a sharpie that fucking works

you went through the motions, went about your business, seeing to patients, trying desperately to adhere to gloria's stupid acronyms. ADF, always discharge first. you did your best that day, really, but she might as well have been asking the pitt's staff to move mountains with their bare hands. maybe you were so preoccupied by the oppressive statistics and the fact that the last thing you (or anyone, for that matter) wanted was for her to make a trip down there that you didn't realize how agitated the patient you were assessing was getting.

one moment, you were standing at the computer, clicking through their file and listening to them as they spoke, and the next, you were on the floor. things were going fine, there was no reason for this person to be so combative, but here you were, sprawled on the floor, blinking up at the sterile white light above you. for a split second, you didn't feel anything, but then pain bloomed in the back of your skull and over the bridge of your nose. it prickled with heat and you felt almost nauseous with the change.

it wasn't long before you'd found yourself in a quiet room with langdon, who insisted on being the one to check for a concussion and other injuries. he ran all the tests you were familiar with and had done a million times by then, and while you'd been friends for a long time, it still caught you off guard when he leaned in close. his breath was hot on your face and his long lashes were so visible that you could count each curl individually.

you stared at one another for a long, lingering moment, everything suspended in time. you felt like a bit you were the only two people in the universe. there was a dark urge to do something you knew you shouldn't do, but you couldn't help feeling it anyway, the proximity of his mouth to yours absolutely dizzying. it seemed like he was weighing the same options, reasoning it out, telling himself that he shouldn't. that was the right answer, as much as you would have liked to know what he tasted like, because you couldn't do that to him, to his wife.

in spite of all the reasons to not do it, the tension snapped anyway and you fell into one another like puzzle pieces slotting into place together. he tasted like wintergreen, crisp and clean and cool. you would have expected something tangier, something citrusy and sweet like the red bulls you'd seen him drink every morning in the few years that you'd known each other, but you liked this too. you liked it a lot.

apparently, he did too because it kept happening. you felt guilty about it, doing this to abby when you'd met her so many times and considered her more than a friend than an acquaintance, but you couldn't make yourself stop. this was the first real attention you'd gotten from a partner in an embarrassing amount of time after your last one had broken up with you out of the blue before christmas. every time it happened, you told yourself that it would be the last time. frank had echoed the sentiment.

but it never was. chance meetings in recently discharged rooms, the empty ghost town of the unstaffed eighth floor, the dark top level of the staff parking garage after the end of a shift. where he went, you followed and vice versa. you wished things were different.

then one day, it was.

hot day in september, shift from hell. new medical students had just started their first day and you'd been through a fentanyl overdose, a pediatric drowning, a mass shooting. your days weren't typically this terrible, but you felt heavy, like you were waterlogged. all you wanted was to go home, drink a glass of wine, try to compartmentalize the pain from today.

you'd found frank in the ambulance bay during an attempt to get a breath of fresh air before you packed your things up and headed out for the night. he had disappeared earlier in the shift and when you'd asked around about it, nobody had an answer; robby, suspiciously, changed the subject. of course, he'd shown up again after the start of the MCI, which robby hadn't seemed to pleased about. you'd not been able to catch him by himself to ask what was going on and if there was anything you hated, it was being left out of the loop.

"what happened to you earlier?" you asked, taking up your post to his right, looking up at him in the yellow light of the ambulance bay. you watched his jaw tick, something in his expression shuttering closed that filled you with apprehension.

he turned toward you then, something cold and distant in his gaze. even deeper, there was something desperate, something regretful, like whatever he was about to do or say was tearing him up inside. "we have to stop doing this."

you swallowed hard, stared back at him. of course, you'd known this was going to come someday because of course it would. he would choose his wife and his children over you, and you couldn't be angry with him for it, but that didn't mean it didn't feel like a knife in your back. you sniffed and nodded, keeping yourself even tempered.

"okay," you replied, the word breathless and trailing off. that didn't answer your question though, so you told him as much. "why'd you leave? i couldn't find you anywhere and robby was being super cagey about it when i asked him."

unsurprisingly, frank got cagey too. he clearly didn't want to tell you the truth, but you were unrelenting and the conversation soon devolved into bickering thereafter. you'd never argued with him like this before. there was playful banter, of course, but never a serious fight, never an argument. he gesticulated wildly, brows furrowed and cheeks red and blue eyes bright. it wasn't until you outright demanded an answer that he broke.

