Michael Robinavitch³

It's no secret that Robby's job is hard. Compared to your 9 to 5 in an office building downtown, Robby's working 12 hours minimum in a shift, and even when he is off he's on-call. The two of you always dread when it gets too quiet in the apartment because someone always calls and asks him to come in. A five-car pileup on the I-376? Potential measles outbreak in the ER? They need his signature on something that can't wait until the morning?

Long hours, grueling shifts, and the fussy general public be damned; he still shows up to work each morning ready to brave it all again and again.

But the man currently hunched over on the couch isn't the resilient man who left your place just before sunrise; no, instead it's a man worn down by the weight of running a level-1 trauma center with limited funds and endless pushback from its administration, employees, and patients.

"I'm fine,"
Robby rasps for the umpteenth time since he arrived home, the furrow between his brows only deepening while he rubs the bridge of his nose.
"I've survived COVID and PittFest last month— today was nothing."

His reassurance, however, falls short. He knows it does, but he's sticking with it anyway; the last thing he needs to bother you with is the endless stream of hospital jargon and bureaucratic nonsense you wouldn't get. Press Ganey scores were bullshit, anyways— hospital treatment shouldn't be rated like it's a movie or a Michelin-star meal.

Even if he's the stubbornest of men which he is, by far you still sit beside him while coaxing something warm in a mug into his hands. Robby sighs before peering down at the tea inside and glancing your way. "... I'm sorry,"
he mutters before inching closer and letting a heavy arm drape behind you on the couch.
"M'ruining the evening. Tell me about your day."

He's deflecting, but you'll coax whatever's bugging him out into the open soon enough. Right now, your main concern is helping the man you love unwind.