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They're barely around the curtain before Santos is looking animated but trying unsuccessfully to hide it.
"What was that?" she hisses excitedly.
"That was a patient flirting with me," Heather replies.
It wasn't even that overt, really. Compound fracture of the fibula. Trying to be stoic. Once the pain meds began to kick in, he was more honest about how much it was hurting. He was also smiling at her in a very particular way every time she touched his arm.
"Right," Santos says. "But why is it always a certain kind of dude with you?"
"Hmm?"
Heather looks at Mohan, who keeps her eyes on her chart for a long moment as her mouth curves into an ever bigger smile.
The girl finally says, "You are kind of a magnet for cute beardy white guys."
“Low key with brown ones, too,” Santos adds. “The one last week was Puerto Rican.”
Collins narrows her eyes like she's confused, but she's absolutely not. It is definitely A Thing She Has Noticed. It mostly amuses her. They're usually sweet.
(When they're not, she has no problem pulling in someone else, usually someone male, or else calling security, depending on their specific severity of not-sweetness.)
Sometimes it's dudebros who seem halfway surprised that they're doing it, and it doesn't really go anywhere. Sometimes it's guys that have nothing whatsoever to offer her except what she can only imagine would be some pretty good sex and 99 problems, but they still offer anyway.
At this very moment, the cute beardy white guy around here that she's actually slept with — one who fits neither of those categories — comes flying by, stopping just long enough to say:
"Can I borrow Dr. Mohan?"
Her face does not flush, but she gives enough of a double take — and her response is delayed enough, flustered even — that Santos's eyes go wide.
She just nods her head at Mohan and tries her best not to let her eyes follow him down the hall.
Of course Santos knows their history. Seems like every damn body does. But most people aren't stupid enough to try to press her on it.
Trinity Santos is not most people.
"Shut it," she says preemptively, half under her breath.
And Santos does, but only for a hot minute. They're on their way to a new patient when she blurts out:
"It's just that I'm trying to picture him as a young attending. Was he always this intense?"
She just stares at Santos.
"C'mon," the girl says, conspiratorial like she's Princess or Perlah. "You know I don't want to steal him away from—"
"First off, I do not have him," she snaps out. "Even if I did, you and I both know that's not the reason I don't want to talk about it. So stop acting like that's even on my mind.” She's walking faster now, building up a nice righteous wind. "Like everybody else in this hospital, I know you're not interested in men, and even if you were, he's your boss and, even more importantly, you don't have a time machine."
"Wow," Santos replies, apparently completely undeterred and keeping pace with her again. "That's a lot of words to say you don't want to contemplate how adorable younger Dr. Robby may or may not have been."
She stops now, hoping to impress upon the girl how seriously she doesn't want to do this — at all but especially here — with a nice staredown, but she perhaps unwisely decides to do that by leaning into it:
"Just as intense, Dr. Santos," she says, "but in a completely different way." They've stopped just short of the second corner, so she whirls back into motion, throwing off the next words behind her: "And annoyingly handsome, with or without the beard."
"Without the beard?" Santos is saying behind her, awe evident in her voice, as though it's just now occurring to her, present conversation notwithstanding, that Michael Robinavitch was not always a middle aged man in a hoodie who sighs a lot and uses readers.
That awe makes Heather feel like being mischievous.
"If you need to see a picture," she says, "he was published in the JMEPA as a resident. If you know how to search PubMed, you should be able to find a small headshot of him that made otherwise reasonable colleagues, of all genders, seek him out at conferences and introduce themselves."
"No way."
"Ask Dana later," she says before pulling the curtain.
Later is almost three hours later, but apparently Trinity Santos is all in on her completely unnecessary investigation.
"Dana Dana Dana," she says, "What do I need to know about this medical journal headshot of hot young Dr. Robby?"
She snorts, saying, "Not sure you're allowed to combine those last four words. Ever."
But Dana is low-key blushing — maybe more flustered than excited, but it’s something to see. Okay, Collins thinks, so this is definitely kind of fun.
Dana, who apparently agrees, punctuates her directive by playfully bringing a clipboard down flat against the top of Santos's head, then she says, "It's really something else. You wanna see?"
Because of course Dana has a copy saved in a Facebook album.
Heather can't actually remember if there's a beard in that picture. When she first met him, he went back and forth for a while. He hated maintaining a smooth face, and he hated having it, especially when people mistook his kind eyes and youthful beauty for a whole range of things they weren't. But beards were a lot of work in their own way, especially getting to that length. What he hated the most was the in-between, the length of stubble that Jack Abbot seems to rock on purpose half the time but that makes Robby itchy and cranky. Cute, but definitely not as cute as full beard or no beard.
Also: Burned like hell on her face. And between her breasts. And between her thighs.
"Jesus," Santos says. "It's like if a twink was also a DILF."
Ah. No beard, then.
Dana smacks her with the clipboard again. "Add those terms to the list, Dr. Santos."
