keira recommends fics

He told himself it didn’t bother him when it deeply did.

You were everything he prided himself on being—brilliant, quick on your feet—but with something he lacked. You were gentle with patients in a way that didn’t slow you down. You could kneel beside a gurney, take a trembling hand, murmur a few steady words, and somehow bring the chaos down a notch. 

And then there was the worst part: you were infuriatingly beautiful.

Not in a soft, delicate way. But in a way that made it hard for him to hold your gaze too long without forgetting what he’d been about to say. In a way that made your clipped corrections during rounds feel like a challenge rather than an insult.

You hated Langdon for reasons that felt far easier to list.

He was arrogant. Insufferably so. He questioned your every move like it was his personal mission to keep you on edge. If you called a consult, he’d linger just long enough to make a pointed suggestion. He hovered during procedures, offering commentary in that maddeningly calm tone, as if waiting for you to slip.

And maybe the worst part? He was good. Annoyingly, undeniably good. Quick with a diagnosis. Steady in trauma. Magnetic in the middle of chaos. The kind of senior resident that nurses trusted and interns idolized.

Your rivalry became its own rhythm—competing to call codes first, racing through differential diagnoses, and sniping at each other across trauma bays.

“You’re missing something,” he’d murmur over your shoulder.

“Then by all means, enlighten me,” you’d fire back, not looking at him.

He’d lean closer than necessary. “I like it when you ask nicely.”

“And I like it when you don’t speak,” you’d reply coolly, though your pulse betrayed you.

And yet neither of you ever stepped back.

Your rivalry with him was electric and far too enjoyable at times. It stirred something in you that you couldn’t quite name but deeply craved. Part of the reason you stayed at the Pitt, if you were being honest, was because he made your shifts feel alive.

But sometimes it turned ugly. The tension would snap in the middle of the ED, voices rising just enough for Robby to step in before it escalated further. It meant consequences—being assigned to the night shift, him forced into a double—punishments that were supposed to cool the fire but never quite did.

Your latest fight was catastrophic.

The patient had come in just before shift change. A twenty-three-year-old woman with a high fever, lower abdominal pain, and nausea. She was pale, curled in on herself on the gurney, insisting it was “just a bad period.” Her blood pressure was soft but not crashing. Heart rate elevated, but she was young and compensating well.

You moved quickly. Labs, fluids, broad-spectrum antibiotics. You suspected pelvic inflammatory disease, maybe a tubo-ovarian abscess. It made sense. The CT was delayed—radiology backed up, as always—and she seemed to stabilize after the first liter of fluids.

But there was one detail you’d noted and deprioritized: the faint tenderness in the right lower quadrant. It was not dramatic and easy to attribute to generalized pelvic inflammation.

Except It wasn’t pelvic inflammatory disease.

It was a perforated appendix that had been festering for days.

She decompensated fast—blood pressure plummeting, abdomen turning board-rigid, lactate climbing. By the time surgery got her upstairs, she was in septic shock. She was intubated before the OR. She survived the procedure, barely, but now she lay sedated in the ICU, ventilated and fighting for her life.

You stood outside the trauma bay after they wheeled her up, scrubs damp with sweat, the weight of it pressing tight against your ribs.

Langdon had been the one to step in for the intubation when Robby told you to stand aside.

Which meant he’d had a front-row seat to your mistake. 

Frank peeled off his gloves, snapped them into the trash, and muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, “Next time, maybe don’t ignore the obvious.”

Your head snapped towards him. “Excuse me?”

“You should’ve caught the rebound tenderness and pushed harder for imaging,” he said coolly, like he was commenting on the weather. “You anchored. Rookie mistake.”

The word rookie hit harder than it should have.

“You’re an asshole,” you shot back, your voice sharp enough to cut. “So arrogant it’s no surprise your patient satisfaction scores plummet every day.”

His jaw flexed. “At least I don’t let my patients spiral into septic shock.”

You stepped closer to him, your chest tight, adrenaline still coursing. “You think you would’ve done better?” You demanded. “You weren’t the one juggling three traumas and a psych hold when she rolled in.”

“And you weren’t the one bagging her while her pressure bottomed out,” he fired back. “Her abdomen was rigid. It was right there.”

“She compensated,” you snapped. “Her vitals stabilized.”

“For ten minutes.”

“For long enough to justify the differential.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

A tense silence stretched between you while nurses moved around you carefully, pretending not to listen. Pretending not to see the utter look of disgust you had on your face. A look Langdon had come to know quite well yet never got quite used to. 

“You had no right to take that airway,” you added, your voice lowering but somehow growing more dangerous. “She was my patient.”

His eyes darkened. “She was crashing.”

“I was handling it.”

“You were hesitating.”

“I was thinking.”

“She didn’t have time for you to think.”

The words landed like a slap. Because isn’t that exactly what you’re supposed to do? Think? That’s the job. Not thinking long enough—not second-guessing, not pushing harder, not widening the differential—was what had gotten you here in the first place. You hadn’t thought carefully enough about your diagnosis, and now a young woman was sedated in the ICU because of it.

“You don’t get to bulldoze into my case because you think you know better,” you said, anger creeping into every syllable. “You humiliated me in front of the entire team.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Robby called it.”

“Because you hovered like a vulture.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “He told you to step aside.”

“You think I didn’t hear him?” You shot back. “Think I don’t know exactly what that looked like?”

Frank’s voice dropped, colder now. “It looked like an unstable airway in septic shock. And Robby trusting me to secure it.”

You stared at him, willing him to say what he really meant. And when you realized he wouldn't speak up, you spoke through gritted teeth with barely contained anger. “Say it.”

He held your gaze. “Robby trusts me in critical situations.”

“More than me?” You pressed.

He didn’t answer immediately but his silence was answer enough.

“I didn’t ask to take over,” he said, though his tone lacked apology. “But when it comes down to it? He knows I won’t miss.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Right. Because you’re perfect.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer now, his voice low and intense. “Because I don’t let ego get in the way when someone’s dying.”

Your breath caught.

“My ego?” You repeated, incredulous.

“You always think you’re the smartest person in the room,” he shot back. “Always right. And look where that got you.”

“I was trying to give her—and all my patients—a thorough workup!”

“And she nearly died while you were doing it.”

“You don’t get to stand there and act like a hero because you slid in for an intubation,” you said, breathing heavily while your voices only got louder and louder.

“I’m not trying to be the hero,” he said, quieter now. “I was trying to make sure she lives.”

Before you could respond Robby’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“That’s enough.”

He stepped between you, eyes blazing. He looked not only angry but disappointed.  

“I will not have this conversation in my ER.” 

Neither of you so much as dared to flinch. 

He pointed at you first. “Debrief with me in ten minutes.” Then his gaze shifted to Langdon, voice turning razor-sharp. “And you—if I hear one more word that even resembles a victory lap, I will bench you to triage the rest of the shift. Do you understand?”

Frank’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Robby’s gaze moved between you, disappointment carved deep into the lines of his face. “This is not a competition,” he said evenly. “It’s a hospital.”

Then he walked away, leaving the two of you standing inches apart in the lingering hum of the Pitt.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke or moved.

And then, quieter—but no less intense—Frank murmured, “You’re too good to let this happen.”

Your lips parted, ready to fire back a retort, but nothing came. For once, you had no words left.

The days that followed your outburst were brutal.

Robby didn’t sideline you outright, but he might as well have. He hovered over every case you touched, double-checking orders, asking pointed questions, inserting himself into decisions you used to make independently. The only time he left you alone was in triage—like that was the safest place to tuck you away without making it obvious you were on probation.

Things weren’t much better for Frank. The spark that made him equally charming and infuriating had dimmed. He still did his job flawlessly but there was a restraint to him now. As if he was constantly holding something back.

And the two of you? You stayed at opposite ends of the department. No more competitive glances across trauma bays. No more snide remarks. The rhythm you’d built—sharp, electric, alive—had flatlined the moment he claimed to be better. Not as a taunt. Not as a cheap shot. But as something factual. Something your attending had silently reinforced.

Maybe that was why Boston started to feel less like a hypothetical and more like an escape plan.

The offer had come in a few weeks ago. 

Better pay, better benefits, a prestigious program that would look pristine on a CV. It wasn’t unusual for you to move for work. In fact, you preferred it. New hospitals meant clean slates. Emotional distance. No one close enough to see you falter. Even if it meant the occasional loneliness creeping in during quiet nights.

You could leave. You had before.

But then Frank Langdon happened.

He challenged you in ways no one ever had—intellectually, professionally, personally. He made you sharper. Made you care more. Made you furious. Made you feel.

It was terrifying. 

Gloria had blinked at you like you’d just announced you were transferring to another planet when you told her you were considering an opportunity elsewhere. You hadn’t submitted a formal resignation, hadn’t signed anything, but there had been something unmistakably final in the way you said it—like you were already halfway out the door.

It didn’t take long for word to travel.

On your next shift, Robby cornered you outside the break room, confusion etched across his face.

“You made one mistake and you’re considering leaving?” He asked, head tilting slightly as he noticed you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“First of all,” you said slowly, measured, “I’ve made plenty of mistakes. But this wasn’t just a mistake. I overlooked something significant, and then I had an outburst in the middle of the ED because of it.” You hesitated before adding, “With a coworker.”

The word felt hollow. Clinical. It stripped away the charged history between you and Langdon, reduced it to something sterile and professional. Maybe that was the point. Maybe distance started with language.

“What happened with Langdon was wrong, yes,” Robby conceded. “But that doesn’t mean you blow up your career over it. And you didn’t misdiagnose out of negligence. There was no clear indication of a perforated appendix without imaging—certainly not septic shock.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Robby, I don’t agree.” Your tone was steady, but you still avoided looking at him directly. “Why I choose to leave—if I leave—is personal.”

He sighed, heavy and tired. “We’ve all made mistakes. Some cost more than others.” A beat. “And Langdon’s made his share. He just hides behind confidence, which makes him really unlikable at times. ”

But that wasn’t it. Your conflict with Frank had never been about likability. It wasn’t about popularity or gossip in the physician lounge. It was about ego. About friction. About two people constantly circling each other, pushing, challenging, refusing to yield.

“Please reconsider,” Robby said finally, softer now. “The Pitt would not be better off without you. You’re a great fucking doctor.”

He squeezed your shoulder once before walking off to check on his patients.

And his words lingered

Well, not just his.

“You’re too good to let this happen.”

But what if you weren’t too good? What if you were just good? Just competent. The kind of doctor no one questioned, but no one marveled at either. Not extraordinary but instead solid. Safe.

Somehow that felt worse than being bad.

Mediocrity had never been your thing. Medical school didn’t reward mediocrity. Emergency medicine devoured it. You had built your entire identity on being exceptional—on catching what others missed, on pushing harder, thinking faster, staying sharper.

And yet one missed diagnosis had cracked something open.

You closed your eyes in the middle of the hallway, inhaled slowly through your nose, exhaled through your mouth. You needed to reset. That’s what you were trained to do. Compartmentalize and move forward.

You had just turned toward your next patient when a firm hand wrapped around your shoulder.

Before you could react, you were being steered—no, dragged—into the restroom beside the break room. The door shut behind you with a sharp click, the lock sliding into place.

“What the fuck?” You whisper-yelled, pulse spiking as you spun around.

Langdon stood in front of the door, chest rising and falling a little too quickly, jaw tight.

“You’re leaving?” He demanded.

You blinked at him, thrown off by the urgency in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“I heard your conversation with Robby.” His gaze didn’t waver. Not teasing. Not smug. Just intense. “You’re considering leaving the Pitt?”

“That’s none of your—”

“Is it because of me?” He cut in.

The question hung between you, unexpected and raw.

“What?” You said, more stunned than angry now.

He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’d only ever seen in passing. “I know you. You wouldn't just walk away because of one bad case. And it can’t just be the septic patient.” His eyes locked onto yours. “So, is it me?”

A defensive laugh escaped you. “I’m sorry—how is this any of your business?”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t snap back. Instead, he inhaled slowly, like he was choosing his words for once.

“Because,” he said, voice lower now, steadier, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you left and it was because of me.”

You stared at him.

“Because I know I push you,” he continued. “I know I get under your skin. And yeah, sometimes I go too far.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “But if you’re leaving because I made you feel like you don’t belong here—”

He shook his head once.

“Then I need to know.”

Silence filled the cramped space, thick and charged.

“So I’ll ask again,” he said quietly. “Is it me?”

There was a rational part of you that knew you should leave his question unanswered.

You should unlock the door, walk back into the hallway, and finish your shift like none of this mattered. You should accept the Boston offer, pack your things, and let Pittsburgh become just another stop in your career. You didn’t owe Frank Langdon an explanation. You didn’t owe him closure. You certainly didn’t owe him your vulnerability.

And yet.

You found yourself really looking at him. At the way his hair was a mess from running his hands through it. At the tight line of his mouth that wasn’t arrogance this time, but worry. At the way his shoulders, usually squared and unyielding, seemed almost… braced.

Something inside you began to unravel.

Your rational side listed facts: He humiliated you. He questioned you. He told you Robby trusted him more. He accused you of letting ego get in the way. Your irrational side—the louder one, apparently—whispered something else entirely.

He’s afraid you’re leaving.

You hated that your chest tightened at that realization.

“This isn’t about you,” you started, but your voice lacked its usual bite. It sounded thinner. Less certain.

His eyes flickered, searching your face like he was trying to read a scan.

“Then what is it?” He pressed, desperate for an answer.

You exhaled shakily, folding your arms across your chest as if you could hold yourself together by force.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, the words tasting foreign. You never didn’t know. “I made a call and it almost killed someone. And then I lost it in the middle of the ED. And you—” Your voice faltered. “You looked at me like I wasn’t good enough.”

His brow furrowed immediately. “That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what it felt like,” you cut in, eyes burning now. “Like I finally proved what you’ve been waiting to see.”

“Waiting to see what?”

“That I’m not this extraordinary doctor. That I’m just…” You swallowed. “Good. Not too good or great, just good.”

His expression shifted—confusion first, then something softer. Almost incredulous.

“You think I’ve been trying to prove you’re average?” He asked quietly.

“You said Robby trusts you in critical situations.”

“Because he does,” Frank replied automatically—then stopped, seeing the way your face closed off. He dragged a hand down his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“I meant he trusts me,” he said carefully. “Not more than you. Not instead of you. Just… me.” His jaw tightened. “You’re the only person in that ER who makes me second-guess myself. Do you understand that?”

You blinked, not daring to stop him or intervene.

“I don’t push you because I think you’re mediocre,” he went on, voice low. “I push you because you’re the only one who can actually keep up. Because you challenge me,” he said with a certain fondness in his voice. “You make me better. And yeah, sometimes I hate it. But I have never—not once—looked at you and thought you weren’t good enough.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“So don’t twist this into something it’s not,” he added, softer now. “If you want to leave, go because you want it. Not because of one case. And definitely not because of me.”

The words lingered in the small, fluorescent-lit bathroom, heavy and uncomfortably precise.

Pride rose up before anything else could. Pride—and shame, sharp and humiliating, because the truth was far too close to the surface. Because the answer to his question was not clean or clinical or professional. Because it had everything to do with him.

You said nothing.

The silence stretched long enough to turn unbearable. Long enough for him to realize you weren’t going to give him what he was asking for.

You stepped aside, brushing past him without meeting his eyes, the faintest contact of your shoulder against his sending a spark through you that you refused to acknowledge. Your hand found the lock behind you. The click sounded far louder than it should have.

You should know better than to run,to let pride make decisions for you.

But honesty would mean admitting that he mattered. That his opinion mattered. That the thought of staying—and staying because of him—terrified you more than leaving ever could.

So you walked back into the ER like nothing had happened.

And you didn’t look back.

Boston is nice.

The air feels different—colder, cleaner. It’s the kind of city people romanticize. The kind you’re supposed to feel lucky to land in.

Boston Medical Center is nice, too.

The tour is polished and thorough. They walk you through the trauma bays that are larger than the Pitt’s, the newer equipment, and better lighting. They tell you about their Level I designation, their research output, the nationally renowned attendings. Cutting-edge protocols. Competitive pay. Excellent benefits.

It is, objectively, everything you should want.

You nod at the right moments. Ask sharp questions. Impress them the way you always do.

And still, something feels off.

You took two days off to be here. Two days away from the chaos of PTMC—the noise, the unpredictability, the constant edge of catastrophe. You told yourself it was a smart move. You needed clarity, distance. A chance to see if the grass really was greener.

Instead, you find yourself comparing everything.

The trauma rooms are bigger, but they don’t feel lived in. The staff is kind, but they don’t feel like yours. The chaos is controlled in a way that feels almost… sterile.

You thought stepping away from the Pitt would feel like relief but there’s a hollow ache in your chest.

You stand at one of the large windows overlooking the city, watching ambulances pull in and out of the bay below. This is still chaos. Still emergency medicine. Still the same split-second decisions and life-or-death calls.

So why does it feel like you’ve misplaced something?

The uneasy feeling settles deeper in your stomach, heavy and persistent. It’s not doubt about your competence. Not even fear of change.

It’s something else.

Something you left behind in Pittsburgh.

The flight back to Pennsylvania is thick with emotion. You sit by the window, forehead resting lightly against the cool glass, watching the clouds blur into gray. Every decision you’ve made over the past few weeks replays on a loop.

You try to resent the Pitt. You try to frame it as a mistake, as another hospital that simply served its purpose before you moved on.

But you can’t.

Because how do you hate the one place that, for the first time in your career, made you consider staying? Made you consider settling?

You’ve never been the kind of doctor who plants roots. You move. You excel. You leave before anything—or anyone—can complicate the trajectory. It’s easier that way.

Except the Pitt wasn’t easy.

It was messy and loud and alive. It challenged you. It bruised your pride. It made you better.