"jesus, fine," he snapped, which made you take a step away from him involuntarily. he noticed and a hurt expression flashed across his face. "i'd rather you hear this from me than from whatever rumor ends up getting around this place."

he told you then: a benzo addiction, stealing from the hospital, santos figuring it out and telling robby. in-patient rehab, random drug tests, and narcotics anonymous meetings were the only things in his future. suddenly, the langdon you'd been seeing for a long time made sense, all the sweating and the irritability and the restlessness. your heart sank because you'd seen the signs, you'd witnessed all of them professionally and personally, and you hadn't noticed the pattern.

that was the thing about addicts though. some knew how to hide it and when you worked so closely with someone, all of their little eccentricities became normal. this wasn't your fault, you knew that logically, but emotionally, it was hard to remind yourself. you didn't know what to say, so you didn't say anything. he was the first to leave. you didn't turn around to watch him walk through the ambulance bay doors.

you didn't think you could handle it. you were probably right.

the last time you saw frank langdon was in the ambulance bay ten months ago, looking at you, torn between anger and desperation. you hadn't spoken to him in the time he'd been gone, wanting him to focus on his recovery, scared that if you reached out it might fuck something up for him. the guilt you felt—that you still feel—didn't help.

he stands before you now on one of the hottest days of the year, the nurse's station separating you. it's only a handful of feet, but it feels like the grand canyon, the two of you standing on opposite sides. he looks different now, steadier but less confident, which you suppose ten months would do to a person.

you're not sure what to say, so you don't say anything. you just give him a nod and a professional smile and then you carry on with your day.

he catches you in the break room some time later, looking unsure of himself, like maybe he thinks he shouldn't be doing this. you don't blame him for that either. coming back to work, knowing that there's a rumor mill about you that's been turning for nearly a year, knowing you'll be in an environment that could put you in a bad spot—it must be difficult.

this must be difficult too, working with the person you had a months-long affair with.

"how have things been?" he asks and it's tentative. you've never heard him sound like this. you hate it.

"alright, i guess," you answer as you dig through the fridge for the can of soda you keep hidden so that nobody steals it. you shrug a little, not really glancing at him, unsure of what it'll do to you. "what about you?"

he tells you that it's been a battle, but he's glad to be back. he says he's been clean almost a hundred and ninety days, a new year's resolution, a fresh start. some days are really difficult, but others are great. admittedly, today hasn't been the best, but he's getting there. he's proud of it.

"and abby? your kids?"

you're not an idiot. you saw the wedding band on his left ring finger when he came in, right where it always was. he never took it off, even when he had his hand down your pants pushing you over that ledge. you don't know whether you hoped he would still be wearing it or not when he came back, but the turn in your stomach makes you realize that you wish it would have been gone.

"they're great," he murmurs. he seems to recognize how loaded your question is, how heavy the burden between you. "i'm lucky. any other woman probably would have taken the kids and left. i wouldn't have blamed her if she did, but… she stayed."

you've had ten months to process this. he'd put a definitive end to your relationship when he left that night in september and you'd done your best to move on. you're even kind of seeing someone now, which is going great. you miss frank though and maybe a terrible, despicable part of you had hoped that this wouldn't be the case for him, that maybe there was a chance.

so you ignore the way your heart cracks cleanly in two and you offer him a reassuring smile when you turn toward him, closing the fridge door behind you. "i'm glad you have a good support system, frank."

the half smile he gives in return is lopsided, a little toothy, and he nods. something in the air eases. you're grateful for it, having been damn near suffocated in the tension.

