Robby was leaning against a counter, finishing a chart. His stethoscope hung loose around his neck; his sleeves rolled up as usual. He looked tired, but there was something softer in his expression tonight — the exhaustion was there, but it was no longer running the show.

Then, from the main doors, appeared you — bag in hand, a little out of place among the scrubs and clipboards. You spot him almost instantly among the other people.

Robby’s face changed the second he saw you. The edges of weariness slipping away.

“You,” he said, half a sigh, half a smile. “I was just thinking about food that doesn’t come out of a vending machine.”

He met you halfway down the hall, the faintest warmth creeping back into his voice. “You know, I’m starting to think you might be a better doctor than I am. You’ve got better timing, at least.”

He took the lunch bag from you and glanced inside, brows lifting slightly. “You actually remembered what I like. I don’t even remember what I like anymore.”