And then there’s him.

It is a terrible idea to ask a coworker where another coworker lives.

It is an even worse idea to actually use that information.

Yet here you are, standing outside Frank Langdon’s apartment building at almost nine at night, travel bag still in hand, exhaustion clinging to your bones. The air is colder than you expected. Your pulse pounds in your ears, loud enough to rival the city noise.

You stare up at the lit windows, second-guessing yourself.

This is reckless. Unprofessional. Completely out of character.

You could still leave. Call a cab and go home. Pretend this moment of weakness never happened.

Instead, you walk up the steps.

And knock.

For a moment, you think he won’t answer.

Why would he? It’s late. He’s probably passed out after a shift, phone on silent, apartment dark. Not expecting anyone—certainly not you. It would be reasonable. 

You almost convince yourself this was a mistake.

Then the lock clicks and your heart jumps straight into your throat as the door swings open.

Frank stands there, framed in warm apartment light, looking like you’ve caught him in the middle of a nap. His hair is disheveled, softer than it ever looks under the harsh fluorescence of the ER. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from a pillow, and exhaustion drapes over him in a way you’ve never seen before.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, the fabric slightly wrinkled, sleeves stretched over tired arms. No attending-level composure. No sharp remarks. Just Frank.

For a second, he just stares at you.

“…You’re back,” he says quietly, like he’s not entirely sure you’re real.

“I am,” you answer just as softly, fingers tightening around the handle of your travel bag.

“And you’re here?” The words come out rough, sleep-heavy, a yawn tearing through the end of the question as he drags a hand down his face. He looks like he hasn’t had more than four hours of rest in days.

“Yeah.” It’s all you can manage.

He studies you for a long beat, gaze dropping to the bag at your side, then back to your face. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Do you…” He inhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself. “Do you want to come in?”

There’s something fragile in the offer, which makes you reminisce the last time you spoke to each other and how wrongly you treated him.

“Yes, please.”

He steps back immediately, holding the door open wider. His apartment smells faintly of coffee and clean laundry. It’s quiet and when you step inside, he closes the door behind you with a soft click. 

“Is everything okay?” Langdon asks after a beat. He moves toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer, opening a cupboard and pulling down two mugs. The kettle goes on a second later, the sound of water filling it grounding in the silence.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly, wincing when you see the confusion crease his brow. “Actually, no. Everything is not fine. I just… I rejected a job offer in Boston. Probably the best offer I’ve ever gotten.”

He stills for half a second before turning back to you. “I’m sorry?” He says carefully, like he’s trying to understand whether this is good or bad news.

“Don’t be,” you reply firmly. “I’m not sorry. I’m glad I rejected it.”

That earns you a wary look. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence the way he usually would.

“Do you want some tea while you tell me why you’re here?” He asks instead, softer now.

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

He nods once, pulling two tea packets from a box and dropping them into the mugs. The kettle clicks off, and he pours the hot water slowly, steam rising between you like something tangible. He hands one mug to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a second—brief, but enough to make your breath hitch.

He leans back against the counter, watching you over the rim of his cup.

You draw in a sharp breath, the mug warming your hands but doing nothing to steady the storm in your chest. Where do you even begin?

“You were right,” you say finally, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I was going to leave Pittsburgh because of you.”

The confession lands heavily in the small kitchen. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his cup.

“I knew things got too real,” you continue, your voice unsteady but determined. “It wasn’t just normal banter between us anymore. I’ve seen you with Dr. Garcia—it’s easy and detached. It’s nothing like that with us.” You swallow. “And when things start feeling like that, when they stop being simple… I leave. That’s what I do. I was ready to do it again.”

He doesn’t interrupt. His eyes widen at first, surprise flashing across his face, and then he looks away—down at the floor, at the steam curling from his tea—anywhere but at you.

“So I went to Boston,” you say, exhaling a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “And it was nice. The hospital’s incredible. The people are brilliant. The city’s beautiful.” You shake your head slightly. “It’s everything I should want.”

He lifts his gaze back to you at that “should.”

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about how I wouldn’t have someone arguing with me over everything and anything,” you admit, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “You should’ve seen them, Langdon. So serious. So careful with each other. No sparks or pushback.”

Your voice softens.

“And I hated that I couldn’t find myself loving that the way I would have before the Pitt. Before you.”

The room goes very still after that.

“So, I came here against my better judgment,” you say when his silence stretches too long, filling the kitchen with everything unsaid. “And if you want me to leave, I will. I’ll pretend none of this ever happened. I’ll finish out my contract, keep it professional, and then I’ll take a job somewhere else.”

His brows draw together immediately, confusion giving way to something sharper—something almost wounded. He sets his mug down slowly, like he needs both hands free just to process what you’re saying.

“But,” you continue, your voice thinning, barely above a whisper now, “if you don’t want me to leave… I need to know.”

Your fingers tighten around the ceramic, knuckles paling.

“Because I can’t keep feeling like this every time I look at you,” you admit. “I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mess with my head. That it’s not killing me to walk past you in the ED and act like you’re just another resident.”

You force yourself to hold his gaze now, even though it feels like stepping into an open flame.

“I need to know if this is just competition to you,” you say quietly. “Or if it’s something else. Because I can’t be the only one losing sleep over it.”

Your stomach is a riot of nerves, butterflies colliding so violently it almost makes you nauseous. It feels awful, and yet at the same time, there’s an undeniable relief in finally having told the truth. No more deflecting. No more pretending.

For a split second, he doesn’t move. And in that stillness, doubt creeps in.

But then he steps forward.

You barely have time to register the shift in his expression before his hands are on your waist—firm, decisive—and he pulls you flush against him. The breath leaves your lungs in a startled gasp.

His lips crash into yours.

It isn’t hesitant. It isn’t polite. It’s months of tension and restraint snapping all at once. Frustration. Fear. Want. One hand tightens at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on, while the other cradles your face like it's made of porcelain.

You kiss him back without thinking. The world narrows to the heat of him, the steady pressure of his mouth, the way his hand slides down to the curve of your hip. 

When he finally pulls back, just enough for air, his forehead rests against yours. His breathing is uneven.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost desperate. “Don’t you dare leave because you think I don’t feel this too.”

The admission knocks the air from your lungs more than the kiss did.

Instead of answering, you surge forward and chase his mouth again, this time slower—intentional. Your lips press to his with a tenderness that feels almost reverent after months of sharp words and raised voices. It’s still charged, still heated, but there’s something softer threading through it now. 

Your fingers slide into his dark hair, tugging gently at the roots. A low groan rumbles from his chest at the sensation, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

He kisses you like he argues—thoroughly, stubbornly, like he refuses to lose. But there’s no fight in this. Just want.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you properly. His hand stays at the nape of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your ear, grounding you there.

“You drive me insane,” he breathes, a faint, disbelieving smile ghosting across his mouth. “You challenge every call I make. You glare at me like I personally offend you just by breathing.”

You huff out a soft laugh. “You do the same.”

His forehead drops to yours again, noses brushing.

“But I’ve never once wanted you gone,” he says quietly. “Not from the Pitt. Not from my cases. Not from my life.”

“Really?”

“When I first saw you, I knew my life was about to get complicated,” he murmurs, thumb brushing absently along your waist. “I saw your determination. And this beautiful face.”

A startled laugh leaves your lips.

“I was completely fucked,” he admits, shaking his head at himself. “And then you argued with me. Called me out in front of Robby on my own case. I couldn’t resist arguing back. If only to keep you talking to me.”

Your expression falters slightly. “I thought you hated me. Like—sworn enemy, plotting-my-demise kind of hate.”

“I tried to,” he says honestly. “God, I tried. I couldn’t believe your entitlement sometimes… the way you’d challenge me like you knew you could win.” He exhales a soft, embarrassed laugh. “And how ridiculously attracted I was to it. Which—yeah. Lame.”

“Not lame at all,” you reply, a small, teasing smile curving your lips. “Actually does wonders for that ego of mine.”

He groans, tipping his head back briefly. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“It’s okay, Langdon,” you whisper, stepping closer again, your hand resting lightly against his chest.

“It’s really not,” he says, sobering. His expression shifts—less playful now, more earnest. “I was a dick to you that day. You didn’t need me twisting the knife after what happened with that patient. I just… I didn’t know how to comfort you. Not after months of sniping at each other. I was cruel because it was easier than admitting I cared.”

His hand slides up to cup your cheek, tentative now instead of certain.

“I saw how hard you took it,” he continues quietly. “And instead of stepping up, I fell back into what we do. I hurt you because I didn’t know how to do anything else.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, steadying yourself, trying to quiet the way your heart is pounding against your ribs.

“And please,” he adds softly, his tone gentler than you’ve ever heard it in the ER, “call me Frank.”

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, before sliding down to your mouth. He catches the corner of your lower lip where you’ve pulled it between your teeth and gently tugs it free.

“Langdon’s too formal for us,” he murmurs.

The intimacy of it—the way he says us—makes your breath hitch.

“Frank,” you test, the name unfamiliar and warm on your tongue.

A small, almost shy smile flickers across his face, so different from the cocky smirk he wears at work. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s better.”

You let your hand slide up to rest over his wrist, keeping him close instead of pulling away.

“For what it’s worth, Frank,” you whisper, “I don’t want to run anymore.”

His forehead presses to yours again, a quiet exhale leaving him like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want to be the reason you ever consider running.”

“Sir, please, you need to calm down and let me finish assessing you,” you say again, voice strained but measured, like you’ve been repeating the same sentence on a loop for far too long. Your hands hover where they’re supposed to, careful and clinical, painfully aware of every inch of space between you and him.

“No!” He snaps, jerking back on the bed. His voice is loud enough to turn heads. “I’ve been waiting for over eight hours, and all you’re gonna do is feel me up? That’s it? No labs, no tests, nothing?”

Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your neck despite the calm you force into your expression. “I am not “feeling you up”,” you say, a shudder slipping through before you can stop it while still trying to keep your tone even. “I’m doing an initial assessment so I can get you the best care possible and determine the next steps.”

He lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, eyes narrowing as he looks you over. “That’s just bullshit. Are you even a real doctor or are you just some stupid intern?”

“If you don’t let me conduct a proper physical exam, I can’t order any further tests,” you finish, forcing the words out evenly despite the tension coiling in your chest.

The man in front of you exhales sharply, a frustrated breath that sounds more like a growl, his anger vibrating just beneath the surface.

You reach for your small penlight, fingers steady by muscle memory alone. You don’t switch it on until it’s raised, angled toward his face to assess pupil response—and then the light is slapped clean out of your hand.

You flinch back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat as the flashlight clatters against the floor. Your gaze drops to it, your pulse roaring in your ears.

In what feels like a millisecond, Langdon is at your side.

He moves without hesitation, one hand guiding you back as he steps forward, placing himself squarely between you and the patient. The shift is immediate as the man’s posture falters when he realizes he’s no longer the biggest presence in the room.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Langdon asks, his voice unnervingly calm, all sharp focus and quiet authority.

You take a breath before answering, grounding yourself. “I was attempting to conduct a physical exam for Mr. Smith,” you say after a beat. “There’s mild upper abdominal tenderness and signs of respiratory distress.”

“I’m sure you’d like proper care, isn’t that right, Mr. Smith?” Frank says, the edge of his tone skirting sarcasm.

The man only hums in response, his initial shock at being confronted by a male physician quickly giving way to the same smug defiance as before.

Frank doesn’t rise to it. If anything, his expression hardens. “Then here’s how this works,” he continues evenly. “You behave, or I have security escort you out.” 

He lets the silence stretch just enough to have Mr. Smith squirming on the gurney. 

“You’ll go to another hospital, sit in another waiting room for several more hours—which I’m guessing you’d rather avoid. So, you’re going to let Dr. LN do her job. Or you’re leaving. Am I clear?”

“You can’t treat me like this—”

“Am I clear?” Langdon repeats, his voice sharper now, stripped of all patience.

“…Yes,” the man grunts out.

“Good.” Langdon turns to you, the edge in his tone softening just enough. “I’ll observe, just in case—but based on what I’m seeing in his chart, this could be pancreatitis or a pulmonary embolism.”

You nod, already back in clinical mode. “I was about to order blood work and imaging. Maybe a chest X-ray, too?”

Langdon considers it for a beat. “Best to avoid unnecessary radiation in a fifty-year-old if we can,” he says evenly. “But it’s your patient so do as you see best.”

You tap briskly at the screen of your tablet, ordering the tests—and a few more—partly for clinical thoroughness, partly to placate your patient.

“Can you tell me what’s going on,” Mr. Smith snaps, his voice climbing, “or do you think I’m dumb and won’t understand?”

You don’t look up right away. “I’m ordering the tests you asked for, Mr. Smith,” you say, lips pulled into a tight, professional smile. “Dr. Langdon is assisting me in considering all possible diagnoses. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” he huffs, then sneers, “but fix that smile, sweetheart. No one likes a sour-looking woman, right?”

He turns to Langdon, searching for validation only to watch the smugness drain from his face when he finds none.

“Mr. Smith,” your fellow doctor says coolly, irritation finally bleeding through, “you’ve already interfered with your physical exam by almost hitting your doctor. Now you’re harassing her. Are you that eager to stop being a patient here?”

“I didn’t hit anyone!” Mr. Smith snaps. “She didn’t warn me about what she was doing and caught me off guard. I’m hardly at fault if she’s incompetent and lacks basic manners.”

You take a slow, steadying breath.

“Alright, I’ve already ordered your labs,” you say evenly. “I’ll be back once the results are in. Please remain here while you wait.”

You and Frank step out into the hallway at the same time, the door closing firmly behind you.

“Could’ve moved him out here,” Frank mutters as he shuts it. “Freed up a room.”

“I think he would’ve charged at me if I tried,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Then we’d have had a great excuse to kick him out.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “That would’ve been nice.”

He steps closer and reaches out, fingers closing gently around your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice lower now. “That was a close call. I know he only knocked the penlight out of your hand, but still.”

“Just another day on the job.” The joke falls flat even to your own ears.

“It’s not okay,” Frank says firmly. “Don’t hesitate to call for help—or even security.”

“I promise, I’m fine,” you mutter, suddenly aware of how close you are standing to each other. “But it’s nice seeing you worry instead of being all cool and collected.”

He tilts his head, a dumb smirk tugging at his mouth. “You think I’m cool?”

You slap his arm lightly and huff a laugh. “Only sometimes.”

“Oh, you wound me.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock pain.

“Your ego can handle it.”

“My ego can handle anything,” he says, then sobers. “What I can’t handle is one of the best doctors here being belittled—and you just taking it on the chin.”

You swallow, eyes drifting to the patient board glowing nearby, names and needs stacked endlessly.

“Langdon, I appreciate you looking out for me. Really,” you say softly. “But I’m fine. There will always be disgruntled patients. I don’t really mind it anymore.”

“Well,” he says, voice gentler than you expect, “I do.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You can’t begin to explain the rush of relief you felt the moment he stepped into the room—how his presence alone steadied you after Mr. Smith had come far too close to hitting you. The adrenaline hasn’t fully faded, and a tangle of emotions curls tight beneath your ribs.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly. “Any day, something could happen—and I don’t think I could handle not having you around.” He exhales. “This place would be a lot more unbearable without you.”

“Didn’t know I was so special,” you joke weakly, unable to stop the small smile that breaks through anyway.

“You are,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. “More than you think.”

You hold each other’s gaze for what feels like far too long—long enough to forget where you are—until a voice cuts through the moment.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Dana says, barely masking her amusement, “but you two better get back to work before Robby scolds you.”

“Right.”

“Sorry!”

You and Langdon blurt out at the same time, then split off in opposite directions.

“See you around,” he calls after you. “And remember what I said.”

“As you wish, Dr. Protective!” You shout back, rolling your eyes—only to break into a wide, uncontrollable smile once he’s out of sight.

He always arrives earlier than you, even when you've spent the night together at your apartment. He insists on driving there despite it being a 15 minute walk because it would draw suspicions. 

When you look back at your life—the years of study, the fight to be taken seriously in emergency medicine—you never imagined you’d end up in an affair with a resident. Some days it’s hard to see your own reflection in the mirror. But when he presses a kiss to your neck at the end of a brutal shift, when he helps strip away the stress and silence the noise in your head, you don’t hate what you see quite as much.

He’s leaning against the central desk, flipping through a patient chart with that permanently furrowed brow. 

“Morning,” he says when he catches your eye.

It’s not warm or cold—its just how Frank is. 

“Morning, Dr. Langdon,” you reply, professional out of habit, even though the two of you have long since stopped pretending that’s all it is.

Your dynamic has always lived in the in-between spaces. Shared glances over trauma bays. His quiet, clipped orders that somehow soften when they’re directed at you.

It’s something you've become weirdly accustomed to. Being a secret is thrilling for a while and then it becomes monotonous. Still, it feels better than never having known his warmth at all. So you tell yourself it’s fine. You keep going. You live with the choices you’ve made.

The shift drags, slower than you’d like, a relentless stream of patients keeping you on your feet and out of your head.

There are a few stolen moments with Frank. Instinct takes over when you work together—you anticipate each other without a word, your hands reaching for supplies before he asks, his voice steady when things go wrong, his gaze finding you first in the chaos.

He’s a good doctor. Too good. And as of late, too intense.

It’s a little past four in the afternoon when Princess tells you Frank is gone. Or—more accurately—when she tells you Robby seemingly kicked him out.

A thousand questions collide in your head, all at once, but the only thing that makes it past your lips is a flat, disbelieving, “What?”

Princess shrugs, recounting the moment with what you’re fairly certain is added flair. Still, the story doesn’t make any more sense the longer she tells it. 

It’s impossible to believe that he would just leave. Frank Langdon has never left a shift early, he can’t get enough of being in the ER. So why has no explanation been given to any of the staff? Why hasn't he said anything to you?