"me too."

he's straightforward about it the way he is about a lot of things. he's never liked sugarcoating or padding things out. if he wants you to know something, he tells you the way it is. he's just a little softer about it with you than the way he is with the other people in his life, mostly at work with difficult patients.

you grin at your phone. thank you, frankie!! you add a bunch of heart emojis to the end and when he reacts to your message with a heart emoji of his own, you feel yourself go terribly soft.

by the time frank gets home, you've been admiring your new manicure for a long while. the nail technician you've been going to since you started getting your nails done a few months ago did a great job as always. your nails are perfectly shaped and the polish is crisp and clean, a pretty pink shimmer. whenever you get a glimpse, you stop and look for a second just to admire them.

frank seems equally as appreciative of them as you are. when he gets home, he asks you if you got your nails done yet and when you tell him yes, he asks to see them. you reach your hands out, palms down, and he takes them in his, his fingers gently braced on the underside of your hand.

"they're so pretty, baby," he says, peering down at them for a moment longer before looking back up at you. he smiles and the corners of his eyes wrinkle cutely in that way you love so much. he leans down to press a kiss to your lips, which you accept happily, before he pulls away and starts asking after dinner.

you think his appreciation ends there, but it doesn't. in fact, it's not until later when you're getting a little frisky that the true extent of it (and by extension, the reason why he paid for your nails) comes out.

he's sprawled out on the couch, head tipped back as you slide down onto the floor and tuck yourself between his parted legs. you work at the button and zipper of his jeans, careful not to scuff or chip your polish. he lifts his hips for you to slide both his pants and his boxers down, just enough for you to comfortably free his hard cock, already leaking precum over his tip.

you take his length into your hand, mouth watering with the thought of getting him on your tongue. your thumb smooths over his tip, smearing the liquid along his skin, which makes him hiss beautifully. you have a one-track mind, deadset on getting him in your mouth as fast as possible, but he stays you with a hand on your head before you can make good on your desire.

"so fucking pretty, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and affected. you glance up at him then, finding his gaze glassy and hot, and you realize that he's not looking at you directly—he's looking at your hand. his tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip, and you feel yourself shiver a little.

"s'this why you paid for my manicure?" you ask quietly, tipping your head to the side and leaning your cheek against the inside of his thigh. you're not mad, just curious; in fact, it's honestly kind of hot in a way, the idea that he paid for your nails just because he likes the way they look when your fingers are wrapped around him.

his own head tilts forward so he can peer back at you more easily and he nods, letting his hand drift to the back of your neck and squeeze gently. "can't help it, sweet girl. it does something to me."

you smile then, all bashful and soft. the way he looks at you, like you're the only girl in the world, like you're the only one who's ever made him feel this way, makes warmth tingle beneath your skin like liquid fire. he's so good to you, so loving, and while paying for your manicure might have been a little self-serving, you're benefitting too—on multiple fronts.

counseling had been his idea after he'd gotten out of rehab. he wanted to show abby that he was willing to put in the work, not just for himself, but for the both of them, for their children. they'd been together for too long to not try. it had even been going great. it had been working. while abby wasn't entirely trusting the way she had been (and likely never would be again), she'd been more open, more affectionate towards him, a glimpse of the way they'd used to be.

when he started back at the pitt a few months ago, he'd been excited about it, even though he was largely apprehensive. to be back in an environment that not only exacerbated but enabled his addiction was scary, but that first day back, abby had been so supportive, more than he'd expected her to be. he had, she reminded him, put in the work and shown her that he was capable of doing better, being better.

she was right, as she'd always been.

the one thing he had never accounted for was you, the new social worker fresh out of post grad. you were sweet and fresh faced and kind, and working with you on cases he picked up that necessitated a social work consult was one of his favorite things. he enjoyed your perspective and your company, one of the few people in the entire hospital who had not yet been tainted by the knowledge that he was a recovering drug addict.

he's not sure when things started changing or how or why. he just knows that one day you were friends and the next he was noticing the soft plush of your lips, imagining how the lavender vanilla lip balm you've always worn tasted. there's even been a wet dream or two, the kind he's had to wake up from and go jerk off in the shower to relieve the pressure, like a bloodletting. on those days, he can't ever look abby in the eye.

but he's had it under control, he swears. he thought it would be a fleeting thing, something insignificant and passing. maybe he's a fool for not limiting his time around you, walking you to your car at night or having short snack breaks in the staff lounge, seeking out the comfort of your presence where he can, but he's had it all under control, stifling whatever it is he's started feeling for you. he's been trying his level best to snuff it out like depriving a candle flame of oxygen.

