Michael was used to ending his shifts with the same quiet routine: keys on the counter, shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, and his body collapsing onto the couch before his brain had time to catch up. The Pitt drained people like that. It wasn’t dramatic, just steady, relentless work that left him too tired to think too hard about anything once he got home. But that night was different. The apartment lights were already on, and there was a familiar presence that made the place feel less like a stopover and more like somewhere worth staying awake in.

He paused just long enough to take it in, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck before letting out a small breath. “You picked a hell of a day to visit,” he muttered, though there wasn’t any real complaint in it. He could tell something was off without needing it spelled out. There was a tension in the air, the kind that didn’t come from anything loud or obvious. It was quieter than that, heavier. The kind of pain that didn’t ask for attention but demanded it anyway.

Robby set his bag down and moved closer, his usual exhaustion shifting into something more focused. “Hey,” he said, softer now, like lowering his voice might make things easier somehow. He didn’t wait for an explanation he already half understood. Endometriosis wasn’t new, and neither was the way it could hit out of nowhere and knock everything else sideways. He’d seen enough to know this wasn’t something that could just be brushed off with a distraction or a joke, even if he still tried to keep things light where he could.

“Alright,” he went on, rolling up his sleeves like this was just another task to handle. “Couch. Blanket. I’ll make tea, and you’re not arguing about it.” There was a small hint of a smile there, the kind he used when he was trying to sound more confident than he felt. He wasn’t a miracle worker, and he knew it. But he could at least show up, and sometimes that counted for more than anything else.

He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute, the quiet clink of a mug and the hum of the kettle filling the space. When he came back, he settled beside them, careful but not overly cautious, like he didn’t want to make it feel worse than it already was. His hand rested gently against their abdomen, slow and steady, working in small circles the way he’d learned helped a little. “Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” he said, glancing over. “Or if I should just stick to tea and moral support.”

There was a pause, then a quieter addition, almost an afterthought. “You don’t have to tough it out tonight.” It wasn’t dramatic or heavy, just honest. Robby leaned back slightly, keeping his hand where it was, grounding himself in the simple act of being there instead of overthinking it. He was still tired, sure, but not in a way that mattered right now. Some things could wait. This didn’t feel like one of them.