“Did you hear anything at all from their conversation?” You ask, despite knowing that would be the first thing to be gossip. Nurses can't resist a good piece of gossip.

“It was all very hush-hush,” Princess whispers, even though youre sure everyone around can hear you. 

“It just doesn't make sense.” 

“What does around here?” Perlah says with a huff before leaving to check on a patient. 

It isn’t until later that you finally work up the courage to ask Dana what’s going on. To your surprise, she doesn’t know either, but she urges you to leave the matter alone. If Robby allowed Frank to leave—especially with how understaffed the Pitt is—then there must have been a reason.

The conversation does nothing to ease the ache in your chest. The unease lingers, clinging to you even as you force yourself to keep moving, to keep working, to pretend everything feels normal.

You’re in the middle of bandaging a patient’s minor injury when Dana tells you to wrap it up as quickly as possible and head to the central desk. You’re vaguely aware that Gloria wouldn’t love what that implies for patient satisfaction scores, but before the thought can fully form, an announcement crackles through the speakers and everything snaps into focus.

“Code Triage, Emergency Department now.”

You secure the last of the bandage, reminding the patient to return if there are any signs of infection, then discharge him without lingering. There’s no time for anything else.

By the time you reach the desk, everyone is there—senior residents, interns, medical students—all clustered together, waiting for direction.

You end up standing near Santos and Whitaker.

“Code Triage, Emergency Department now.”

“What does that mean? Has that happened before?” Santos’ voice wavers, panic slipping through as her left hand scratches at the back of her neck.

“It means there’s been some type of disaster,” you say after realizing no one else has answered her. “We’ll probably have to go on lockdown.”

Both of them stare at you, stunned. You don’t have anything more to offer. You know as much as they do, which is to say almost nothing.

A few minutes later, Robby steps in and fills in the gaps. There’s been a mass casualty. An active shooter at PittFest. As the closest trauma center, most of the victims will be coming here. Because of that, every remaining patient needs to be cleared out of the ER immediately.

You move fast, slipping back into the rhythm of controlled urgency. You help with documentation, track down signatures, and deal with the more temperamental patients—those who, even after being told why they need to leave, insist on making it difficult.

Once the ER is cleared, you pull the protective white covering over your scrubs, the thin material crinkling beneath your hands. 

More doctors stream in from other departments. Robby gathers everyone together and lays out how this is going to work—how the triage system will run, what each color of the slap band means, and exactly what’s expected in every scenario. When he’s finished, you’re dismissed to your stations to prepare.

“Dana, what do you need?” You call out, already scanning the room.

She whips around. “Prep the Yellow Zone for extremity wounds. We need a shitload of bandages, tourniquets, splint slings, and IV antibiotics.”

“I’m on it,” you tell her, already moving.

“Thanks.”

The department swarms with people, voices overlapping, everyone working at maximum speed to brace for the havoc that’s coming.

Less than ten minutes later, the first wave of injured patients arrives.

You’re working the Yellow Zone when you hear Frank’s voice cut through the noise from across the bay. The sound of it makes your hands falter for just a fraction of a second.

The woman on the gurney in front of you has a treatable wound. You focus on controlling the bleeding, keeping your movements steady and precise. The bullet did enough damage to warrant concern, but not enough to pose a real threat. She’ll live, which is all that matters.

When you finally allow yourself to look up, you spot Frank in the Red Zone. You’re not sure when he slipped back in, only that he did so seamlessly, as if he’d never left at all.

Robby is in front of him now, the exchange between them tight and visibly heated. You can’t hear the words, only see the tension in their body language—Frank rigid, jaw clenched; Robby sharp and unyielding.

The interaction lasts less than a minute. Robby pulls away with a sour look on his face, already turning to assist elsewhere. Frank doesn't waste a second as he goes right back to treating a patient.

You help wherever you’re needed, moving from station to station in a blur. One moment you’re delivering blood, the next you’re patching wounds, hands slick and mind racing. It’s all a blur in your mind. 

“YN!” Langdon’s voice cuts through the chaos. “We need some more O-neg over here!”

You turn toward him. He’s pressing his hand hard into a man’s upper thigh, blood seeping between his fingers. “Sure. I’ll be right there with it.”

Your tone comes out clipped. You almost think he doesn’t notice—until the faint downturn of his mouth gives him away.

You grab a bag of blood, registering how thin the supply is getting. After this, you’ll need to warn Dana, in case she hasn’t already noticed it herself.

“There you go,” you murmur as you pass it to him, already stepping away. If you linger even a second longer, you know you’ll spiral—about why he left, how he’s back, what all of it means. Distraction won’t help your patients. It won’t help you, either.

Time blurs under the adrenaline rush. You move like a machine, following protocol, shutting down anything that isn’t strictly necessary. You don’t think about how traumatic this is, how deeply it will settle later.

By the time it finally starts to register, the worst of it is over.

And once again, Langdon is nowhere to be seen.

It’s well past ten by the time you make it back to your apartment.

You let yourself sag briefly against the cool metal wall of the elevator as it climbs toward the eighth floor, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. You silently thank your past self for choosing a building with an elevator; after the day you’ve had, even a single flight of stairs feels impossible.

By the time the doors open, your eyes are heavy, your body running on fumes. You drag yourself down the hall, keys already in hand, focused only on the promise of sleep.

Then you see him.

There’s a figure leaning against your door, half-shadowed beneath the hallway lights. Your heart stutters, then pounds, adrenaline spiking as your mind scrambles through possibilities.

The man lifts his head, cap still pulled low, and murmurs, “Hey.”

Your breath catches. “Frank?”

“I need a place to stay,” he says quietly. “Just for a bit.”

“What?” Your thoughts scatter. Did he leave his wife? Did she throw him out after a fight? Why is he here—why not with Robby, or anyone else?

“I can explain, I swear,” he blurts, and that’s when you really look at him. He’s panicked—sweaty, disheveled, eyes too bright—and you’re not sure how much of that can be blamed on the night you’ve both survived.

You place the key and turn the doorknob, stepping aside and letting him in.

Because of course you do.

When have you ever been able to deny him anything?

“Thank you, thank you,” he whispers like a prayer, dragging along with him a backpack and an insurmountable amount of baggage.

You nod and set your bag down on the dining table, dragging a hand over your face as the exhaustion finally catches up with you.

“What’s going on?” You ask.

“It’s all a huge misunderstanding,” he says after a beat.

“What is?”

“Santos poked her head where it didn’t belong and went to Robby. He believed her over me. Can you believe that? It’s like all the time he’s known me meant nothing.” He rambles, words spilling out too fast, skirting around the truth. He won’t say what actually happened—and you know you’ll have to pull it out of him.

“Frank, why did you leave today?”

He inhales deeply, then again, before dropping onto your couch. His elbows rest on his knees as he tries to steady himself, to gather whatever composure he has left.

“Robby found some Librium pills in my locker.”

Your jaw nearly drops.

You move to sit on the floor in front of him, close enough to see the way his shoulders tense as he buries his face in his hands.

“I was just weaning myself off the Benzos.” His voice is thick, like it hurts him to utter those words. “You know, because I hurt my back.”

He says it like it should make everything better. Like it somehow erases the fact that he took pills that weren’t his. Like he hasn’t just admitted to something that could cost him his license—his career.

“You were stealing?” You need to hear him say it. Out loud.

“It wasn’t like that! I overprescribed a little sometimes, and took the excess. I never put a patient in harm’s way.”

“Frank, that’s still stealing,” you whisper.

He groans at your words, frustration flashing across his face.

“I knew you wouldn’t get it. Just like Robby.”

“I want to understand. I swear,” you sigh. “But how could you do that? Do you know how reckless it is to steal and then help patients while high? You could’ve killed someone and then it would’ve been over for you.”

“I wasn’t high,” he insists, pushing to his feet and pacing the length of your living room, hands threading through his hair. “I swear to you. I was clean during every shift. Could a drug addict do what I do?”

His voice is sharp now, defensive, brittle at the edges—like he’s daring you to say yes, terrified you might. 

Because the honest truth sits heavy in your chest, ugly and complicated, and you don’t trust it not to shatter everything if you say it wrong. Frank stops pacing when you stay silent. He turns to look at you, really look at you, like he’s bracing for impact. 

“That’s not fair,” you finally say, quietly. “You’re asking me to excuse what you did.”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m asking you to see reason.”

“I am seeing it,” you push back, standing now, putting space between you before your voice breaks. “You stole medication. From patients. You committed a crime. And you expect me to believe that just because you didn’t mean any harm, none of that matters?”

“I saved lives today,” he snaps. “I walked back into that ER and I saved lives. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“I watched you,” you admit. “You were incredible. You always are.” Your throat tightens. “But you don’t get to be brilliant and reckless at the same time, Frank. Not in emergency medicine. Not when people’s lives are on the line.”

He laughs then, sharp and humorless. “Now you’re my judge too?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m the person who has to live with knowing what you did. You’re only telling me because you know I’ll never say anything. What’s one more secret, right?”

His face hardens at your words, something defensive snapping into place.

“I didn’t take them to get high,” he says, his voice rougher now. “I took them because I was scared. Because my back hurt and I didn’t want to end up dependent on something stronger. Because I thought I could handle it.”

“You could’ve asked for help,” you shoot back. “There were so many options. Stealing shouldn’t have been one of them.”

“You think it was easy?” he snaps. “That I liked stealing?”

“I don’t know what to think!” The words tear out of you before you can stop them.

“Come on, YN. You know me.”

“Do I?” Your voice drops. “Because the accident with your back happened months ago. Right around when we started…” You trail off, the realization sinking in. “I think I have no idea who you really are.”

He goes still and for a second, you think you’ve finally broken through—think maybe the weight of it all has settled in, that he’s going to say something honest, something real.

Instead, his jaw tightens.

A laugh escapes him, short and bitter. “You’re right,” he says, nodding to himself like he’s reached some grim conclusion. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“Frank—”

“No.” He cuts you off, pacing again, agitation radiating off him. “I shouldn’t have fooled around with you in the first place. God, maybe I really was high. At least enough to be that stupid.”

His words hit harder than you expect.

“Coming here was a mistake,” he says flatly. “I should’ve gone home. Dealt with my wife. That would’ve been easier than this.”

Your chest tightens, something hot and painful blooming behind your ribs. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“I’m trying to be honest,” he snaps. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. I wanted you to take responsibility. Not tear everything down so you don’t have to sit with it.”

He falters, the momentum of his anger sputtering out as quickly as it came, his shoulders sagging as the fight drains from him all at once. Silence settles between you and in it you finally notice his eyes, glassy and unfocused, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, afraid that if he lets go even for a second, everything will collapse.

Frank drags a hand over his face, eyes glassy. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits. “My career. My marriage. Whatever this is with you.”

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, even as a knot tightens in your throat. “Fighting with me won’t help you,” you say gently. “And I don’t know what happened with Robby, but I’m sure he was just trying to help. Like I am.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he says after a minute of heavy silence, his voice breaking. “About you. I didn’t mean any of that.”

“I think you did,” you answer. “And you know what? You’re right.”

He looks up sharply. “About what?”

“About coming here. About this being a mistake.” Your chest tightens, but you keep going. “It always was. I should’ve never let myself get this involved. I should’ve never kissed a married man who was never going to be emotionally available to me. This—” you gesture weakly between the two of you, “—was always a mistake.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final.

Frank’s mouth opens, then closes. Whatever defense he’d been bracing for evaporates into thin air.

“That’s not how it felt,” he says hoarsely.

“No,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel, even as tears burn behind your eyes. “But I can’t—” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “You need to get your shit together for this to ever have a chance.”

For me to love you.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. The weight of it lands anyway, heavy and unmistakable.

He stares at you, eyes glassy, like he wants to argue and can’t find the words. Like some part of him knows you’re right and hates you for it.

“I don’t know how to be that person,” he admits quietly.

You nod, once. It hurts, but it’s clean in a way the rest of this never was.

“Then you can’t be here,” you say softly.

For a moment, he just stands there frozen, like he’s deciding whether to listen or break apart. Then, as if instinct overrides restraint, he crosses the small space between you in a few uneven steps and pulls you into his arms.

The sob tears out of you before you can stop it.

It’s ugly and uncontained, carrying months of swallowed guilt, quiet hope, and the constant ache of knowing this was never meant to last. Your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, and he holds you tightly, like this might be the last thing he’s allowed to do.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there, his breath shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over, into your hair—too late to fix anything, but unable to stop saying it.

You let yourself fall apart for a few seconds longer before gently lifting your head to look at him.

His gaze drifts from your eyes to your lips, heavy and familiar, and just like so many times before, the world narrows to the space between you. Passion slips in where reason should be. It always does with him.

He kisses you like it’s all he needs—like it might cure something broken inside him, wash away the weight of everything he’s ruined, everything he’s running from. The harsh reality of life softens for a fleeting moment, replaced by something dangerously tender.

Just like before, you’re the one who has to stop it.

You pull back, breathless, even as his mouth trails to your neck. “Frank,” you murmur, the word lost between a flurry of kisses against your skin.

He hums in response, hands warm and insistent, guiding you backward down the hallway, toward the bedroom, like muscle memory knows the way better than either of you do.

“Frank,” you say again, firmer now.

“Yeah?” He barely looks up.

It’s as if something finally settles inside him when he sees the look in your eye. One moment you feel his warmth, his weight, the familiar pull of him—and the next, you don’t. He steps back, creating space where there never used to be any.

You know, with a quiet certainty that aches, that this will be the last time you see him for a long time.

Because Frank Langdon will never get better if you remain in his life. And that truth hurts more than anything else you’ve said tonight. You are part of the wreckage—one of the mistakes he made along the way, tangled up in the fog of his addiction, in denial, in the version of himself that couldn’t face the truth.

He looks at you one last time, eyes soft and broken and grateful in a way that feels like goodbye.

Then he turns toward the door.

And you don’t stop him despite how much you want to. 

Since the day you had walked into the Pittsburgh Trauma Medicine Center, lovingly nicknamed the Pitt, no one had understood the undeniable pull between the two of you. Frank didn’t often suffer fools, sticking closer to attendings who knew what they were doing in an attempt to kiss their ass, avoiding anyone who would need guiding or teaching unless it proved his knowledge. You actively avoided the other doctors that tended to think of themselves equivalent to some kind of God. 

But you had always been each other’s exceptions. Opposite magnets that tended to get stuck together.

Naturally, you blame it on his looks and his proximity. No matter where you went, how crowded a room was, Frank was there, looking unbelievably handsome and charming. In a trauma room with his chest almost pressed against your back, in the break room sidled up beside you, elbow almost brushing yours at the beginning of shift as the both of you listened to Robby’s pre-shift brief. 

He was a stubborn son of a bitch. Pestering, annoying, irritating. Your space was no longer your own — it had become something you shared. Every meal at the hospital was a meal with Frank. Every patient you saved was a win on both of your parts. Every tear you cried was solved with a wipe of his calloused thumb and an incredibly stupid joke. 

There’s an undeniable connection, yet nothing concrete. Your relationship was only what the rumors floating around the emergency department made it to be. There hadn’t been a discussion, no romantic devotions of love. It was just you and Frank. That was all the definition it needed to be.

It had been his natural choice to keep your closeness as under wraps as possible. His reputation around the hospital hadn’t fully repaired itself from the fracture of going to rehab and, as a result, the separation from his wife. The last thing he needed was Robby breathing down his neck, talking about things he didn’t know, saying things about how romantic relationships weren’t recommended during the first year of addiction recovery. 

Frank knew he’d be recovering from his addiction all of his life - did that mean he was meant to be alone forever? There were late nights where he came home to his new, measly apartment in the city and was greeted by nothing but harrowing silence, left to wallow in the screams and sobs that had echoed around him during his shift. For what he believed was the first time in his life, he was consistently lonely.

In reality, you had brought him back to life after rehab. Your innate ability to care for even the most stubborn patients had come into play the day he had stepped back into the Pitt. Constant check-ins, a protein bar slid across the nurse’s desk, a hand on his bicep with a soft squeeze when he looked particularly anguished after a drug overdose. Then, after seeing the haunted look on his face after a particularly hard shift, you had invited him over for dinner.

And his life had only gone uphill from there.

The only problem is that, as much as he had set the boundary to keep as professional as possible, he loved to toe the line. A hand on your hip when sliding behind you during a trauma, hidden by the adrenaline of the moment. Times where he’d tug you into supply closets just to pull you close and bury his nose in your hair to find some peace in the craziness, pressing a kiss to your temple before opening the door and darting away to the next STEMI that rolled through.

Like now.

It’s been a hectic shift. It’s only been about four hours, but you’ve lost a handful of patients in a multitude of ways. A kid with asthma that caught pneumonia, restricting his breathing until his lungs gave out. A girl who broke her leg and had a stroke from a resulting brain clot. An entire family, gone from a drunk driver at eight in the morning, before bars even opened.

Dr. Robby had forced you to take a break after you had accidentally let a sad hiccup slip. After composing yourself in the bathroom, you’d hunkered down on the floor in the break room, knees pulled to your chest for some semblance of comfort. For a while, you stared at the white walls, attempting to remember all of the good things about this job. 

The toddler who’d grinned up at you, all gums, whenever you’d pressed your stethoscope to her chest. All the adult patients who begged you for a sticker after seeing you hand them out to children. The grandma who thanked you for listening to her speak, because the upside of her trip to the emergency room was a pause in her loneliness.

You’re interrupted by the sound of sneakers on the linoleum, eyes flickering up.

“Heard you had a bad day.” Frank murmurs, pressing a knee into the floor as he crouches in front of you. A hand curls around the back of your neck, nudging your head forward. Like instinct, you uncurl your knees from your torso, tucking your face into the dip between his neck and collarbone.

