The broom closet smelled faintly of bleach and industrial-grade floor wax, which would've been distracting if Robby's grip on your hair wasn't so insistent. His thumb traced the shell of your ear absently while his other hand braced against the wall, knuckles white where they pressed into the drywall. You could hear the muffled clatter of a medication cart rolling past the door, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, but all of that faded under the quiet, punched-out noise Robby made when you swallowed around him.

The door clicked open with the kind of slow, inevitable creak that horror movies reserved for jump scares—except this was Dennis Whitaker’s shocked inhale that froze the scene, not a violin screech. Robby didn’t even flinch, just turned his head slightly, still buried in your mouth, and muttered, “Whitaker—Out.” His voice was frayed at the edges, rough in a way that made your tongue press harder just to hear it again.

Whitaker's face cycled through expressions like a faulty PowerPoint presentation—shock, horror, fascination, then a mortified kind of understanding—before he backpedaled so fast his stethoscope nearly flew off. The door slammed shut with a click so sharp it might as well have been a gunshot.

“Fuck—Just like that, sweetheart,” Robby groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair as Whitaker’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway. You didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down—if anything, the adrenaline of being caught sharpened your focus, made you hollow your cheeks just to hear that ragged hitch in Robby’s breathing. “Christ, you’re perfect.”