so he's not sure what came over him tonight. he and abby had taken tanner and penny to abby's parents and gone out for a date, their tradition for the infrequent times he gets weekend nights off. dinner had been great, the movie after even better. it was like the old days, back when he was still an idiot pre-med student and she was the sorority girl who lived across the hall from him who had given him a chance to make up the fact that he'd accidentally dented her car door in the parking garage.

things were going great. they'd gotten home and when he'd leaned in for a kiss, the tension had taken a turn for the best. she'd touched him in ways she hadn't in a long while and by the time he'd gotten her in bed, he was nearly stripped down to nothing at all. he'd sunk into her heat, the fit as perfect as he remembered it being.

almost there, he'd breathed into the hollow of her throat. you feel so fucking good.

and then he'd pulled up and away, and when he looked down at her, it wasn't abby beneath him, but you. your hair splayed across the forest green of the pillowcases, a dazed, glassy look in those eyes of yours he liked so much. he was sober, didn't even drink alcohol these days, and the sight of you confused him. his focus slipped and you clenched around him, drawing him back, and he'd groaned then, eyes slipping shut.

he'd moaned your name.

he didn't even know he had until you—until abby went stiff as a board beneath him, her hold on him falling away. when he blinked open his eyes, he'd been met with the hard, frigid glare of a woman scorned.

who the fuck is that? are you cheating on me?

frank had tried, he had tried so hard to explain as fast as he could, but anything he said fell on deaf ears. abby was hearing none of it and why should she? this was not the first time he'd betrayed her trust. he was already on thin ice and this had simply sealed the deal.

she had left before he could hardly process it, as many of her things shoved into as many bags as she could carry. she'd punctuated her statement of fuck you, francis with a slam of the bedroom door and then again with the slamming front door.

he'd imagined her leaving him plenty of times when he was away at rehab, imagined her deciding that he was no longer worth the effort. he'd been comforted then by the reminder that she always reassured him that she didn't want to leave, even though she was angry with him. she loved her husband and she didn't want their kids to live a life without their father.

but now she's gone for good. there's no way to fix it this time. he knows he deserves it.

the digital clock on frank's bedside table reads 1:20 AM. he should sleep. he's going in tomorrow, he's decided, anything to not focus on the ending he knows his marriage is now careening towards.

he should sleep. instead, he feels guilty as he lets his hand wrap around his half-hard cock. when he comes to the thought of you, the release that he'd been denied in the face of his fuck up, he's never felt worse.

counseling had been his idea after he'd gotten out of rehab. he wanted to show abby that he was willing to put in the work, not just for himself, but for the both of them, for their children. they'd been together for too long to not try. it had even been going great. it had been working. while abby wasn't entirely trusting the way she had been (and likely never would be again), she'd been more open, more affectionate towards him, a glimpse of the way they'd used to be.

when he started back at the pitt a few months ago, he'd been excited about it, even though he was largely apprehensive. to be back in an environment that not only exacerbated but enabled his addiction was scary, but that first day back, abby had been so supportive, more than he'd expected her to be. he had, she reminded him, put in the work and shown her that he was capable of doing better, being better.

she was right, as she'd always been.

the one thing he had never accounted for was you, the new social worker fresh out of post grad. you were sweet and fresh faced and kind, and working with you on cases he picked up that necessitated a social work consult was one of his favorite things. he enjoyed your perspective and your company, one of the few people in the entire hospital who had not yet been tainted by the knowledge that he was a recovering drug addict.

he's not sure when things started changing or how or why. he just knows that one day you were friends and the next he was noticing the soft plush of your lips, imagining how the lavender vanilla lip balm you've always worn tasted. there's even been a wet dream or two, the kind he's had to wake up from and go jerk off in the shower to relieve the pressure, like a bloodletting. on those days, he can't ever look abby in the eye.

but he's had it under control, he swears. he thought it would be a fleeting thing, something insignificant and passing. maybe he's a fool for not limiting his time around you, walking you to your car at night or having short snack breaks in the staff lounge, seeking out the comfort of your presence where he can, but he's had it all under control, stifling whatever it is he's started feeling for you. he's been trying his level best to snuff it out like depriving a candle flame of oxygen.