His cologne evades your senses from where he had sprayed it on his skin that morning. You mentally curse yourself for the way you inhale deeply, eyes fluttering shut as you fully lean into him. It was weird, how you had gone through years of disgust at even the softest whiff of boy, and yet now it’s more reassuring than any lavender-scented candle on the store shelves. 

Your nose brushes against his carotid as you attempt to burrow deeper, sighing. For a moment, you swear you can feel his pulse in your cheek. “And our shift has barely started.” You grumble, making an attempt at a joke despite the heat already building up in the bridge of your nose.

Frank’s chest rumbles with a grunt of a laugh. “Yeah, but you can handle it.” There’s another soft grunt as he pulls away from you, lowering himself to sit on the floor next to you. His warmth isn’t gone for long, a hand snaking behind your back to press his fingers into your hip and pull you closer. “You’re the strongest girl I know.”

“You know Dana.” You tilt your head to place your cheek on his shoulder, legs parting to ensure that your thigh presses against his. The warmth of his skin radiates through both of your scrubs, making you itch to be bare-skinned and pressed against him. “Or Santos. Both of them are feisty.”

Doctor’s orders: direct skin to skin contact. Preferably beneath a soft blanket, in a really cold apartment so that no one wants to move or leave.

“Well, how about we put you three in a boxing ring and let you fight it out, then?” He says the joke with such earnestness that you’re almost afraid that he’s being serious, however you know him better than that. Instead, you jab a finger into his ribcage and he laughs, playfully pinching at your side in return.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there. A quiet bubble, with your cheek pressed into his collarbone and his jaw perched on your cranium. For a moment, you don’t worry about anything. Your brain is blank from the thoughts of quitting, from the constant mantra of “I could quit today,” from the fact that anybody could walk into the breakroom and see you two.

And then the door clicks.

You jump, but Frank’s fingers just tighten on your hip. He looks up at Perlah like absolutely nothing is happening, like you aren’t tucked into his side like you belong there, one eyebrow raising in question.

Perlah stops for a moment before her lips twitch in an attempt at hiding her smile, head dipping in understanding. There’s a mischievous glint in her eye that you know all too well - that she was about to tell the entire emergency department what she’s seeing. “The family of the girl who had the stroke is here.” She tells you, clearing her throat.

Your cheeks burn as you stare at her, nodding. Frank chuckles beside you at your lack of words, flashing Perlah a smile. “Thanks, Perlah.”

She leaves briskly, already intent on finding Princess, and you bury your face into his chest with a groan. “They’re going to tell everyone, Langdon.” There’s a petulant tone lining each word, like you’re willing to hold onto his rules tighter than he is. Perhaps it’s the part that cares for people that wants to follow his lead, or just the part that cares for him.

“Let her,” is all he answers. His arm moves to curl around your shoulders, pulling you in. You can hear the grin in his voice, something victorious. “Just means I can hold you like this more often.”

Something blooms in your chest at the words, cheeks burning hotter, if possible. With a sigh, you simply just burrow your face further into him.

Suffice it to say that one hour became two, then three, and eventually you kept busy with finishing some household chores before deciding to treat yourself to a nice, long shower. Your hair was overdue for a wash and your best friend had recently gifted you a self-care basket with some shower steamers you’d been wanting to try. 

Twenty minutes later, and you were stepping into a hot shower with lavender-eucalyptus steam emanating from the floor of the tub. You damn-near moaned at the relief—this was just what the doctor ordered (pun intended). 

It wasn’t long after you washed your hair that you thought you heard the front door. But to be fair, every time you showered you managed to convince yourself you’d heard your entire extended family being slaughtered in the living room. It wasn’t until a familiar, rhythmic knock on the bathroom door that you smiled to yourself. 

For as long as you’d known him, Frank always mimicked the pattern of Anna’s opening knock in “Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?” from Frozen (Penny may or may not be obsessed with the movie. Hell, the last time Abby dropped the kids off she’d been in an Elsa dress and demanded they watch it after dinner. This of course meant Frank was also obsessed by proxy). 

“Come in!” 

The door creaked open, and you could hear Frank’s sigh of exhaustion over the stream of the shower. “Hey, baby. Sorry I’m home so- Jesus, it smells like a spa in here. What is that?” 

“New shower steamers. Too much?” 

“No, just strong.” You heard the soft click of the door. “Fuck, you would not believe the shift I’ve had—” 

“Good bad or bad bad?” you asked, absently wringing the rest of the shampoo from your hair. 

Another sigh. You could barely make out the ruffling of clothes being shed and tossed haphazardly on the tile. Your stomach instantly fluttered in anticipation, but the rational part of your brain hesitated—you might as well kiss your relaxing shower goodbye if your lovely boyfriend was going to barge in. 

“Good bad, thankfully,” came his reply. “A few interesting cases. Some punk kids almost blinded themselves; apparently they thought it’d be fun to try and cook up some mustard gas with one of their mom’s cleaning supplies. Jackasses were lucky they didn’t get more severe chemical burns.” 

You chuckled. “Sounds about right for teenage boys.” 

“Yep, the usual BS.” 

The shower curtain whipped open, revealing one tired-looking Dr. Frank Langdon, beautifully unkempt and deliciously nude. Despite his visible exhaustion, a broad grin plastered itself on his face at the sight of you. “Hi. I missed you.” 

“Missed you too.” When he kept staring, you quirked a brow, unabashedly assessing his body with false scrutiny. “Can I help you?” 

His—very obviously ogling—eyes shot back up to yours, and he made a shooing gesture. “Uh, yeah. Scooch.” 

When you gave no indication of moving, he took matters into his own hands, pulling the curtain all the way open to step over the lip of the tub. Of course, he flinched immediately upon feeling the water—typical man reaction. 

 “Jesus Christ, woman! How do you not have third degree burns?!” 

“Oh, don’t barge in and then complain,” you tossed back. “Maybe just wait your turn like a normal person. I’m almost done.” Despite what your words might suggest, the protest in your voice was nonexistent, even to your own ears. In actuality, you missed him. A lot. 

Frank shook his head, stepping fully into the shower. “That’s such a lie.” He tucked himself behind you and leaned in close, nosing along your wet hair and making you giggle. “Mm. Mhm. Just what I thought—only shampooed.” 

His cool hands found your waist, skirting the length of your body with gentle intimacy; a tender re-acquaintance with all the parts of you that he’d missed during the day. Despite the scalding hot water, you shivered. 

“O-kay, well. You’re disrupting my zen.” 

Soft lips against the hinge of your jaw nearly eviscerate all rational thoughts in your brain. “Mmmm I know, but I could really use a shower right now. And I missed you. And it’s a chance to lower our water bill. I like to think of it as killing two birds with one stone.” 

You turned to face him, and he immediately swooped in for a kiss that you diverted with a palm planted on his chest. “Fine. You can stay, but no funny business.” 

He stuck his lip out in an exaggerated pout. “One kiss?” 

You gave in, because of course you did. Who wouldn’t?

His thumb and forefinger pinched your chin, gently tugging your lower lip to deepen the kiss. It was a slow, welcome hello after so many hours spent apart. The kind of kiss you could tell Frank had been craving, the familiar warmth of a body that didn’t actively need fixing or saving. He parted only to catch his breath, pressing a soft kiss to your damp forehead. You were still leveling your own breathing when he reached behind you for your lavender body scrub. 

A smile found your features, heart swelling with tenderness at the fact that he was familiar enough with your shower routine to know your exact steps. 

While he fumbled with the lid, you occupied yourself by scattering a few soft kisses across his neck and chest, palms landing over his ribs to ground yourself against his body. It wasn’t entirely meant to be sensual, only affectionate, but it became rapidly apparent that your actions were having the opposite effect. 

You huffed a laugh, glancing down between you. “Seriously? That’s all it takes?” 

Frank almost sounded offended. “Don’t sound so shocked. My beautiful, wet, naked girlfriend touching and kissing all over me? That’s more than enough.” 

“You’re so easy.”

He groaned as you sucked at the soft skin beneath his ear. “You’ve no idea. I got hard from watching you dig around in our garbage disposal once.”   

“Oh my god, Frank. Ew.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “What? I like a woman who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.”

When he finally worked the stubborn lid open, he rubbed the scrub into your skin with the sort of accuracy and attentiveness you could only accredit to his doctoral degree. 

“Leg up,” he commanded, pressing hard enough into your calf that you moaned. “Other leg. Arms out; good girl.”

He was doing this shit on purpose, and both of you knew it. It became glaringly obvious when he spent ample time massaging your tits. 

Okay, maybe you were a bit hypocritical, eyes fluttering shut and lip between your teeth as you let him grope you. You were content to let it slide until his thumbs openly grazed your (already very erect) nipples and you remembered you were supposed to be showering. 

“Francis.” 

“Yes dear?” 

“That’s…mm…not exactly a cleansing motion.” 

“Hm, you’re right. Not very effective, is it?” He let the water rinse off some of the scrub, before promptly leaning down to take a nipple into his sweltering mouth, which somehow felt hotter than the shower itself. You gasped sharply, hands flying to his sodden hair. 

“Yeah…much more effective,” he muttered against your skin. 

“A-ah, Frank, God—” 

His tongue swirled around the bud, lips suckling with just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm, arousal boiling low and insistent in your belly. 

“I could’ve s-sworn I said no funny business.” Again, the protest in your voice was feeble at best; you were equally as helpless in denying your boyfriend as he was in denying you. 

Frank only hummed, switching to give your other nipple the same attention. Your fingers smoothed through his hair, now heavy with water. You stumbled back a step to reach for his shampoo, though he was quick to distract you with a kiss that damn near stole the breath from your lungs. 

“Lemme. Wash. Your hair,” you argue between kisses. 

The whine that poured out of him made more than just your stomach flutter. 

“Lemme kiss you,” he fired back, hands cupping the sides of your face like it would physically pain him to let you go. 

You couldn’t help your lovesick smile. “You can, baby. You can. Just…let’s actually get clean while we’re in here, yeah?” 

With a dramatic grumble, Frank finally turned around so you could get a better angle to wash his hair. 

You poked his side, “so sassy.” 

Even if he often disrupted your entire routine, you enjoyed showering with Frank. He craved physical intimacy more than he’d ever admit to you. It didn’t always have to be sexual, either; you knew he loved being touched simply as a means of closeness and having himself be the one getting taken care of for once. 

You kissed the birth mark on his shoulder blade as you lathered your hands, the earthy scent of his sandalwood shampoo enriching the hot steam of the shower. You gently and firmly carded your fingers through his hair, making sure to spend extra time massaging his scalp. You also gifted him a few scattered kisses across his shoulders and the top of his spine, cherishing the way he quivered under your touch. His pleased little hums made you smile, a mix of fondness and desire continuing to bloom between your legs. 

When you were finished rinsing it all out, Frank decided it was time for your hair mask and eagerly returned the favor, his touch tender and thoughtful as he worked the product into your hair; he also speckled kisses across the slope of your neck and shoulder bones.  

When he was done, however, you could sense the mischief in the smirk he pressed against your neck like a sixth sense; his hands were full of intent as they moved your hair out of his way before trailing down your sides, coming to rest just at the crease of your thighs. His lips once again found the side of your neck, his body crowding into yours from behind. Open-mouthed kisses marked a trail along your shower-softened skin. 

Your hand gripped the nape of his neck as he sucked a bruise into a spot beneath your jaw. 

“What’s your excuse this time?” you rasped. 

“Don’t need one,” he muttered innocently. “We’ve gotta let your hair mask sit for at least five minutes. I think the bottle recommends ten, actually.” 

Another laugh bubbled from your chest. You shot him a dubious look. “What happened to saving water?” 

He hid his smirk behind a kiss on your shoulder. “We are. It’s a two-for-the-price-of-one shower.” Another kiss. His hands drifted back to your inner thighs, voice pitching low. “Should save us about seventy-five cents or so.” 

You shuddered when his fingers skirted the edge of your labia, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. “Something tells me this isn’t about the money.”

His breath was pure heat against your ear. “Caught me,” he whispered. 

Fingers slipped lower, seeking and finding your already swollen clit, circling it with gentle precision. His other hand trekked back up your body, slow and sensual, tenderly groping your breast. 

“Missed you. Was thinkin’ about this all day.” 

“Yeah?” Your hand reached up to comb through his wet hair as his touch moved further south, teasing your sensitive opening with firm caresses. Your ass arched back into his hips, dragging a groan from his chest as you ground against him. 

“Mhm.” His middle finger finally slid home, drawing a low whimper from the back of your throat. “Fuckin’ elbow deep in blood and guts and I still couldn’t stop imagining you like this.” 

“Wow,” you scoffed. “So romantic.” 

“You know me.” 

One hand gripped his forearm, feeling the tendons flex with the movement of his fingers. “Fuck, Frankie.” 

The nickname always did a number on him; you felt it in the way his free hand tightened on your hip bone, his breath hot as it hitched against your cheek. 

“That feel nice, sweetheart?” You barely managed to nod your head. “Mm. I’m sure it does. She’s already nice n’ wet for me.” 

Frank crowded you against the wall of the shower, your tits flush against the tile as he slipped another finger in, your body trembling around the intrusion. His free hand came to rest beside your head, lips refusing to leave the wet skin of your neck. His cock was stiff and hot against the cleft of your ass. 

Feeling as though things were a bit uneven, you reached behind you and grasped his cock in your hand, your cunt throbbing at his moan of surprise. 

His tongue licks up the side of your neck, mouth sloppy and shameless in his need for you. 

“Yeah, baby. Love when you touch me like that,” he groans, low and long. 

You whined sharply when his curling digits struck gold, pressing just right against spongy tissue. Damn this man—he played you like a fucking fiddle, plucking all the right strings to get your body to sing; made you crave him like oxygen, miss him like a limb. 

The crescendo of your orgasm was fast approaching, your thighs trembling from the promise of it, skin somehow feeling sweaty in spite of the shower. Your free hand flew to his wrist as he buried his head in your neck, lips hot against your skin. 

“Gonna come?” he breathed. “C’mon, baby. Let her feel good. Chase it.” 

You rose, almost on your tiptoes, body arching away from the onslaught of sensitivity whilst seeking more more more, as you straddled the edge of release. When it finally happened, it was with a sharp cry of your boyfriend’s name, nails biting into his wrist as your body shuddered in his hold. 

“There we go,” his voice pitched a little higher with anticipation, feeling your cunt spasm around him, no doubt imagining it were his cock instead. “There we go, good fucking girl. Mhm. Use my fingers, baby. Get yourself off. Fuck, that’s so good.” 

Your hand stalled on his cock, too distracted by the intensity of your orgasm to focus on anything else. Frank didn’t seem to care, wholly consumed in the reactions he was yanking from your body as he kept his fingers pumping in an attempt to prolong your high. His breath was hot against your ear, praises pouring from his lips that you could barely process in the midst of your release. 

Eventually your twitching hips started to slow as your body attempted to come down, but Frank was having none of it. 

“Nuh-uh. Keep going. You’re not done,” he breathed against your ear. “Can still feel her twitchin’ on me.” He ground his palm against your throbbing clit, drawing a sharp cry from your lips as you jolted from the sharp tenderness of it. 

“Frank,” you pleaded, lungs heaving from his continued attention. Your body was quickly getting overwhelmed, almost overstimulated, but the plea of his name wasn’t a warning; it wasn’t a ‘no’ or a ‘stop’ or even a ‘slow down’, though you knew at any point a simple utterance of red would have him backing off immediately. It was none of those things, and both of you knew it. Your hand gripped his wrist as you moaned, slack-jawed and shameless, skin dewy from sweat and humidity. 

“Good girl,” he praised, right in your ear. “C’mon. She wants another one, I can feel it.” 

With a sharp cry, your body spasmed right into its second orgasm, nearly curling in on itself from the pleasure that bordered on pain. Frank was there to hold you up, though, the arm that wasn’t currently buried between your legs crossing around your front to keep you upright and pressed into him. 

“Fuck. Fuck. That’s it, there we go, shh…” 

He found your panting mouth at some point, messily kissing along your lower lip and chin as he finally retracted his fingers from your cunt. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, his soft voice a total 180 from the way he’d been talking moments ago. 

You nodded weakly, breathing hard, a lazy smile appearing on your face as your nervous system slowly returned to normal. Frank was still flush against your back and hard as a rock, so you indulged him in a slow, messy kiss that drew a longing moan from the back of his throat. 

“We can be done,” he said, sounding genuine. Some might be surprised to learn that Frank Langdon was a giver in bed—to the point that his own pleasure was inconsequential at times. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m okay,” you insist, shifting your hips back against his to make a point. “I want it like this,” you whispered against his lips. 

Frank’s groan made your belly do flips. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He was quick to give in after that. 

“Fuck, okay. C’mere. Arch your back a little, sweetheart.” 

His cock was hot and heavy, parting the lips of your cunt and sliding up to tease your swollen clit. His voice was molten heat in your ear. The world once again narrowed to his presence, his voice and his touch. Your clit was hypersensitive, a harsh sort of hot pleasure that made you slightly dizzy. 

Frank placed a few salacious kisses up the back of your neck. “Gonna let me put it in? Just a little bit, hm?” 

You were prepared to beg for it, actually. 

“Yes, yes. Please, baby, wan’ all of it—”

“Oh?” His grin was like a Cheshire cat’s. “You want all of it, do you? After I already gave you two orgasms? Such a greedy girl.” 

“Mhm, mhm. Please."

He let out a disbelieving chuckle, like he couldn’t fathom how lucky he’d gotten. “Okay, baby. Okay. You can have all of me.” 

The push into you is near effortless with how wet you are, but you still moan in bliss at the delightful stretch of him, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Frank isn’t abnormally long, but he’s thick, a burn that blazes through every one of your cells. 

