now.
You gasp, pointing at him, half-laughing, half-in awe. “Oh my god. Your ears are pierced.”
He stares at you, expression flat, like this is the least shocking revelation in the world. “Yeah,” he says simply, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just rewrite the entire timeline of how attractive he’s ever been.
You gape at him. “You had earrings.”
He shrugs, already smiling again, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Had. Past tense.”
And you’re sitting there, fingers pressed against the photo, staring between the boy in the picture and the man beside you — same eyes, same mouth, but now armed with the devastating knowledge that somewhere in history, Michael Robinavitch wore hoops.
And you might never recover from it.
He sees the flicker of mischief in your eyes before you even open your mouth — and it’s over. He knows that look. You’ve found something new to fixate on.
Robby touches his ears almost instinctively, fingertips brushing the faint indentations like he’s double-checking that the past isn’t still hanging there. “But I haven’t worn earrings in, what… twenty years?” he says, half to himself. “I’d have to get them re-pierced — which, by the way, I’m not going to do.”
You shake your head immediately, lips curving. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll shove earrings into your ears myself.”
He snorts. “No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will, Robby. Oh my God, I can’t believe I’ve never noticed.”
He’s watching you now, amused, knowing exactly how this conversation will end — you’re relentless once you decide something’s cute. “It’s not like you’re actually going to do anything about it.”
“Yes, I will.” You cross your arms, mock-offended. And that’s when he realizes — he’s doomed. That spark in your eyes means the idea’s already alive, and whether he wants it or not, it’s happening.
“I’ll get you earrings,” you continue, too excited to stop. “Any kind you want. Seriously, you want hoops? I can give you hoops.”
“No.”
“Studs?”
“No.”
“Robby, come on, colorful studs! Blue ones. Or maybe little stars—”
“No.” He’s laughing now, trying and failing to sound firm.
“Robby, why not?”
He gives a helpless little shrug, corners of his mouth twitching. “Because…” He pauses, looking at you. “I’m not, you know, twenty anymore.”
You groan dramatically, stomping your foot like a teenager. “These things don’t have an age limit! Don’t you love when I wear pretty earrings?”
That gets him. He grins — slow, knowing — because of course he does. He’s always been a little obsessed with the way you pair them with your clothes, the way you tilt your head when you put them on. He won’t admit it, but he notices every time.
“That,” he says, “has nothing to do with this.”
You raise a brow, voice sweet and sharp all at once. “Well, you love me, right?”
He smirks. “No, I don’t.”
You slap his arm, laughing, and he catches you in his arms before you can pull away, his chest shaking against your back. You both look down at the photo again — the younger him with his little silver hoops, smirking like he knows the power he holds even back then.
You sigh, feigning surrender. “Fine. I’ll just take this photo and masturbate to how good you look every night until I collapse from sheer exhaustion.”
He freezes for half a second — then groans. “Studs!” he blurts, nearly choking on his own laugh. “Studs, fine. I’ll wear small studs. If you insist so heavily.”
You grin, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”
He just shakes his head, smiling into your shoulder — because the truth is, you’ve already won. You always do.
The next day at work, Frank does a double take the moment Robby walks into the staff room. His eyes narrow slightly, lingering on the small, gleaming studs in Robby’s ears.
Robby feels the stare before he even looks up from the chart in his hands. He raises an eyebrow, deadpan. “What?”
Frank’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk. He shakes his head once, like he’s already pieced it together. “Nothing.”
Robby exhales through his nose, the faintest hint of a grin breaking through. Without missing a beat, he flicks the strap of his surgical mask at Frank’s shoulder before walking off toward the ER doors.
And Frank’s quiet laugh follows him down the hall — because everyone knows exactly whose idea it was.