so he's not sure what came over him tonight. he and abby had taken tanner and penny to abby's parents and gone out for a date, their tradition for the infrequent times he gets weekend nights off. dinner had been great, the movie after even better. it was like the old days, back when he was still an idiot pre-med student and she was the sorority girl who lived across the hall from him who had given him a chance to make up the fact that he'd accidentally dented her car door in the parking garage.

things were going great. they'd gotten home and when he'd leaned in for a kiss, the tension had taken a turn for the best. she'd touched him in ways she hadn't in a long while and by the time he'd gotten her in bed, he was nearly stripped down to nothing at all. he'd sunk into her heat, the fit as perfect as he remembered it being.

almost there, he'd breathed into the hollow of her throat. you feel so fucking good.

and then he'd pulled up and away, and when he looked down at her, it wasn't abby beneath him, but you. your hair splayed across the forest green of the pillowcases, a dazed, glassy look in those eyes of yours he liked so much. he was sober, didn't even drink alcohol these days, and the sight of you confused him. his focus slipped and you clenched around him, drawing him back, and he'd groaned then, eyes slipping shut.

he'd moaned your name.

he didn't even know he had until you—until abby went stiff as a board beneath him, her hold on him falling away. when he blinked open his eyes, he'd been met with the hard, frigid glare of a woman scorned.

who the fuck is that? are you cheating on me?

frank had tried, he had tried so hard to explain as fast as he could, but anything he said fell on deaf ears. abby was hearing none of it and why should she? this was not the first time he'd betrayed her trust. he was already on thin ice and this had simply sealed the deal.

she had left before he could hardly process it, as many of her things shoved into as many bags as she could carry. she'd punctuated her statement of fuck you, francis with a slam of the bedroom door and then again with the slamming front door.

he'd imagined her leaving him plenty of times when he was away at rehab, imagined her deciding that he was no longer worth the effort. he'd been comforted then by the reminder that she always reassured him that she didn't want to leave, even though she was angry with him. she loved her husband and she didn't want their kids to live a life without their father.

but now she's gone for good. there's no way to fix it this time. he knows he deserves it.

the digital clock on frank's bedside table reads 1:20 AM. he should sleep. he's going in tomorrow, he's decided, anything to not focus on the ending he knows his marriage is now careening towards.

he should sleep. instead, he feels guilty as he lets his hand wrap around his half-hard cock. when he comes to the thought of you, the release that he'd been denied in the face of his fuck up, he's never felt worse.

counseling had been his idea after he'd gotten out of rehab. he wanted to show abby that he was willing to put in the work, not just for himself, but for the both of them, for their children. they'd been together for too long to not try. it had even been going great. it had been working. while abby wasn't entirely trusting the way she had been (and likely never would be again), she'd been more open, more affectionate towards him, a glimpse of the way they'd used to be.

when he started back at the pitt a few months ago, he'd been excited about it, even though he was largely apprehensive. to be back in an environment that not only exacerbated but enabled his addiction was scary, but that first day back, abby had been so supportive, more than he'd expected her to be. he had, she reminded him, put in the work and shown her that he was capable of doing better, being better.

she was right, as she'd always been.

the one thing he had never accounted for was you, the new social worker fresh out of post grad. you were sweet and fresh faced and kind, and working with you on cases he picked up that necessitated a social work consult was one of his favorite things. he enjoyed your perspective and your company, one of the few people in the entire hospital who had not yet been tainted by the knowledge that he was a recovering drug addict.

he's not sure when things started changing or how or why. he just knows that one day you were friends and the next he was noticing the soft plush of your lips, imagining how the lavender vanilla lip balm you've always worn tasted. there's even been a wet dream or two, the kind he's had to wake up from and go jerk off in the shower to relieve the pressure, like a bloodletting. on those days, he can't ever look abby in the eye.

but he's had it under control, he swears. he thought it would be a fleeting thing, something insignificant and passing. maybe he's a fool for not limiting his time around you, walking you to your car at night or having short snack breaks in the staff lounge, seeking out the comfort of your presence where he can, but he's had it all under control, stifling whatever it is he's started feeling for you. he's been trying his level best to snuff it out like depriving a candle flame of oxygen.

