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Summary
Dennis Whitaker can work the ER on caffeine, adrenaline, and pure spite. He can charm patients, antagonise coworkers, argue with anyone in authority, and keep moving long past the point any sane person would collapse.
Dr. Michael Robinavitch sees straight through him. Chief attending, unflappable to nonsense, and far too perceptive for Dennis’s comfort, Robby becomes the one person who refuses to be distracted by Whitaker’s reckless competence and practiced chaos. What begins as curiosity sharpens into something far more dangerous: trust.
Series
- Part 1 of No Control
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Bookmark Notes:
Dom/Sub Robby & Dennis
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Bookmark Notes:
Robby draws him closer by the waist until their legs tangle again beneath the blankets, both of them instinctively reclaiming warmth from the room and from the reality of the hour. Dennis turns his head to look at him again, smiling openly now, and Robby has the strange, sharp thought that he would like to engineer mornings like this repeatedly.
The thought is inconvenient. So he says, casually, “Stay tonight.”
Dennis’s brows lift, considering him with maddening calm. “Ask properly.”
Robby narrows his eyes, then sighs with theatrical suffering. “Dennis Whitaker,” he says flatly, “would you please stay tonight?”
Dennis lets the silence drag just long enough to be obnoxious.
Then: “‘Kay.”
The answer lands deeper than Robby expected, he disguises this with dryness.
“Excellent decision.”
“You romantic creature.”
“I contain hidden depths.”
*
*
*
*
*He likes this. Not only the night itself, though that had been difficult to fault. Not only the release of finally stepping into something both of them had circled for far too long. He likes the aftermath. He likes the quiet clink of spoon against ceramic in his kitchen, likes the sight of someone moving through his space. He likes seeing Dennis in clothes that belong to him.
This is where matters become truly hazardous. Desire is manageable. Attraction is manageable. Even sex can be filed away under adult decisions made with clarity and mutual enthusiasm. But tenderness, domesticity, knowing, without asking, how someone takes their coffee. Remembering it months later, suspecting that you may need that information again.
The machine finishes dripping. Robby pours two mugs, then adds milk to one before he carries the mug across and sets it beside him.
Dennis looks up, surprise crossing his face first, followed quickly by amusement. “You remember how I take it.”
“I remember everything annoying,” Robby grumbles under his breath, feigning irritation.
Dennis smiles into the spoon before taking another bite.