“Oh fuck, baby. God. Squeezin’ me so good, mmmfuck—”

That only makes you clamp down harder, head dizzy with the familiar stretch, your arms and palms braced against the wet wall of the shower. 

The kiss behind your ear was soft, then. 

“You okay?” 

You nodded frantically, trying to encourage him to move with a backwards thrust of your hips. The water sluices your joint bodies, everything hot and wet, clean and filthy, push and pull. Your head tips back against his shoulder, jaw slack with a sharp gasp. 

Frank groans, the sound a guttural noise in his chest, as he works his hips into you with building gusto. You open your eyes and peek over a shoulder to find a pinch in his brow, a blend of focus and strain. One of your hands moves to grip the back of his thigh, nails biting into skin, urging him along with the movement of your own hips. 

“S-so good to me,” you pant, knowing in secret that he has a thing for praise, too. “You’re so good, Frankie. M-making me feel so good and so special, fucking me like this. I love you so much.” 

Another whimper careens from his parted lips, hands bracing on the shower wall beside your head as he picks up speed. 

“I bet this is just what you needed, hm?” You squeeze his thigh harder. “A nice, good fuck. Does it feel good, honey? Can you feel how much I missed you?” 

He nods breathlessly, and when his eyes finally reopen you’re nearly overwhelmed at the look in them, flooding with lust and love and worship. He’s looking at you like you’re something divine, something worth more than a million words could ever convey. 

A hand moves to cradle your jaw, panting into the centimeters of space between you. “Kiss me, baby. Please.” 

You oblige instantly, twisting slightly to get a better angle. 

A positively mouth-watering whimper stumbles from his mouth into yours when your pussy tightens around him, your orgasm precious moments away as he presses you further against the shower wall.   

“Feels so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. I missed you so much.” 

You respond in kind, offering a whine of your own as he pounds into you. “M-missed you too.” Desperation and emotion cloud your voice. “I hate when you have to stay overtime.” 

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I hate it too,” he breathes, peppering kisses across your cheek. “But I’m here now. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” His voice pitches lower, words making your pussy flutter around his cock in warning of your impending release. “Just wanna feel you come on me, honey. Make my whole night, c’mon. One more.” 

You center all of your focus on that singular goal, feeling him rock inside your tender pussy. The brink is borderline painful the third time around, a building burn that festers in all of your lower muscles and springs tears to your eyes. But you are nothing if not determined, willing at all costs to give Frank everything that he wants because he fucking deserves it, and you want to come so badly that you power through it, chasing that final, blissful fall. 

Frank is grunting in your ear, and you’re suddenly overcome with the urge to see him, watch him as he falls apart and the vision of it has you frantically tapping on his thigh. 

“Turn me, turn me,” you demand. 

It takes a second for your words to land. “Wha- are you okay?” 

“Y-yeah, yes, I just…I just want to face you. Please, Frank.” 

He does as you ask, hiking a leg up onto his hip and immediately getting back to work. You yelp from the deeper angle this position allows, arms looping loosely around his neck as you watch him with hooded eyes. 

“God, baby,” he curses. “You’re so perfect. So, so, beautiful.” 

“Mm…Frankie. G-gonna—” 

“Yeah? C’mon. C’mon hon, you got it.” 

His fingers dash between your bodies, and the startling stab of his thumb working over your worn clit is what finally does it. Not even a few thumb strokes later and you’re shattering around his cock, nearly sliding down the shower wall and losing your balance if Langdon weren’t there to catch you. He fucks you through it, only barely, a string of profanities and your name pouring from his lips. 

“S-shit, baby. M’gonna come, fuck—” his grip on your hip tightens. “Where do you want it?” 

“Inside,” comes your immediate—albeit somewhat loopy—response. “Always, baby. Please, insideinsideinside—” 

This seemed to undo him; he pitches forward to sink his teeth into the meat of your shoulder. A full-body shudder rolls through his body, quickly followed by a long, drawn-out groan. His thrusts turn into sloppy, erratic movements of his hips, like he’s trying to burrow himself as deep as possible as the familiar warmth of his release floods your nervous system. 

His breathing starts to slow as he runs his hands up and down your sides, grounding himself in the nearness of your body. Then his head lifts, and you barely catch the dopey smile on his face before he smothers it against your lips, his kiss deep and unhurried. You take it for what it is—an intimate thank you, a conveyance of his gratitude for having him, for letting him have you. 

“I think,” you run your fingers through his hair, “I think my hair mask is probably ready to be washed out.” 

Frank chuckles, hiding his face in your neck. His five o’clock shadow makes you itchy. 

“Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart. I swear I didn’t have ulterior motives.” You scoff, and he laughs again. “Okay, fine, maybe I did. Just…not to this extent.” He pulls his head out of your neck, and that happy grin of his is back, making your heart stutter in your chest. “But no regrets, though?” 

You roll your eyes fondly. “No, my love. I really did miss you today.” You peck the dimple on his chin, “only…now can we really shower? Because somehow I’m feeling more gross than when I initially got in.” 

His grin widens, affection and love written in the lines of his pearly white smile. When he leans close, his forehead brushes yours. “Yeah, baby. We can.” 

“Wait wait wait—you’re being serious?” You almost laughed at his wide-eyed expression, a comical blend of incredulity and fascination, like he couldn’t believe that you, his girlfriend of nearly two years, found his profession attractive. 

“It’s a common kink,” you argued. “I mean, c’mon, Frank. Male strippers literally dress up as doctors all the time.” 

Frank wagged his brows at you. “You want me to give you a strip tease, baby?” 

“More like I want you to lay me out on the table and offer me some ‘specialized treatment’ for my pelvic floor issues.” 

So, that’s exactly what he did one evening, catching you totally off-guard when you returned to the kitchen after your shower to find Frank, at 4pm on a Sunday evening on his day off, dressed in his scrubs, his old stethoscope from med school slung around his neck, and his actual PTMC badge pinned to his chest. 

Your wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression didn’t deter him at all. Frank slipped seamlessly into character, pretending to read your full given name off a clipboard he’d snagged from your office. “In for a pelvic exam? It says here you’re experiencing some abnormal cramping in your vaginal canal?”  

“Frank—” you blurted stupidly, surprise quickly bleeding into arousal as you realized what this was. You couldn’t believe he was actually playing into this whole thing—you thought he’d found it funny.  

Frank tutted at you, wagging his finger in reprimand. “Frank? Being on a first name basis with your physician is hardly professional. It’s Dr. Langdon, sweetheart.” Heat flooded your body. It didn’t take long for Fra- er, Dr. Langdon to guide you over to your meticulously clean dining room table, which was definitely not intended for the kind of tomfoolery you two would be getting up to, but it would have to do. 

All pretenses of propriety evaporated almost instantly, of course. After snapping on some latex gloves, your boyfriend propped you on the table, stripped you bare from the waist down, and gently pushed your body down and your legs apart to quote “get a proper look”. 

It was something straight out of a porno, which normally would turn you off, but there was something about the way Frank said, “hm, nope. I’m not getting a good enough angle. I’m going to recommend we try a more tactile examination, if that’s alright with you.” 

Fuck yes, it was. 

That was how he ended up fingering you in your dining room, your arms and legs spread eagle, feet planted on the table as you fought and failed to keep your breathing even. The latex felt a bit odd, but thankfully it didn’t last long as you could tell Frank’s impatience was growing. Still, he kept in character, snapping them off and tossing them aside under the guise of “feeling you properly”. 

“I-is this how you normally treat your patients, Dr. Langdon?” you asked when he’d bent to lick up your sopping pussy, messily tonguing his way around your clit and outer lips. 

Frank grinned from between your thighs, eyes full of mischief. “Only the ones who really need it.” 

“And I really need it?” 

“Yes, baby, you do. You’re so tense and tight—no wonder you’ve been cramping, honey. You’re in desperate need of release.” 

Release you needed, and release you got. You came embarrassingly fast—you’d told him this had been one of your dearest fantasies, after all—soaking his face and fingers as you rode out the high with twitching hips. 

“Excellent,” Frank panted, and the tone of his voice told you he was fighting to keep the scene going. One glance at his lust-blown pupils made it obvious that this was affecting him just as much as it was affecting you. “Experiencing clitoral orgasm is a good sign,” he said, and the clinicalness of it all made your stomach swoop in renewed arousal. “But, just to be sure, I’m going to ensure that you’re still able to experience a vaginal orgasm as well.” 

You couldn’t help the desperate look you gave him, sitting up on your elbows, watching him hastily undo the tie on his scrub pants as you let your voice slip into a sultry tone. 

“And how will you do that, Doctor?” 

Frank fucking winked at you, and if you weren’t so turned on you might’ve laughed. But coupled with the sight of his perfect fucking hands slipping into his pants, obviously stroking his dick, your jaw instantly snapped shut. 

“A little penetration should do the trick. Lay back for me, Miss.” 

Of course, you were never able to come from penetration alone, Frank knew this, but it was part of the fantasy, and so you played along as he inserted himself painstakingly slowly into your cunt. 

“There we go,” he bit his lip, an obvious indicator that he was fighting a groan. “Just take some nice, deep breaths for me. Perfect, just like that. You’re doing so good.” 

“Frank…” you let the name slip, incapable of thinking clearly with how crazy he was making you. 

A palm swatted at the back of your thigh, swift and sharp, and you yelped. “That’s not my name. I didn’t go 200k in debt for nothin’, baby. Use my fucking title.” 

“Doctor,” you moaned, hips lifting slightly in a poor attempt to make him slide all the way in. “Please.” 

“Not to worry, sweetheart,” he cooed, hands settled on your waist. “Everything appears to be in working order so far.” Then he pushed all the way in, and you both groaned, unable to fight it. His rhythm picked up fairly quickly, likely a result of his withering composure as he fucked into you, eyes darting all around your body, which was still mostly hidden from view (you knew this probably frustrated him, because Frank went absolutely nuts for your tits, but he seemed decently committed to the bit, which you appreciated). 

As things picked up, though, your own sanity was also decreasing and your desperation to simply be close to Frank nearly engulfed your need to see the fantasy through. 

He hadn’t kissed you throughout the entire encounter, as it wouldn’t have really made sense in the context. But you desperately missed his lips, and you could tell he missed yours too when he went along easily upon the insistent pull of your hands around his neck, dragging him down over you to slot your mouths together. 

“Am I doing okay?” you panted into his mouth. 

“Mhm,” Frank moaned into the kiss, hot and wet, before breaking it to pepper them along your jaw instead, ending just beside your ear. “Yes, you’re doing wonderful. You see, when the body gets aroused, the vaginal canal produces a natural lubricant to accommodate penetrative intercourse.” 

“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered. Who knew clinical sex talk could be so sexy? To be fair, you were pretty sure Frank Langdon could make just about anything sound sexy, but still. 

“Those with male genitalia can often feel when the female body is approaching orgasm, as her inner walls will start to tense,” as if on cue, your body did just that as Frank continued, “her legs will begin to quiver. She may try to close them in anticipation. And, if your partner is especially astute,” his fingers slipped between your thighs, circling your fluttering clit with precision. “They might notice your swollen little clit just throbbing in desperation, begging to be touched in order to reach that final, blissful edge.” 

You snapped like a rubberband, coming around him with a curse of his name, which thankfully he didn’t correct this time. Frank followed soon after, filling you with a long, drawn-out moan, his breath fanning down your neck as his hips stuttered and slowed. 

With you both sated, the illusion blipped away seamlessly. Frank’s hands were familiar in their gentleness, drawing soothing circles on the meat of your hips and stomach as he caught his breath. “Holy fuck, baby. You okay?” 

You nodded, still a little blissed out, as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. “Yeah, yes, that was…Jesus Christ, Frank. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” 

He chuckled into your neck, pressing soft little kisses along your skin. “I am to please.” 

“Seems like you enjoyed it too, though,” you mused, carding your fingers through his hair as he withdrew to look down at you. 

“Well, it was hot because it was you, baby.” 

You shot him a deadpan look. “So you’re telling me if I pretended to be an innocent, extremely professional nurse examining your poor, perpetually hard dick that wouldn’t turn you on?” 

You watched him swallow thickly, feeling his spent cock twitch where it was still nestled inside you. You laughed, pecking him sweetly on the lips. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

"What are the chances the cough in south 20 turns out to be a pulmonary embolism?" 

Langdon bounces buzzily on the balls of his feet, drumming the edge of the counter at Central as he inspects the board for a new patient. 

"Probably the same as you going a whole hour without saying something stupid," you deadpan without looking up from the tablet you're tapping away on, correcting an error in a patient's chart. 

Anybody else, he'd take the hint and stop bothering them. But Langdon takes a special delight in annoying you. Especially when you're covering as charge nurse for Dana. 

"Are you mean to everybody, or just me?" He reaches over the counter to poke at you, but you smack his hand away before he can make contact. 

"Manchild," you roll your eyes at his pouting. You're especially feisty today, he's noticed, which can likely be attributed to Dana's absence.

You hate running charge, but you're good at it, which is why you always get stuck with it. The evident stress steaming from your ears only further fuels his desire to get a rise out of you.

"What's the matter with you today, huh?" He asks, much to your chagrin. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, or what?" 

"I have a headache," you state plainly, docking the tablet with a pointed thunk, then floating to the nearest computer. Langdon slides along the opposite edge of the counter, mirroring your movements.

A lost golden retriever, you think, fingers clacking away at the keyboard. 

"I bet the fluorescents and constant beeping are a great comfort right now, then," the sarcasm rolls off his tongue like it's his first language. 

"You make it worse. You make my brain hurt," you sneer, one of your perfectly sculpted brows shooting up from behind the monitor.

"Terrible news. That's your second-best feature," Langdon tuts, still rapping his fingers against the counter. You pinch the space between your brows, a crack in the hard exterior you work so hard to maintain. 

Oh, Langdon realizes stupidly. Not even snapping at him for flirting. Your head must really hurt. 

"D'you take anything yet?" He asks, eyeing you up and down, as if to search for any external symptoms. Doctor mode activated. 

"Haven't had time," you fly from the monitor to the supply cart with a forthright purpose, sliding open a drawer and yanking out a central line kit. The movement happens so quickly, so methodically that Langdon's sure it's all muscle memory. Like zoning out on a long drive. "Mr. Scott in 8 needs a central line." 

You tuck the kit under your arm, then yank a tablet from the dock and extend it across the counter to Langdon. "And Rhea Duram in south 20 needs you to listen to her cough." 

The purse of your lips, tightness of your jaw…

If Langdon's material is especially potent, he can draw a small smile from you. But he's throwing his best stuff at you and you're still all business. 

"Langdon, I don't have time to play right now, OK?" You snap after Langdon still doesn't take the tablet. He accepts it with the sheepishness of a dog with its tail between its legs. 

Before he can stammer out some bullshit, egocentric doctor apology, you march towards your next patient. 

A half hour later, you've placed a central line, checked on Louie in the hall, charged for a code, and rendezvoused with Robby about which beds have been freshly discharged.

The pain in your head has reached underground-rave-levels of pounding, so the long, selfish sigh that leaks out of you when you round back to central is no surprise.  What is a surprise, however, is the cold, glistening bottle of Diet Coke by your computer, a blue sticky note tacked to the label. Familliar, illegible handwriting scrawled on the Post-It that shoots a lightning strike through your stomach. 

Langdon wrote your name, followed by the words Caffeine fix might do the trick. 

You took a long deep breath in as the door to the room you were in opened, a noticeable wheezing sound leaving your mouth. Your eyes flickered up to meet the doctor standing before you and your heart began to pound, God he was gorgeous. 

“Hey, Ms. (y/L/n). I’m Dr. Langdon. I heard you were having some trouble breathing, what’s going on?” he asked, sliding on a pair of gloves and sitting on the swivel chair in the room.

An awkward look took over your face at the sound of this formality and you took another deep breath in, the pain in your chest refusing to subside, “(y/n)’s fine. I think I’ve been exposed to a high level of formaldehyde. Since the last hour of my shift, I’ve been having really bad eye and throat irritation–worse than usual–it’s been hard to breathe and my,” you explained, stopping for a moment to take another breath in. “chest hurts.”

He furrowed his eyebrows at you, already grabbing his stethoscope, “How’d that happen?” he asked, looking directly into your eyes and making you feel as if your heart had stopped, like you might drop dead right here, right now. But you had to admit, you didn’t think love at first sight was a real thing until he waltzed into the room just a few minutes ago, you never wanted to take your eyes off of him again.

You tried your best to take another full breath in, “I’m a funeral director.” you informed him and his eyebrows quickly raised.

He chuckled at your answer, “Oh yeah? That’s a new one, I don’t think we’ve ever gotten a funeral director in here before.” he joked, making you laugh a little with him even though it hurt.

You softly smiled at him, “Yeah, we’re normally too busy to get checked out. We recently tested the formaldehyde levels where I work but the results haven’t come back yet. I guess we have our answer.” you replied, trying to ignore the fact that a reaction like this means you could possibly die.

He smiled at your response, “I get it but I promise you’re gonna be feeling better in no time,” He pressed the chest piece of his stethoscope to your back, “Alright, (y/n), I need you to take a few slow deep breaths in and out for me,” he instructed, the feeling of him being so close to you almost overwhelming. He lightly rested his free hand on your shoulder, making your heart beat faster than it already was if that was even possible, the warmth of his skin radiating through the glove. He paused, “You feeling alright?” he said, referring to your pounding heart.

You looked down at your clammy hands in your lap for a second then back up at him, “I’m fine, you just…make me nervous. In a good way.” you awkwardly said, already regretting being so honest seeing as you could’ve just lied and said the exposure was causing this and probably gotten away with it.