so he's not sure what came over him tonight. he and abby had taken tanner and penny to abby's parents and gone out for a date, their tradition for the infrequent times he gets weekend nights off. dinner had been great, the movie after even better. it was like the old days, back when he was still an idiot pre-med student and she was the sorority girl who lived across the hall from him who had given him a chance to make up the fact that he'd accidentally dented her car door in the parking garage.

things were going great. they'd gotten home and when he'd leaned in for a kiss, the tension had taken a turn for the best. she'd touched him in ways she hadn't in a long while and by the time he'd gotten her in bed, he was nearly stripped down to nothing at all. he'd sunk into her heat, the fit as perfect as he remembered it being.

almost there, he'd breathed into the hollow of her throat. you feel so fucking good.

and then he'd pulled up and away, and when he looked down at her, it wasn't abby beneath him, but you. your hair splayed across the forest green of the pillowcases, a dazed, glassy look in those eyes of yours he liked so much. he was sober, didn't even drink alcohol these days, and the sight of you confused him. his focus slipped and you clenched around him, drawing him back, and he'd groaned then, eyes slipping shut.

he'd moaned your name.

he didn't even know he had until you—until abby went stiff as a board beneath him, her hold on him falling away. when he blinked open his eyes, he'd been met with the hard, frigid glare of a woman scorned.

who the fuck is that? are you cheating on me?

frank had tried, he had tried so hard to explain as fast as he could, but anything he said fell on deaf ears. abby was hearing none of it and why should she? this was not the first time he'd betrayed her trust. he was already on thin ice and this had simply sealed the deal.

she had left before he could hardly process it, as many of her things shoved into as many bags as she could carry. she'd punctuated her statement of fuck you, francis with a slam of the bedroom door and then again with the slamming front door.

he'd imagined her leaving him plenty of times when he was away at rehab, imagined her deciding that he was no longer worth the effort. he'd been comforted then by the reminder that she always reassured him that she didn't want to leave, even though she was angry with him. she loved her husband and she didn't want their kids to live a life without their father.

but now she's gone for good. there's no way to fix it this time. he knows he deserves it.

the digital clock on frank's bedside table reads 1:20 AM. he should sleep. he's going in tomorrow, he's decided, anything to not focus on the ending he knows his marriage is now careening towards.

he should sleep. instead, he feels guilty as he lets his hand wrap around his half-hard cock. when he comes to the thought of you, the release that he'd been denied in the face of his fuck up, he's never felt worse.

Ryland turns when he feels the weight of your gaze prickling at the skin between his shoulderblades and scalp. Your head is tilted a little bit, a smile on your face as you watch Ryland move toward you.

He barely murmurs a small “hi” before he’s got his lips on yours, feeling the rushing blood under his fingertips as he brings his hands to your waist. Slipping his hands under your shirt, Ryland feels the warmth radiating through your lower back and feels a pulsing in his own body. Feeling you, here and now, hot and loving him was just… an answer to a prayer he’d forgotten he’d asked for.

You do that thing where you press your front to his after your pointer finger sloooowwwly pulls him closer to you by his belt loop, and damn is Ryland a goner. You groan a little into Ryland’s mouth when he pulls you up and towards him: the sheer tangibility of his want only adding to the lust in your mind. You feel the little spikes of his hair as you slowly bring your hands up to the nape of his neck to feel him and then the smoothness of his skin as you bring your hands to his face in any attempt to mold you two impossibly closer.

Only when you start to feel your head physically weigh heavier and when you hear the loud whooshing of your blood behind your ears do you force yourself away. Panting, you see Ryland’s eyebrows screwed up. He whines and rests his forhead on your chest: how could you be so cruel as to pull away from him? Ugh. “I’m hard,” he whispers.

You chuckle breathlessly. “What’d you say?”

Ryland looks up: the epitome of want and desire and undercover eroticism. “I’m fucking hard.” His hand reaches for yours and he palms the back of your hand. Eyes locked on yours as he brings your hand to the crotch of his pants to make you feel just what you do to him. The way his throat vibrates with a barely withheld whimper when you palm him makes you want to drop his pants right then and there. “Y/n.”

An evil glint is in your eyes. “I love when this happens.”

