koshki
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Darnell nodded, glancing over Robby like he was trying to place him in the hierarchy of important to ignorable and it could go either way. "What's this?"
"MSF FNG," Jack shot back. Whatever that meant, he sounded amused.
Darnell scoffed and looked to Robby, expression going decidedly unimpressed. "Oh, yeah? You here to find yourself? Have an adventure? Do something hard?" he asked, each question more mocking than the last.
And there was that question again, like it was haunting Robby. He stifled his instinct to bite back and kept it simple: "I'm here to help."
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The night before his very first shift as an MS3 in PTMC, Robby meets a guy at a bar and goes home with him—it's perfect, but it's definitely just a one-night stand, especially when he bumps into the guy in the hospital the next morning: Jack Abbot, MS4, who doesn't even seem to remember Robby. Many, many years later, the Pitt Christmas after-party is at the same seedy bar, and it turns out Jack did remember, after all.
Bookmarked by koshki
28 Aug 2026
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An unexpected break-up means Robby ends up going to Pittfest with Jake after all. He asks Abbot to cover half his shift, and Abbot is happy to agree—surely half a day shift can't be nearly as chaotic as the usual night shift. Everything that happens later changes his perspective on plenty of things, from just how crazy the day shift can get, to where exactly he wants to stand with Robby.
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Bookmarked by koshki
28 Aug 2026
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Jack looked from the intern picture to Robby again, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. "Jesus, this is like a recipe." He gestured between the picture and Robby, young and old. "It's like twink plus seasoning equals daddy. Fuck," he said, a kind of helpless note to it. Then he walked out, like he hadn't just dropped a bomb on Robby's head.
What did that mean?
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Bookmarked by koshki
27 Aug 2026
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A big, broad-shouldered man came through the door, the look of a long-haul trucker hanging around him like a ratty coat. He was wearing old oil-stained jeans and a frayed flannel shirt thrown over a white t-shirt, his scuffed boots peeling up at the toes with age.
He had the air of a man who’d reached the end of his rope. He had a battered wide-brimmed hat pulled low to cover his long, frazzled hair, half of which was scraped back into a loose tail. He had dark hair and dark skin and dark eyes that were framed by the deep-set bruises Arthur only ever saw on long-haulers and cattlemen, the marks of too many nights at the wheel or in the saddle, the normal rhythms of life stretched out and pulling at the seams.
The feller was handsome. Arthur noticed that as an afterthought, his breath catching in his chest. Under the bruises and the loose strands of hair, the feller was handsome. His eyes were bright and keen.
“Uh,” said Arthur, caught flat-footed by the unanticipated surge of attraction tightening his belly. “Hi.”
The feller looked Arthur dead in the eye. “I need all of the caramel sauce that you have,” he said.
(or, a coffee shop au. yeah. i know.)