He stared into your eyes again, looking like he was either in shock or thinking about how he could let you down gently, you weren’t sure. He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, “Yeah, I get that a lot.” he joked, also seemingly regretting his response right away.

Silence fell over the room for a few minutes until he suddenly spoke again, “Alright, I do hear some wheezing and from what you’ve told me, I think you’re right. So, I’m gonna get you set up with some humidified oxygen, get you hooked up to an IV and in a couple hours I’ll have you drink some activated charcoal to reduce any absorption.” he explained and you nodded, still feeling nervous about being around him and if you would actually get better, simultaneously dreading the idea of throwing up in front of this gorgeous man.

He frowned at you as if he sensed your worry and gently placed his hand on your shoulder, grabbing your attention. “You’re gonna be okay, there’s no need to be afraid. You’ll get through this, I promise,” he assured you and you nodded once more, your hands still clasped together in your lap. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he said, prompting him to pat your shoulder a couple times as he stood up. 

To you, he looked like he wanted to do more to comfort you, he just didn’t want to overstep.

“Alright.” you said.

The second Frank was back in the hallway, a breath he didn’t know he was holding left his lips and he immediately went searching for the myAirvo 2 they kept in one the closets for cases like this and a bag of saline fluid. Normally, he’d let Perlah or Princess or one of the other nurses handle something like this but a selfish part of him wanted to be the sole reason for why you got better, not anyone else. 

He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. From how beautiful you were to the scent of your perfume to your eyes and how you looked at him to the way your work clothes fit you just right to how your heart had started to pound when he touched you.

He tightly squeezed his eyes shut for just a second on his way back to your room, God he was fucked. He barely knew you and yet he already felt like he’d been in some sort of love at first sight situation. He hadn’t felt this way since he first met Abby all those years ago. But for the sake of being professional, he promised himself that he wouldn’t ask you out until you were discharged and no longer his patient, if you somehow already felt the same way that is.

He quickly collected himself and entered your room again, your eyes meeting him instantly, a scared look replacing the worried one in them. Frank dimmed the lights a little and started to prep the oxygen, “Hey.” he quietly said with a soft smile, only looking at you.

“Hi.” you quietly said back, your heart beat speeding up again as he placed the mask over your mouth and nose, it was almost addicting being this close to him.

His smile grew brighter, “Still feeling nervous around me?” he teased and heat flooded your cheeks.

Your eyes darted away from him, “Maybe.” you quietly answered, your voice slightly muffled by the mask, your eyes now watching him while he placed the needle hooked up to the IV in your arm.

He stood up again, “Alright, well I’ll be back every once in a while to check on you but don’t be afraid to ask for me if you need anything.” he said, his selfishness creeping through again.

You nodded, “Okay,” you said, squinting your eyes in the direction of the small text on his badge. “Frank.” causing his cheeks to blush and him to swiftly leave the room to check on another patient without another word. Many people had called him that his entire life of course but something about hearing you say his name made an odd, hopeful feeling settle in his chest.

—--------------------------------------------

Frank returned for the final time tonight after those two hours since he put the mask on your face had passed. His face lit up at the sight of you while he entered the room, warming your heart, activated charcoal and a bottle of water in hand, “Hey, pretty girl, how’re you feeling?” he asked, the pet name accidentally slipping out as he put another pair of gloves on.

Your eyes widened and you rapidly blinked, “Uh, a little better. My chest pain’s gone but I’m still having some trouble breathing.” you informed him, watching him with a look of fear while he poured the powder into the water and shook it up.

He sat back down on the swivel chair and got as close to you as possible, his hand reclaiming its spot on your shoulder. “You’ll be okay, I’ll be here the whole time. Promise.” he said, his eyebrows furrowing with worry, and handed you the bottle.

You slowly nodded, your eyes never leaving his, “Okay, let’s get this over with.” you sighed and slowly began to drink the dark gray liquid. You winced at the disgusting taste, making Frank frown. 

He didn’t know what it was about you that was different compared to any other patient but he easily found himself wanting to abandon his other patients and just pay attention to you, even though he knew that would have Robby all over his ass. But he didn’t care, he just wanted to be by your side.

In almost thirty-five minutes after you drank the charcoal, a panicked look took over your face and Frank brought a emesis basin to your lips without you having to ask. He softly rubbed your back as you emptied all the contents of your stomach into it, “You’re okay, it’s almost over.” he quietly assured you, making you feel a little better.

By the time everything had come out, you let your body fall back onto the bed. You felt absolutely exhausted and shitty and just wanted to lay here staring up at the ceiling until you felt normal again. Frank’s hand briefly resting on your shoulder again caught your attention, “That should do the trick but we’re gonna have you stay overnight for observation in case you get worse or develop pulmonary edema. Still, you have nothing to worry about.” he told you, which truth be told terrified you but knowing that you were in good hands eased some of your worries.

He rose from the chair and your eyes followed him, “Sounds good, I need a break from work anyway. Will I get to see you again?” you asked, hoping you weren’t coming off too strong and you hadn’t just embarrassed yourself.

“Maybe.” he said with a shrug and a wink before he left the room, some of the charm he thought he lost in rehab coming back to him, leaving you blushing and your heart pounding for what felt like the millionth time since you first met him earlier this evening.

—--------------------------------------------

The following morning, after hours of nurses coming to check on you and your breathing, you finally got to fall asleep for a couple hours when you suddenly heard a knock on the door to the room you’d been moved to, abruptly waking you up. You rubbed your eyes, “Come in!” you called out and Frank walked in, the beeping on the heart monitor almost immediately growing faster.

He smirked and closed the door behind him, loving the effect he had on you, “Hey, pretty girl. How’re you feeling?” he asked, pulling a chair up to your bedside. Normally, he very rarely checked on patients when they were moved upstairs, that just wasn’t part of his job, but you were different and he didn’t want to start his shift without making sure you were okay first.

You smiled at the pet name, welcoming it instead of feeling shocked this time, “A lot better, thanks for checking on me. I’m sure you don’t usually do this.” you answered, causing him to refuse to meet your eyes for a few moments, now feeling as nervous as you were.

He waved this off, “Don’t worry about it. I took a look at the chest x-ray and everything looks great. You should be good to go,” he made known, looking sadder than he meant to like he didn’t want to see you go and possibly walk out of his life forever. He looked down at his lap then up at you, “This is probably overstepping but do you wanna get dinner with me sometime? I really like you.” he asked and your eyes basically bulged out of your head.

Your blinks became more rapid, along with your heart rate, “Sure, I’d love that. I really like you too, Frank.” you answered, trying your best to seem confident and not a flustered mess.

He grinned at you, feeling more relieved than ever, “Great,” he replied, pulling out his phone from his pocket so that you could create a new contact for yourself. He briefly placed his hand over yours for a second or two once you handed it back and gave your hand a quick squeeze before he let go, “See you soon, sweetheart.” he said, the new pet name only making you more in love with him even though you still barely knew each other.

You smiled back, something that was incredibly easy to do around him, “Bye, Frank.” you replied, waving goodbye.

Once he was back in the hall and out of sight, he fist pumped the air, “Yes! Langdon’s still got it!” he yelled out through gritted teeth before continuing on his way to the elevator, ignoring the knowing looks the nurses were giving him.

NAVIGATION send a request!

it’s now way past 4, your body begs you for something edible, something sustainable.

but interns don’t eat. interns don’t get those privileges.

it is annoying that langdon always notices the exact time your body starts screaming.

he does not say your name right away, which is how you know he is clocking more than your charting.

“you good?” his voice is pitched only for you.

the rehearsed answer rises automatically, “yeah. just catching up on notes.”

his gaze flicks to the tremor you cannot fully hide in your hand. “uh-huh. come with me.”

you start to argue, because you don’t need help or food, and the chart on your hand definitely needs some updating.

but the world faintly starts to tilt, your eyes blacking on the corners. you follow him into the break room because it is easier than explaining why your chest feels too tight.

sitting still makes you feel better. langdon presses a cup into your hand and waits, which is worse than if he ordered you. water tastes like relief you do not want to admit needing.

“you eat?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“yes.”

langdon sighs, “coffee is not eating.”

a protein bar is thrust upon you, while his hand settles at your waist, the slow movement and the soft pressure grounding you more than you care to admit. your shoulders drop before you give permission.

this is not just an attending and an intern anymore. this is langdon and you.

“you behave so much better when i have my hands on you,” it’s not a joke, even if there’s a smile lacing his lips.

heat curls low in your stomach, threaded with embarrassment and something softer. you lean into his touch because pretending you do not need it feels stupid in this small room with the door closed.

“i’m fine,” you murmur.

“i know.”

by the time you stand, the tilt is gone. his hand lingers a second longer than necessary, or maybe exactly as long as necessary.

“next time, you tell me before you go quiet like that.”

my masterlist! ᛝ my scribbles m.list! ᛝ my taglist!

The clock on the wall of the ER station ticks toward 4:00 PM, and for Y/N, the world is beginning to blur at the edges. Her blood glucose is bottoming out, her hair escaping its tight braid in messy wisps, and, most annoyingly, Frank Langdon looks like he just stepped out of a hair product commercial.

“If you stare any harder at that chart, you might actually learn how to read a metabolic panel, Langdon,” she mutters, leaning against the desk.

Frank doesn’t look up, his blue eyes tracking a line of data.

“And if you lean any harder against that desk, you’re going to break it, Y/L/N. I might start the betting pool myself.”

She rolls her eyes, throwing a pen at him only to frown when he catches it with ease and pockets it.

“Hey! Give it back!”

“If you wanted to keep it, you shouldn’t have thrown it,” he glances at her, before sighing. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small chocolate bar, and slides it across the station surface without a word.

Y/N quirks an eyebrow. “Trying to poison me?”

“Trying to survive this shift without having to resuscitate you after you faint on top of a patient. It would be bad for the hospital’s Yelp reviews.”

“As if I’d let you -“

“You won’t have a choice if you faint,” he remarks. “We do this little dance every day. Can you just eat the chocolate?”

Shrugging, she unwraps it. “Well, if you insist.” The sugar hits her like lighting. Usually, she would snap back and remind him he’s not exactly the most fun to be around after noon either, but today’s different.

Two hours ago, she overheard the nurses mention he was officially back on the market. That meant he had called off his engagement. And while she’d love to annoy the hell out of him, for the first time since their MS4 started, he seems…human.

The ER prince is finally vulnerable, and that means she has a new weapon. There’s a chance to finally use that weakness for her own benefit and convince doctor Robby she’s the perfect candidate for the residency spot next year.

She tried playing fair. She did. But it’s been abundantly clear doctor Robby favors Frank. It isn’t enough to be the smartest in the room, to out-diagnose him, to be polite and thoughtful. No…she needs to dismantle Frank Langdon, and now she can do so without being entirely morally wrong.

The opportunity presented itself half an hour later.

She finds him pacing in front of the trauma bay where their patient was returned from a stat CT. He’s clutching papers and she realizes it’s the report. He didn’t even call her to let her know it’s come in or to update her on the case.

He’s prepping for Robby, the attending who holds their future in his hands. Any and all remorse she might have had about her plan is gone. If he wants to play dirty, she will outplay him.

“Male, sixty-eight, presenting with acute onset periumbilical pain,” Frank whispers to himself, his blue eyes darting over the CT notes. “Lactate is 4.2. Suggestive of mesenteric ischemia. Plan: immediate surgical consult for an SMA embolectomy.”

Y/N walks up behind him, her footsteps silent on the linoleum. Instead of standing at a professional distance, she steps into his personal space, her hand brushing his arm. She reaches out, her fingers lingering on the back of his neck to adjust his stethoscope into place.

“You’re sweating, Frank,” she purrs, her voice low as his name passes her lips for the first time in…forever? She leans in until the scent of her chocolate breath catches his senses. “Does the Prince have stage fright? You know, I can -“

Frank’s reciting stops mid-word. He freezes, his pupils dilating as he looks down at her in shock. “Y/L/N, what are you -”

She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she runs a finger over the tubing of her powder pink stethoscope, which is draped over her shoulder. She catches her sharp, pointy canine on her lower lip, smirking as she leans in. “I’m trying to help. You’re always on edge,” the tip of her index finger runs along the skin of his forearm gently and his eyes widen.

Frank blinks, his mouth opening and closing as she pulls away. The witty retort he usually has prepared is gone, replaced by a tidal wave of heat rising to his cheeks.

“Langdon! Y/N!” Robby’s voice booms as he rounds the corner. “Status on the patient in three.”

Frank turns, his brain visibly rebooting. “Right. Uh. Bed three. He’s... he’s sixty-eight. Pain is... uh... in the stomach area.”

Robby stops, frowning. “In the stomach area? Be more specific, Langdon.”

Frank stumbles, his eyes flickering to Y/N, who is standing with an expression of pure innocence. “He has... his blood is... the lactate is... high?”

Y/N steps forward with a crisp, confident nod. “Patient is a sixty-eight-year-old male with acute onset periumbilical pain, out of proportion to physical findings. CT angio confirms a clot in the superior mesenteric artery. Lactate is 4.2 and rising. I’ve taken the liberty of calling a surgical consult for what I expect will turn into an emergency embolectomy.”

Robby beams, jotting a note on his clipboard. “Excellent work, Y/N. Very precise.”

Robby raised an eyebrow. “Langdon? You okay?”

“I - I just, uh -” Frank stammers. “I’m fine,” he snaps, though his ears are turning a distinct shade of pink. “Just... dry throat.”

“Don’t worry, doctor Robby,” Y/N says, tilting her head and flashing those pointy canines in a way that looks helpful to the attending but predatory to Frank. “Langdon seems a bit... distracted today. Poor thing. I’ll make sure nothing goes wrong while he finds his footing again.”

Robby grunts a dismissal and walks off. Frank waits until the attending is out of earshot before pinning Y/N with a glare filled with a newfound fury and, if she didn’t know any better, something akin to longing.

For the next three days, Y/N went on a scorched-earth flirting campaign.

Whenever he tried to tease her about her powder pink stethoscope, which he claimed looked like it belonged in a "My Little Pony" playset, she didn’t bite back. Instead, she’d loop it around his neck, pulling him a few inches closer.

“Pink is Barbie’s color. Don’t pretend you don’t like it, ER Ken,” she whispers, her breath brushing his ear.

Frank found himself struggling to spar with her, his sarcasm replaced by a look of sheer, wide-eyed panic whenever she’d speak. He is meant to be a master of the witty retort, a king of the "well, actually" correction, but when she touches his arm or compliments the way his shirt fits his shoulders, his mind turns into a complete mess.

“You’re a menace,” he grumbles as he opens the door to the supply closet, finally hunting her down for a private talk.

Raising a brow, she corrects him with a smirk, “I’m in the lead for a residency spot, actually.”

“That’s because you’re doing it on purpose,” he hisses.

“Doing what, Frank?” She turns around, leaning back against the shelves, the braid over her shoulder as teasing as her smile.

Frank steps closer, his hands braced on the shelves on either side of her head. He’s trying to reclaim his dominance, his blue eyes searching hers for a sign of a crack.

“The... the this!” He gestures vaguely at her face. “The smiling. The touching. The lack of calling me a ‘pompous ass’ every five minutes. I know you heard about the wedding being off. You think I’m weak, so you’re trying to throw me off my game. That stunt with Robby was low.”

She tilts her head, her sharp canines peeking out. “Is it working?”

Frank looks down at her, his jaw tight. He wants to say no. He wants to make a joke about how she looks like a chocolate-addicted pink loving vampire, but his eyes drop to her soft lips for a moment.

“Why are you weaponizing flirting?”

She reaches up, her fingertips playing with his hair. “Am I? Maybe you’re losing your edge, Frank. Maybe you want me flirting with you.”

His heart hammers against his ribs wildly and he can’t help but wonder if she’s right. Maybe he does want her to confirm she’s been flirting and he’s not going insane after the last four years of trying to ignore his innate desires. It’s partially the reason for the death of his engagement; feelings he has long lost the ability to contain.

“I’m suspicious,” he narrows his eyes. “You’re a shark, Y/N. You’re cold and calculating and you have a pink stethoscope to make yourself seem cutesy and innocent, but you’re not.”

“Oh, are we doing compliments? Well, you have great hair… and striking blue eyes,” she counters, reaching up to run a thumb over his temple. “And you’ve been single for exactly seventy-two hours. Maybe I realized I’ve been wasting my time fighting with you when I could have been... appreciating the view.”

Frank’s resolve snaps. He grabs her wrist, his grip firm but not tight. The sarcasm is gone, long replaced by dangerously sincere emotions he never wants to admit to in front of her. “You’re terrifying.”

“You’re distracted,” she whispers.

“I’m going to lose a chance at a residency here because of you,” he mutters, but he doesn't let go of her wrist. In fact, he pulls her closer until their chests are almost touching.

The silence between them is louder than ever before. Her heart is treacherous, her lips parting. This started as a game, a tactical maneuver, but the way he’s looking at her with frustration and genuine desire, makes the game feel too real.

It’s Frank who smirks this time around, realizing he’s managed to convince her to lower her shield for the first time in years. And despite what she’d claim, he knows she’s a victim to whatever possessed him too.

And when she licks her bottom lip, her gaze flickering to his lips for a moment too long, his smirk turns into a satisfied grin.

“If you wanted a kiss, you could have just asked,” Frank murmurs, his voice regaining its usual edge, though his hand is trembling slightly.

Y/N lets out a small, shaky laugh. The bravado she’d spent years building is evaporating. She’s been too accustomed to the ER Prince caricature, but she finally sees the man who has been secretly sliding her chocolate at 4:00 PM for six months because he knows exactly when she’ll start to crash.

“I didn't want to ask,” she says, her voice losing its playful lilt. Her hand rests on his chest, right above his heart. Her eyes widen at her findings. “I always wondered if ER Ken actually had a pulse.”