Ryland groans, this time from embarrassment. “I love that you love it but I- it happens so often.”

counseling had been his idea after he'd gotten out of rehab. he wanted to show abby that he was willing to put in the work, not just for himself, but for the both of them, for their children. they'd been together for too long to not try. it had even been going great. it had been working. while abby wasn't entirely trusting the way she had been (and likely never would be again), she'd been more open, more affectionate towards him, a glimpse of the way they'd used to be.

when he started back at the pitt a few months ago, he'd been excited about it, even though he was largely apprehensive. to be back in an environment that not only exacerbated but enabled his addiction was scary, but that first day back, abby had been so supportive, more than he'd expected her to be. he had, she reminded him, put in the work and shown her that he was capable of doing better, being better.

she was right, as she'd always been.

the one thing he had never accounted for was you, the new social worker fresh out of post grad. you were sweet and fresh faced and kind, and working with you on cases he picked up that necessitated a social work consult was one of his favorite things. he enjoyed your perspective and your company, one of the few people in the entire hospital who had not yet been tainted by the knowledge that he was a recovering drug addict.

he's not sure when things started changing or how or why. he just knows that one day you were friends and the next he was noticing the soft plush of your lips, imagining how the lavender vanilla lip balm you've always worn tasted. there's even been a wet dream or two, the kind he's had to wake up from and go jerk off in the shower to relieve the pressure, like a bloodletting. on those days, he can't ever look abby in the eye.

but he's had it under control, he swears. he thought it would be a fleeting thing, something insignificant and passing. maybe he's a fool for not limiting his time around you, walking you to your car at night or having short snack breaks in the staff lounge, seeking out the comfort of your presence where he can, but he's had it all under control, stifling whatever it is he's started feeling for you. he's been trying his level best to snuff it out like depriving a candle flame of oxygen.

so he's not sure what came over him tonight. he and abby had taken tanner and penny to abby's parents and gone out for a date, their tradition for the infrequent times he gets weekend nights off. dinner had been great, the movie after even better. it was like the old days, back when he was still an idiot pre-med student and she was the sorority girl who lived across the hall from him who had given him a chance to make up the fact that he'd accidentally dented her car door in the parking garage.

things were going great. they'd gotten home and when he'd leaned in for a kiss, the tension had taken a turn for the best. she'd touched him in ways she hadn't in a long while and by the time he'd gotten her in bed, he was nearly stripped down to nothing at all. he'd sunk into her heat, the fit as perfect as he remembered it being.

almost there, he'd breathed into the hollow of her throat. you feel so fucking good.

and then he'd pulled up and away, and when he looked down at her, it wasn't abby beneath him, but you. your hair splayed across the forest green of the pillowcases, a dazed, glassy look in those eyes of yours he liked so much. he was sober, didn't even drink alcohol these days, and the sight of you confused him. his focus slipped and you clenched around him, drawing him back, and he'd groaned then, eyes slipping shut.

he'd moaned your name.

he didn't even know he had until you—until abby went stiff as a board beneath him, her hold on him falling away. when he blinked open his eyes, he'd been met with the hard, frigid glare of a woman scorned.

who the fuck is that? are you cheating on me?

frank had tried, he had tried so hard to explain as fast as he could, but anything he said fell on deaf ears. abby was hearing none of it and why should she? this was not the first time he'd betrayed her trust. he was already on thin ice and this had simply sealed the deal.

she had left before he could hardly process it, as many of her things shoved into as many bags as she could carry. she'd punctuated her statement of fuck you, francis with a slam of the bedroom door and then again with the slamming front door.

he'd imagined her leaving him plenty of times when he was away at rehab, imagined her deciding that he was no longer worth the effort. he'd been comforted then by the reminder that she always reassured him that she didn't want to leave, even though she was angry with him. she loved her husband and she didn't want their kids to live a life without their father.

but now she's gone for good. there's no way to fix it this time. he knows he deserves it.

the digital clock on frank's bedside table reads 1:20 AM. he should sleep. he's going in tomorrow, he's decided, anything to not focus on the ending he knows his marriage is now careening towards.

he should sleep. instead, he feels guilty as he lets his hand wrap around his half-hard cock. when he comes to the thought of you, the release that he'd been denied in the face of his fuck up, he's never felt worse.