Garcia has apparently been near enough to hear most of the exchange, because she suddenly shuffles up behind them and squints at the picture.
Heather takes in her appraising reaction — positive and astounded — then delights in how quickly Garcia figures out something to lob at them like a bomb as she walks away:
"Feeling my Kinsey four stretching toward a three."
Santos's eyes go wide, then they narrow, then she looks like she's not sure whether to be indignant or amused.
Then Garcia adds, calling out more loudly than she should: "You want baby-faced stud, Google doctor Jack Abbot promotion to Captain ."
Naturally, they immediately do. Without the years, and without the persistent graying stubble that she now realises is a kind of shield, he looks impossibly young. Standing tall in desert fatigues, he does look like a guy attractive enough in the right way to make a marginal bisexual have a real identity crisis.
At this point, Mohan and Javadi, hearing the phrase baby-faced stud used in the same sentence as Dr. Jack Abbot , are inbound.
Javadi grins, proclaiming him "very cute" the way you would in reaction to the photo of a puppy. Mohan, on the other hand, raises her eyebrows and indulges in a small smile.
Then Santos says, "Is he that freckly? I never noticed."
She looks at Mohan, who reacts in horror at being called out, however subtly, and begins to drift away. Javadi shrugs and follows in her wake.
Heather is pretty sure Samira Mohan knows exactly how freckly Jack Abbot is, has contemplated it a million times, has chastized herself about it 999,999 times. But that one time is all it takes for a crush to really take hold.
It's both a shame and a blessing, she thinks, that Abbot is almost certainly going to keep her at arm's length. A resident. Too young. Love is unnecessary anyway.
Then again, nobody would have thought careful, practical, wise-beyond-his-years Dr. Michael Robinavitch would end up not just sleeping with one of the residents but pursuing her himself.
She thinks nobody has ever been as down bad for her as Robby was, in his own weird way. It was intoxicating, and that was part of why it couldn't last.
The strangest part about finally telling him about the baby that never was? Feeling like she could see it in his eyes again. He suddenly looked six years younger, like she was telling his old self. But that man wouldn't have reacted with such easy kindness. He would have wanted to, but things would have been too complicated. Of course, she would have been part of the problem, too. They have both done some growing since then. Sometimes she wonders what it would be like if they met now, but she knows that if now were to ever happen, it could only be because of then.
The least strange but hardest part of telling him about the abortion was how it made her want to kiss him. She was terrified, in the moment, needing to blurt it all out, but then once it was no longer weighing on her heart, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him. Not that she did. Hormones were a dangerous thing, almost as dangerous as they were together, at least back then.
When she learned of the shooting the next morning, realized what she'd missed, she ached for how she couldn't be there to be part of the team. When she saw him again, it looked like it had taken the wind out of him. She wanted to hug him, which was odd. They’d never been big on affection like that before. He had been solicitous and gentle, but they avidly tried to avoid feeling like they were creating a romance. Something real, yes, but nothing that would get in their way, professionally. Nothing like now, the way she always wants to have her hands on him.
The feeling chases her — when she passes him in the corridors and he dispatches her somewhere with a shorthand directive that nobody but her would understand, when she lays down to sleep at night and her skin is buzzing with want, when they have a wordless conversation over Whitaker's head and he lets her have her way because he trusts her gut, when she joins them in the park after a hellish day and his fingers brush hers as he hands her a beer.
She doesn't even like beer. That’s the hell of it. She sat on the bench, freezing her ass off in November, because that is where he remembers to smile.
That night in the park, a few weeks ago, she realized that he's always watching her because he likes to, and he mostly doesn't care about the risk of someone else seeing it, especially when they're not on the job.
A few days later, she realized it was not quite that, actually. He is willing to risk it because he wants her to see it.
Today, it's closer to Christmas than Thanksgiving, and she heads into the locker room with him at the end of another shift that became a soul-swallowing mess, momentary blast from the past notwithstanding. Everyone else has already dispersed.
"No park tonight, I guess," she says as he loads up his backpack.
"Sometimes," he says, "there's a vibe. Sometimes, the vibe is to go home and go to bed."
"What about you?" she asks.
"Hmm?"
"You don't look sleepy. Tired, but not sleepy."
"Yep."
"Can I buy you breakfast?"
His eyes snap up, and she realizes how that sounded.
"Now, I mean," she clarifies. "Not…"
He smiles in recognition. Then, in a measured tone, eyes back on his backpack again, he says, "Why?"
"Breakfast isn't just for mornings."
"I meant why…at all?"
"Because you're good company. Because you deserve it."
He rolls his eyes at that, of course he does, but she can see that it lands a little.
Quickly, his face lights into a knowing grin. "And you like pancakes," he says.
"So do you, Michael."
"You just used my actual name. Am I in trouble here?"
He only looks mildly concerned about that, so she playfully responds, "Do you think you're in trouble?"