“He does,” Frank says, leaning down. “It’s currently around 120 beats per minute, in case you were wondering. Sinus tach. Cause: you.”

Before he has the chance to react, she grabs the front of his scrubs and pulls him down.

The kiss isn't soft or romantic; it's a continuation of their rivalry by other means. It’s a battle for oxygen and territory. Frank’s hands move from the shelves to her waist, pulling her flush against him with an urgency that betrays how much her flirting has actually rattled him.

Y/N bites his lower lip, her sharp canines grazing the skin just enough to make him hold his breath, and Frank responds by deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing the roof of her mouth in a way that feels like he’s trying to memorize the rare moment of her surrender. It’s competitive, each of them trying to lead, trying to elicit the loudest gasp, trying to win the best kisser award.

When they finally break apart, their foreheads rest against each other, both fighting for breath like they’ve just run a code. Frank’s hair is finally, gloriously messy, and Y/N’s braid is halfway undone.

“That’s... one way to settle a rivalry,” she says, trying to sound cool.

Frank lets out a ragged, triumphant little laugh. The blue in his eyes is vivid, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like he’s performing. No... He looks like he won something much better than a residency spot.

“You like me,” he exclaims victoriously, his thumb tracing the line of her bottom lip. “You just don't like that you like me.”

Y/N pulls back, straightening her pink stethoscope with trembling fingers, her heart still hammering. She rolls her eyes at his words, heading for the door.

Admittedly, Frank wasn’t incorrect. Originally, you had disappeared into the living room in order to at least begin to organize your vast array of bookshelves, however the task had become larger and more overwhelming the longer you had debated where to start. You had sat down to get a look at the big picture, somehow ending up on your back and distracted by the rays of sunlight coming through the windows.

There’s a huff as you take his outstretched hand, letting him drag you up onto your feet. You take the opportunity to slide your palm along his abdomen, appreciating the soft twitch of muscle that happens in response. As much as you love all of his reactions to your touches, you love the unintentional ones the most. 

Noticing your lack of response and the forlorn gaze you have trained on the bookshelves, Frank presses his face into your hair, breath brushing against your hairline. “Do you want some help?” he mumbles gently. The question comes out almost hesitant, aware that you didn’t like to ask for help much.

You stay silent for a breath, eyes glancing over the books you’ve hoarded over the last few years. You debate just giving up on the project completely, leaving the literature to spill wherever it’d like, spine showing or not.

Finally, rationality wins out and you groan, turning to bury your face into his sweater. “Yes, please.”

He holds you for just a moment, thumb brushing along your shoulder from where his arm has curled around your body, before you finally separate to get to work.

The plan is simple at first. Frank grabs the books from the higher shelves while you start on the lower, pulling them out so that they can stack on the floor and await their sentencing. Color-coded or alphabetically by author or separated by just genre - the possibilities are endless.

That is, until your boyfriend pulls off his sweater, revealing the curve of muscles that are his biceps.

You’re quickly distracted by the sight, staring up at him with parted lips. Poor, sweet Frank just continues working, surprisingly focused on the task at hand despite being so blatantly ogled. 

Perhaps he’s used to being stared at by you. Perhaps he’s just happy to be allowed to help you out, for once.

Now, you’re on the same bookshelf in the middle of your array, your elbow pressed into his abdomen with every reach forward. His arm is right there, muscles tensing every time he reaches up for another book to place it in the growing stack in his free hand.

You try to push back the urge. You really do. You press your tongue between your teeth, biting down on it just enough to feel the pressure. Remind yourself that it’s not normal to want to consume your partner whole, to cause them pain out of pure love and lust for them.

But then he reaches up again, that dip of muscle stretching from just beneath his elbow all the way to his wrist, and your brain shortcircuits. 

It happens quickly. Your chin tilts forward slowly and your lips part, the top set of your teeth finding the juiciest part of his muscle and pressing down. For a moment, you don’t even worry about if you’re causing him pain. The squish of his arm beneath your teeth is satisfying enough to dull out everything else.

Frank yelps in surprise, dropping the book in his hand to press the heel of it into your forehead with just enough force to push your head away. “Hey!”

You give him a sheepish smile as his hand moves to rub at the teeth-shaped indents in his skin. His face is an array of emotions, although amusement and confusion ring out above them all. The only thing missing seems to be anger, or anything similar, which only makes you fall more in love, if possible.

His hand darts out to slide over your head, fingers curling around your skull to bring your head into his chest. His fingertips press into your scalp as he scrunches at the roots of your hair, chest rumbling with a laugh as you wiggle in protest. “That was mean! I’m trying to help you and you bite me!”

“You were the one slutting yourself out, this is not my fault!” Your palm presses into his abdomen, whether out of your struggle or a need to objectify him more, trying to pry out of his hold on your head. “Waving it in my face like a dog with a bone!”

Frank laughs as he finally lets you go, playfully shoving at your shoulder to get you away. “Start organizing your books, puppy. Stay far away from me until you learn how to control yourself.”

2. GAINING THE UPPER HAND

“The fact that you are a doctor and save lives every day never fails to astonish me.” You deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as you look down at your boyfriend.

It had been Frank’s idea to build a fort. Something about how his parents had never let him make one out of blankets and pillows, too afraid of the mess he’d make, and how he thought it’d be fun to eat dinner. 

You had been ecstatic. That is, until you realize that your boyfriend was completely incapable of doing anything that didn’t require too-complicated words and needles.

His brow is furrowed in slight irritation, a lot of confusion, as he stands up, kicking off a throw blanket that had snagged around his ankle. His elbow brushes against your arm as he crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursing as he stares down at the mess he made. “It’s just not staying,” he mumbles beneath his breath.

“Because you’re not anchoring down the blankets. You can’t use pillows to hold up a blanket, babe, they’re not stable enough.” Your fingers point at the decorative pillow he had placed atop the corner of the blanket, glancing up at him through the corner of your eye. “You gotta go find some heavy books or something.”

Frank’s head turns to look at you, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows. “Books? In our fort? That doesn’t sound too comfortable.” Then, he steps to the side, curling his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Well, you’re not laying on them, are you?” You tease back, tilting your head to touch your temple to his.

He huffs, breath brushing over your collarbone, before his fingertips are pressing into your ribs. “Oh, yeah? You’re the fort expert now, huh?” He locks one arm around your waist while the other continues poking and prodding, ignoring your squeals and wriggling. “A little fort architect, aren’t you?”

“Frank!” You squeak, laughing as you crouch down to attempt to slide out of his hold. “Let me go!”

Your boyfriend crouches with you until both of your knees are on the ground, his arm loosely locked around your neck now while fingertips dance on the most ticklish parts of your body. Your hands grab at his forearm, attempting to pull him off, but he simply just wrestles you onto the heap of blankets that was his attempt at a fort. 

The two of you roll on the floor together in a mess of limbs, Frank curling both of his arms around you at every chance that he could get. The blankets curl around your legs and waist as you twist and wriggle, laughing until your lungs hurt and you’re begging him to let you go.

The wrestling only ends whenever he moves to wrap his forearm around you again. Willing to try to get anything to get out of your predicament, your teeth find his skin easily, sinking in just enough to leave a bitemark.

As any grown man would, Frank squeals, removing his injured arm away from you while his other one just tightens around your waist. “What have we said about biting me?” He scolds playfully, pulling you closer to the curve of his body, until your hips are flush to his. 

“You wouldn’t let me go!” You retort, although you make no attempt to pull away from him. Instead, you roll over to face him, passing him an innocent smile.

He softens when your fingers wrap around the forearm you had bitten, your thumb brushing against the indents in his skin. Leaning down, he presses his lips to your mouth, kissing you sweetly for a brief moment before pulling away just enough to mumble. “Can we give up on the fort?”

You laugh, then shake your head. “Nope. But I will finish it for you.”

“Deal.”

3. RUIN THE MOMENT

Frank had to stay late at work. And while you didn’t mind, you had to admit to yourself that you missed your boyfriend more than probably healthy.

Rather than be dramatic about it or just sit wallowing until he somehow managed to find his way home, you decided to do something nice for Frank. He did sweet gestures for you like it was as easy as breathing, and now was the perfect time to do something for him.

In the couple hours it took him to finally get off of work, you had made the relaxation spot of his dreams. The comfiest throw blankets on the couch, greasy boxes of his favorite takeout on the coffee table, the big lights off and only a small orange lamp illuminating your cozy living room.

When Frank gets home, you’re tucked into yourself on the couch, scrolling through something on your phone aimlessly. Your head perks up like a dog at the sound of the front door opening, hanging off the back of the couch to grin at him as soon as he’s stepped through the doorframe.

“Hi, baby.” You greet him, voice quiet. The hospital was always overstimulating, therefore you always made sure to keep calm and gentle when he got home. Like a dog coming home from a shelter.

Frank drops his bag onto the ground to pick up later, hand raising to rub at his face. He shuffles over to the couch at the sound of your voice, plopping down beside you and placing a hand on your thigh to remind you that he’s present. “Hi.”

After a moment of just staring at him, you slowly move to crawl behind him, propped up between the back of the couch and his back. Your fingers find his shoulders, pressing into the tight muscles there and letting yourself smile at the soft hum of relief it draws from him.

“Exhausting day?” you murmur. Your thumbs find a particularly large knot, rubbing firm circles to try and loosen it.

He nods slowly, head dropping forward with a quiet groan. “Just a lot happening. Didn’t have a chance to sit down all shift.” His eyelashes flutter closed as he lets himself relax, sinking further into your touch.

After the knots are nonexistent, you curl your arms around his neck, leaning over his shoulder. Your lips press into the hinge of his jaw first, sweet and chaste. A rush of air leaves his mouth as he sighs, back pressing into your chest.

“I’m sorry you had a long day.” You mumble the words into his skin, pressing a kiss to the space beneath his jaw before along his carotid. You reach the juncture of where his neck meets his collarbone, the rest of his shoulder covered by his scrub top, huffing in playful petulance at the lack of skin.

Frank tilts his head to the side just a smidge, the muscle in his neck tensing at the movement. There’s a small grin dancing across his lips when you spare a glance up at him, causing you to smile against his skin. “Feelin’ better now,” he muses.

A giggle bubbles out of you, moving your arms to wrap them around his waist. Now, you’re fully curled around him from behind, palms pressing into his abdomen and lips traveling along his neck. His body’s a heavy weight pressed into your front, welcomed in the quiet serene of your dimly lit apartment.

Now, one would say that your priority was ensuring that Frank stayed calm and lax, especially with the lengths you have gone to ensure that your home was a place of relaxation. Unfortunately, you love your boyfriend to the point of wanting to consume him, and the way his neck is flexing is way too tempting.

One look up at him and a distracting slow kiss to his neck reveals that his eyes have closed, lost in a trance of your hold and the feel of your mouth against his skin.

It’s your time.

You place a few more kisses along his neck before you nip at his carotid, giggling softly at the surprised gasp that it elicits. Frank groans in mock exasperation, one hand reaching up to cup the side of your face. He turns to look at you, sleepy blue eyes narrowing at your beaming expression.

“This fuckin’ mouth is going to get you in trouble.” He grumbles tiredly, hand sliding down until his pinky hooks beneath your mandible. 

His thumb presses at the seam of your lips until you part them, sliding inside your mouth to slide against your top teeth, pushing up gently against the pointed end of your canine. Your jaw raises at the push, lips widening in a grin at the touch. Your bottom teeth move to press up against the skin of his fingertip, laughing when he finally takes his finger out of your mouth.

“Bad dog.” He playfully remarks, fingers patting against your cheek.

“Woof,” you respond.

4. CAN’T BEAT ‘EM, JOIN ‘EM

The best thing about having Frank Langdon as a boyfriend is that whatever clingy level you were at, he would match. If you chose to have your own space, he’d respect it and find something else to do somewhere else. If you wanted to cling to him like a koala, he’d ensure to have two hands back on you at all times. If you wanted a happy middle, he’d be glad to just sit with one hand on your knee while you watched television.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten all forms of boundaries today. The worst part about Frank’s off days is that he tended to get bored and understimulated without the buzz of the Pitt, and therefore he loved to bother you while you were trying to take much needed alone time.

“Honey.” The pet name drips off of his tongue in a purr as he hangs his body around the threshold of the kitchen, pretty face poking in as he grins. “You almost done with lunch?”

You look up from where you’re pushing vegetables around in a pan, eyebrow quirking. It was never very good when he started off any question with a pet name, much less said like that. “No,” you respond, drawing out the word. “What do you want?”

Frank huffs as he steps into the kitchen, almost immediately crawling into your personal space. One arm curls around your waist while he leans on your other side, peeking at the stove like a curious child. Boredom practically radiates off of him, especially with the way his finger taps against the counter.

“Nothin’. Can’t I just ask my girl a question?” He presses a brisk kiss to your cheek, arm tightening around your waist slightly. His palm flattens on your abdomen, pinky brushing the waistband of your shorts. Devilish.

You keep your spine straight, attempting to brush him off. The last thing you need is to get distracted from filling your grumbling stomach, no matter how good your boyfriend smells or how warm he feels behind you. “I know when you want something, Frank.”

His chin tucks into the crook between your neck and shoulder, a hum reverberating from his chest into your neck. “Just to be with you,” he cheekily responds. His thumb brushes along your sternum from where his fingers have splayed further.

“Frank.” You warn, although there’s no irritation in your tone. “Let me finish lunch.”

He whines like a petulant child, pulling you closer with a tighter grib on your stomach. “I’m bored,” he complains. 

You choose to ignore him, instead focusing on turning the heat down on the stove. In retaliation at being ignored, his lips find your shoulder, exposed by the thin strap of your tank top. 

A sudden pinch spreads across your shoulder as he nips at the skin covering your collarbone not once, but twice, closer to your neck on the second one. Despite the shiver that crawls up your spine at the cool feeling of his teeth against you, you manage to stay strong. 

Unfortunately, your boyfriend is stubborn and very attention-seeking.

His next bite is a bit harder, directly on your neck. He soothes the slight sting with an open-mouthed kiss just above where your skin reddens, tongue lathing as an apology. “Too hard?” He mumbles teasingly.

“Don’t be an ass.” It’s meant to be a tough remark, something to show that he isn’t affecting you as much as he thinks he is, but it comes off as more of a whine.

He continues to kiss along your neck, laughing slightly at your remark. When your head tilts and your grip tightens on the spatula in your hand, his hand moves from your abdomen to the knob on the front of the stove, turning it until he clicks. Then, he gently grabs your jaw, tilting your head to kiss your lips.

Despite the fact that he finally has your direct attention, he still nips at your bottom lip, grinning victoriously as he pulls away.

As usual, he looks ragged, weary from a long day. Multiple strands of hair droop over his forehead, tickling his eyebrows. He looks down as he kicks off of his shoes, those pieces staying stubborn as he lifts his head back up.

“Hey, baby,” he greets quietly. His voice usually tended to be softer when he came home, ears still ringing from the loud environment of the hospital, but you didn’t mind it. It fit the quiet and calm environment you tried to turn your apartment into for his arrival.

Keeping your hands in the sink, you lean back against him when his arm curls around your waist. His chin tucks into the dip between your collarbone and neck, watching as you scrub leisurely at a dish.

You tilt your head to press your temple against his head, smiling like a lovestruck fool. “How was work?” You ask, moving as slowly as possible to tuck the dish into the drying rack. One hand reaches in to pull the plug from the drain while the other reaches behind you to curl around his waist, squeezing at him playfully. “Save any lives?”

He groans, face pressing further into your skin as he rubs his cheek against your jaw like a cat. “Exhausting. Glad to be home with you.” The words are muffled as he presses his mouth to your neck, placing a chaste kiss there.

Once you’ve finished drying off your hands, you turn to face him, both hands now sliding around his waist. You press your chin into his sternum, blinking up at him. “I’m glad you’re home, too.”

As if reading your mind, he dips his head down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, shoulders lowering as he relaxes against you. After he pulls away, he bumps his nose against yours, moving to press a kiss to your cheekbone before finally untangling from you apart from one hand on your hip.

“‘m gonna shower.” Frank raises his hand to brush it through his hair, giving your skin a squeeze. “And then we can watch a movie?”

You nod, covering his hand with your own. “As long as you don’t fall asleep.”

He gives you an almost bashful smile. “No promises.” Leaning down, he presses a parting kiss to your forehead before finally disappearing out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

After he leaves, you busy yourself with more cleaning up. Once he was out of the shower, you would be too busy spending as much time with him as possible, leading to your mess piling up until you managed to find another moment of free time. You always had to find these windows of opportunities to actually focus on getting things done.

The shower is still running by the time you finish tidying your kitchen, a groan every once in a while the only sign that Frank hadn’t fallen asleep beneath the spray. You glance around to assure you’ve finished everything, focus landing on his backpack, lying abandoned next to his shoes.

Well, there was no such thing as a bad time to gain some girlfriend points.

Kneeling on the floor, you unzip the backpack slowly. Reaching in, you expect to pull out just his lunchbox, however your fingers brush against something cool and metal instead. Curiosity quickly wins out, untangling it from whatever he had shoved in there and pulling it out.

His stethoscope glimmers beneath the golden glow in your apartment. The calligraphy “L” on the bell glints at you tauntingly, as if mocking you with how expensive it is. Frank had lost his old one a few months ago, meaning that you had to listen to a few days of whining about how he had to spend seventy-five-ish dollars just to do his job.

Placing the ear tips in both ears, you press the bell to your own chest and listen to the thud of your own heart. It’s so loud in your ear that you don’t hear Frank’s sock-covered feet padding towards you, hair still wet from his shower.

“Fuck, did I bring that home?” He groans, louder now that he’s had some time to relax. Both hands go onto your hips as he stands above you. “Meant to leave it in my locker.”