"Oh, no no. I will not be tricked into turning that into an open question." He shakes his head, a grin still ghosting his otherwise desperately calm expression. "No, Heather, I don't think I'm in trouble."
It's the way he says her name, like it's not at all casual, like maybe he could tell you the actual date that he stopped using it and precisely why.
Like he has been waiting for her to give him permission to do it again.
So she fixes her eyes on his and lets something mischievous warm her expression, saying, "Not yet, you're not."
She lays her hand on his arm, affecting casualness when this feels anything but casual.
He squints at her for all the world like he's trying to interpret the words of a patient or figure out how to explain something to a very green intern. She's surprised he doesn't rub his hand over his eyes and beard.
Finally, he fixes her in a pointed look: "This is how this happens?"
"What happens?" she replies, honestly a little annoyed with him in the moment, unwilling to play around about this anymore. She steps back, rolling her eyes. "You mean, I stop waiting for you to make a move and attempt to seduce you with maple syrup?"
At the word seduce , she feels a zing of embarrassment, like this is entirely too melodramatic and also not the way she wanted to go about this. But he laughs, this beautiful, involuntary thing, and she thinks the best thing about older Robby is the wrinkles at his eyes when he smiles.
He does rub a hand over his beard now. She will never, ever get over how she was the one that made him grow it. It wasn't that he wanted to impress her. He already had her. One night he was whining about the in-between stage of his facial hair, and she told him to make a decision: get a head start on either clinging to your youth or aging gracefully. Either way, stop bitching about it , she'd said, and save me from the stubble burn.
"You know why I haven't…" he says softly.
"I know." She nods, but then she remembers she feels far less decisive than that, cocking her head to the side. "I mean, if I'd known that you were waiting, I'd know why."
"Clearly, you missed some signals," he says. He pauses, but not too long, because it seems to stretch heavy. "Did I miss any?"
She holds out her hand, and he takes it, instantly covering it with his other hand.
"Nope," she replies.
He smiles, and his voice has a nice, theatrically patient tone as he asks,"Does it have anything to do with the giggling interns that have been pointedly staring at me today?" At this, he does roll his eyes. "Forcing me, by the way, to get out of Dana that another group of initiates has learned the sacred lore of the Beardless Dr. Robby Headshot."
She giggles a little, saying in mock seriousness: "Santos genuinely might be building an altar to the power of your dimples as we speak."
"Shut up," he murmurs.
"They were just as flustered by pictures of young Captain Dr. Abbot, looking mighty fine in that uniform."
As she expected, his gaze snaps to hers again. He's not the type to smolder with jealousy, but he can be adorable in failing to hide when he's feeling territorial.
Reaching out to cup his cheek in her hand, she adds, as either a peace offering or a method of distraction, she isn't sure which: "Did Dana also tell you that I'm apparently a quote 'cute beardy white guy magnet'?"
Her thumb smooths over the side of his mustache, and his head ducks adorably. It's too much, too soon, or maybe just not enough, but they both find themselves pulling apart, almost physically willing this to be nice and easy. It feels good.
"Cause or effect?" he asks.
"Patient looked like he wanted to give me his phone number this morning. Santos couldn't let it go."
She doesn't tell him she couldn't let it go either.
"Was he cute?"
She shrugs, then says, "But I'll give it to him — he was stoned on pain meds and still smooth as a motherfucker."
He starts a little at her expletive, but not because he's bothered. He always did like when she let herself be vulgar.
He says, "I was under the impression that smooth makes you suspicious."
"Lucky for you."
The walk out to the parking deck is quiet. He's fun to talk to, but he's also fun to just be with, if what you're being is on steady ground. This is getting there.
When they reach the point that he needs to break from her and head the other way, he stops.
"So…" he says. "Pancakes?"
"Whatever you want."
He raises his eyebrows playfully. He will eternally be 29, burning up inside and no idea what to do about it. Just like he has always been 49, carrying weight on his shoulders, some of it yours, if you let him. It's a heady combination, especially because, like a nice red wine, he continues to evolve.
She leans forward and plants a kiss on his lips. When she pulls back, he reaches out to hold her neck in his hands. Still waiting for permission.
"Kiss me?" she says, and he does — a little too carefully, but it's still enough for her to taste him again and to feel the way his presence fills her up. It's the kind of kiss you feel down to your toes, that makes you remember talking to your grandma about how you'd recognize love when it came to you.
You just know , she'd said.
It turned out love was significantly more complicated than that, borne aloft or shot down by so many other things, but it did have to start there.
Robby does not let the kiss linger. They are, after all, standing in the parking deck.
It's also cold as hell outside, so he just shoves his hands into his pockets and says, "I'm up a level. Meet you at Haverty's?"
"It's a plan."
"Whoever gets there last pays."
"Whoever is less willing to break the law when parking, you mean?"
"You have a head start, Collins," he replies, in full on cheeky bastard mode, and she doesn't even roll her eyes. She just begins walking briskly toward her car.