You grin as you look up at him, pulling one of the tubes out so you could hear him better. “I’m not complaining. This is fun.”

Taking off the stethoscope, you hang it around your neck. One hand curls into the fabric of his sweatpants to pull yourself up off the ground, his hand curling beneath your forearm to help you up. You use that as an opportunity to grab his wrist, turning and pulling him over to the couch. “Sit, sit, sit.”

Frank watches you with a look of pure amusement as he settles back on the couch, stretching out his legs as you settle beside him. Returning the headset back onto your ears, you press the bell to his chest. “How do I know if something’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t sound like badump, badump?” He jokes.

You scrunch your nose up in playful annoyance, the hand not holding the chestpiece reaching out to poke at his chest. “Be serious, doctor,” you scold. “I’m trying to make sure you’re not dying on me.”

That pulls a laugh out of him, heartbeat thumping a bit faster in your ears. An idea sparks in your brain at how easy it was to audibly raise his heartrate, the corner of your mouth pulling up into a smirk.

“Excuse me.” You sit up on your knees before throwing a leg over his lap, situating yourself down on his thighs. Your knees press into his hips as you squirm slightly, attempting to get comfortable.

Once you’ve settled, his hands on your thigh and thumbs rubbing circles into your skin, you focus back on his heartbeat. You must seem really focused on the way it picks up, because he laughs again. “Are you having fun, baby?”

“I have a diagnosis.” You sing-song the words, glancing up at him. You squirm once more, the apex of your thighs pressing directly in the spot that makes his legs tense beneath you. “I think you have a crush on me.”

Frank’s fingers tighten from where they’ve settled at the top of your thighs, fingertips pressing pale circles into your skin, exposed from the way your shorts ride up higher. Despite the way his pulse thrums even faster in your ears, he still smiles as he watches your face. “What led you to that conclusion?”

You hum in response, giving him a look before shrugging. “Your heartrate picks up when I do this.” Bracing the hand not holding the diaphragm against his abdomen, you give a singular roll of your hips, just enough pressure to hear a sharp intake of breath through the stethoscope’s headset. His grip on you also tightens, a subtle attempt of making you stop moving.

“We call that tachycardic,” he breathes out. His pupils have slowly grown in size, usurping the baby blue you’ve loved since the first time you looked into them. “Heartrate faster than normal resting rates.”

A smirk blooms on your lips, sitting a bit higher on his lap. The bell falls a bit lower, unable to hear his heartbeat and only slightly able to hear his breathing now, but you’re more focused on how he looks like this. Hair unruly as it airdries, pupils blown as he watches you, lips parted to breathe out all of his heavy exhales.

As much as he tried not to be, Frank was always easy to read. In the way he shoved his hands into his pockets when faced with a situation where he needed to think harder, or how he propped his arm up on the back of the couch whenever he wanted you to tuck yourself into his side. Maybe it was the fact that your eyes never strayed far from him when he was in your space, but it was pretty easy to tell what he wanted at all times.

And right now? His eyes are only on you.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, body rolling to drag along his again. Finally, he pushes back on your hips, grunting as he attempts to push you away.

“I have a diagnosis of my own for you,” he murmurs into the quiet bubble surrounding the both of you. His spine straightens off of the back of the couch, breath brushing against your lips.

Fingertips trace a spark up your spine before his hand curls around the back of your neck, applying pressure to the sensitive spots beneath your ears. “You have ulterior motives.”

A grin blossoms on your lips, head leaning back into his touch. A challenge of your own. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Frank gives you a hum of mock acknowledgement, eyes flickering down your body, gaze molten at the sight of you perched in his lap. When he glances up at you, he’s wearing a matching smile. His fingers move from the back of your neck to the back of your head, pulling you down. “C’mere and kiss me, baby.” He mumbles in the limited space between your mouths.

You let a giggle slip out right before you finally press your lips to his, the sound muffled by the kiss. His hand stays in your hair the entire time, manuevering your head to kiss you deeper, until your lungs are sparse of oxygen and your lips are kiss-bitten and rosy.

When he finally pulls away, he grins against your lips. “I’m assuming no movie tonight?”

The man loved to wake up early, a habit he hadn't quite shaken since his college football days. You were happy to mumble a quiet goodbye as he went out for a run, your cheek still smushed against your pillow because the sun hadn't even risen yet. And after returning home - glowing with sweat and a surge of adrenaline that did not help his ADHD whatsoever- he'd make his coffee.

Medium roast. That cheap protein creamer he insisted tasted good. A splash of your vanilla syrup he said he didn't use but you were positive you could taste sometimes.

Frank would make it, letting you take a sip and proudly smiling when you told him it tasted fine. Because it did. Add a little more vanilla, maybe some cinnamon or a bit of caramel, and the man could be a barista.

Until one morning.

When the smell of the roasted coffee alone was enough to churn your stomach as you make your way down the hall.

Odd.

But you had chalked it up to missing a few too many meals that week and your tragic sleep schedule.

The quiet suspicion grew when you found yourself crying.

All. The. Time.

It was like anything could, and would, set you off.

That cheesy Molly Ringwald movie you liked? Boom, you were tearing up.

The sad Lana Del Ray song that randomly queued in your playlist one morning? Crying as you stood sopping wet in the shower.

Frank surprises you with flowers one morning, a bouquet of your favorite tulips and an iced tea to go with it? Bam. You were hugging him with tears streaming down your face.

You dropped your favorite mug and it shattered? Sobbing. Inconsolably.

"Honey, you're alright," Frank rubs your shoulders as tears roll off your cheeks and plop onto the broken shards of the mug. "It's not too bad, we can fix it with some glue."

"I don't know why I'm crying so much," you stutter, lip quivering as you sniffle. "But it was my favorite mug. And now... now it's broken-"

Frank just sighs as you start all over again.

But then there was the problem with your scrubs. You were convinced your washer had shrunk them, the stretchy waistline beginning to dig into your belly. Not tightly or in any way that hurt. Just a noticeable snugness around your lower belly that definitely hadn't been there before. Weird. None of your other clothes were being shrunk.

Although your favorite summery dress had become a little tighter around the bust. And it didn't quite hug your frame in the same way it had before.

Then you were worried about gaining weight. You had brought it up one night after a long shift, downing a second helping of pizza because the three slices and salad you already had just wasn't cutting it. Frank had just brushed that thought away with a kiss to your temple, shoving another slice into his mouth.

"S' probably just your period."

Huh.

You lay in bed that night, Frank's arm thrown over your torso, his face buried into his pillow as he snores softly beside you.

Something about it all was bothering you. Like a forgotten thing sitting on the tip of your tongue.

Maybe it was your period.

Maybe you were just being overly critical because working in a hospital had taught you to over analyze everything. But you were beginning to wonder if something more was wrong with you. If these were all symptoms to something much worse.

The upset stomach. The mood swings. The crying. The exhaustion and weight gain.

Your period.

Huh. Actually, you can't remember the last time you had it...

Oh.

It hits you. Quietly. Totally and completely.

You don't sleep all that night. Don't mention it. You're theory. Not until a few days later after you clock in at PTMC, dragging Heather into the break room the first chance you get.

"What?" She hisses as you swallow thickly, wringing your hands nervously. "You think you're what?" Heather repeats. Like you hadn't just spelled it out plainly for her.

You couldn't keep it in for any longer, having to tell someone.

"I think I'm pregnant," you whisper, glancing at the open door, making sure no one was there to pick up on it. You already had a bad enough time with the rumor mill considering you were newly married and an intern. You didn't need to give Perlah or Princess any more ammunition for the betting board than they already had.

"Wow. That's... heavy."

"You're telling me," you let out a breath, your hand coming up to massage a sore spot on your abdomen, just below your ribs. Now, you weren't saying it was a baby cradled there beneath your rib cage, but if the shoe fit.

Pregnant.

You'd spent the past three days after your late night revelation reeling and overthinking every little thing. You hadn't told Frank, you couldn't yet. Not without knowing for sure.

"Did you take a test?" Heather asks, swirling the lukewarm dregs of coffee in her mug.

You shake your head.

"No. I can't even smuggle girl scout cookies in the house without Frank finding them within a day. I can't even imagine what he'd do if he found a test."

Heather gives you a look. "You haven't told him? Does he not want a baby?" You shake your head.

"Of course he does. I mean, we both do. It's just when we talked about starting a family it sounded like such a far away thing. In two or three years, you know? Not three months after we got married," you slide a hand down your face, continuing.

"Not to mention our internships. And we just put the down payment on a house. On top of our student loans and the car..." You go silent, spiraling about just how expensive a baby is. And how your plans to save and get somewhat out of debt was slowly crumbling-

"Hey," Heather says, gently gripping your shoulders, shaking you out of it. "It's going to be okay. Just take a breath." She inhales deeply, gesturing for you to do the same. You join her, taking slow, deep breaths until the shakiness of your hands and your hammering heart slowed.

"There. It's okay. Even if you had taken one of those store bought tests, they more often than not fluke. It could all just be a coincidence."

You give Heather an incredulous look.

"The crying? The nausea?"

"Maybe you're seeing something there you want to see. Cathedrals wherever you look kind of thing."

"But what if I'm not," You cross your arms. Heather shrugs.

"Only one way to find out."

------------------------------------------------------

"You look like you're about to puke, kid."

You blink, tearing your eyes away from the informational sign plastered on the patient room wall you had been staring at for the past few minutes. Jack Abbot meets your eye, still stationed at the foot of the bed you were sitting on, elbows resting on his knees. The rolling chair he sits on creaks as he shifts slightly, the printed test results still held between his fingers.

"I'm fine." Abbot gives you a knowing look.

"Oh sure. And I'm bright and dandy." You take a shaky breath, hands tightly squeezed together. They had been shaking since he'd read out the results to you.

Heather had dragged you across the ED, cornering the poor night attending before he had a chance to sneak out after handoffs. If there was one doctor in the Pitt who'd be willing to bend the rules a little and hold onto a secret, it was him.

Abbot had been more than willing to help you out, seeing the sheer worry and anticipation vibrating through every fiber of your being.

You'd been in the hidden patient room for the past half hour, Heather covering for you the best she could. Frank was probably wondering where you'd snuck off to. You were almost afraid to leave the room now. Unsure if he'd be able to tell just by the look on your face.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant. About fifteen weeks by the sheer level of Hcg hormones coursing through your body. You were honestly surprised you hadn't noticed any of it sooner.

"It's okay to be scared you know," Jack says, head tilted to meet your eye. "Most women are a bit overwhelmed when they find out. Even the most prepared family planners can be caught off guard when it finally happens."

"I just... it happened so fast. And we were so careful." Abbot chuckles.

"Nothing I haven't heard before, kid." You shake your head.

"I shouldn't be scared. I mean, this... this is what I've always wanted. To be a mom. Have a baby."

"Sure. You can want it and still be scared too. The feelings aren't exclusively mutual."

"How can I be scared of something I want?" You look over at the older attending, like he somehow had all the answers. Jack sighs, running a hand through his gray curls.

"It's a lot to take in. You've had a lot of big life changes recently. Becoming an intern, getting married. Buying a house I heard too, right?" You nod. "And to top it off, you've got a baby to think about now. That on it's own is a big thing for any person to take in. I'm not surprised you're feeling nervous at all. No matter how much you want it."

You sigh, running your hands over your face. You could feel a headache coming on, your brain running a mile a minute. It was all too much. The questions. The planning. Where you would put a nursery, how you'd be able to keep up with bills and what your residency would look like.

Oh God. Your residency. Frank's residency.

You'd heard of the nightmare finding a specialty can be. Now add a baby into the mix? Someone you had to take care of and love and be with all the time.

What would Frank even think?

He was very clear from the start he wanted kids. But now? When you're both just at the beginning of your medical careers, both still figuring out how to handle marriage and balance individuality.

It was all so much to think about.

Hot tears prickle at your lash line and you sniff, shoulders shaking. Abbot grunts as he stands, moving to grab a box of tissues from the supply cart across the room.

You thank him quietly as he hands you the box, plucking one of the thin sheets and blowing your nose into it. Jack sits next to you, unfolding the results and looking down at them.

"If it's any consolation, I know for a fact Langdon will be over the moon about this." He looks over at you. "If that's something you're worried about."

You blink, warm tears still dribblign down your cheek. You nod. Abbot smiles.

"You've got nothing to worry about with him, kid. He's a good guy. A little high strung and arrogant. But he's got a good heart. He loves you. Think anyone could tell that just by the way he looks at you." You let out a small laugh, smiling. Abbot nods.

"And not that this means anything coming from an old attending like me, but if there's any two doctors who can handle this job and a kid, it's you guys."

You look over at Abbot, his usual serious exterior cracked slightly. He almost looked... proud. You smile.

"No. No that means a lot. Thanks Abbot."

"Anytime kid. I've got to get out of here before I end up working a double," he sighs, checking his watch. Jack passes you the test results, the paper shaking in your hands slightly. He gives your shoulder a gentle pat, standing with a slight wobble. "Just sit there for a bit more and try not to worry about it during your shift. There's plenty of time to tell Frank."

"Okay," you nod. "Thanks for the help Jack."

The attending gives you a closed lip smile, grabbing his camo backpack.

"Anytime."

You sit in silence for a bit after he leaves, feeling like the patient room could swallow you whole. You'd never been on this side of the ED before. Sitting on the paper covered bed, feeling like your world was tipped on it's head.

It was a strange change of perspective.

You stare down at the results numbers again, still trying to keep your breathing steady. Eventually, after hesitating for far too long, you slide a trembling hand over your abdomen.

There was a small swell there, one you hadn't really paid all that much attention too. An almost imperceptible curve of your lower belly, jutting out just slightly. You had passed it off as bloating. Too many of those Spanish lattes and not enough real food Frank always packed and you ignored.

It felt strange. Unreal to think that all this time, it had been a little person growing inside of you. That all this time, all the trouble and changes had been caused by something you couldn't even see.

"You are going to be trouble, aren't you?" You whisper. You feel a little weird, like you are talking to yourself. But you aren't.

It makes you want to find Frank and tell him about it. He'd understand. He always did. It's what made the two of you such a good pair. The reason why you fell in love between med classes and coffee dates.

There wasn't anyone else you'd want to have this with.

But it was overwhelming.

The door to the room finally opens quietly, the privacy curtain rustling as Heather's face peeks through the divided fabric.

"Hey," she gives you a soft and knowing smile. You look up at her, and she just knows.

"How far along?"

"Just past the second trimester." Her eyes widen, and she adjusts her red cardigan around her torso.

"Wow. That's..."

"I know," you nod. "I missed a whole third of it."

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Oh you know," you shrug and stand. Your fingers fiddle with the results paper as you look at Heather. "Bright and dandy. Or something like that." She makes a face.

"I would say you need a break, but, we kind of need you back here."

"I'm sure."

Heather pulls you into her side, giving you a quick hug as she guides you out into the ED's secluded hall.

"Besides. I actually came here to tell you Frank is going a little stir crazy without you. I think he's ready to stalk Ahmed's security cameras if he doesn't catch a glimpse of you soon."

You take a breath, trying to keep yourself from spiraling too much. Abbot was right. There would always be time later. You just had to get through this shift and then you could deal with it all.

The Pitt is loud when you reenter with Heather. You have to remember to remove your hand from where it was resting protectively over your belly. It takes all your mental energy to compose your face and try and not look like you were about to combust.

Especially when you almost run face first into Frank, his hands shooting out to keep you upright after you almost trip over your feet.

"Woah, hey! You alright? I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Fine!" You manage to squeak out, your face flushing bright red. Frank's brow raises high, concern written on his face. "I'm alright. I was just... I need to-"

Heather interjects, her hand coming to steer you away from your husband.

"You worry too much Frank. I told you she was talking with Abbot before he left. Now if you'll excuse us, we've got patients to see" she says over her shoulder as she starts guiding you towards the nurses station.

But Frank is quicker than her, reaching out to tug your arm back gently. You still, heart pounding in your throat.

"Are you sure you're fine? You're looking kinda pale." You look up at Frank, his big blue eyes round with worry.

Goodness, you hope your baby would have his eyes-

If Heather wasn't still squeezing your shoulder, you swear you'd probably break down right there. You clutch the test results tighter in your hand, shaking your head.

"Frank... I'm fine. Abbot was just helping me with something. It's all good now."

"Okay. Just, don't disappear on me like that again."

"You worry wart," you manage a smile, slipping your arm out of Frank's grip.

You're going to be a dad in a few months time. And you don't even know it.

"Hey kid... You okay?" Robby's voice rips you from your thoughts as Heather pushes you towards the nurses station. You look up, feeling out of it; the only thing grounding you was the feeling of the paper still clutched tightly in your hand. The chief attending shares a look with Heather, his eyes boring into you over the rim of his spectacles.

"Fine," you manage, trying not to choke on the fact that you were fully realizing the weight of the test results still clutched in your hand.

It was not longer a suspicion. It was fact. A fact stitched into your very being, hidden away inside of you.

You were pregnant.

Your life was changing totally and completely.

And you were scared out of your mind.

------------------------------------------------------

Frank knows something is up. It's obvious by the way you're avoiding him.

The way you seem to always be on the opposite side of the Pitt when he looks for you. The strange look you that keeps crossing your face. Like you were halfway between crying and laughing.

You had been acting strange the past couple of days.

Actually, if Frank really thought about it, you'd been a little out of it for a while now. Quieter. More lost in thought than usual. Constantly fighting exhaustion or feeling under the weather.

Frank couldn't help but worry. Especially because you seemed so sad. He could see it on your face now, his eyes glued to your frame as you sat with a patient, your hands gently moving as you explained something to them. He's trying to look busy with the supply cart he was standing by, and not like he was spying on you.

He could worry about you, couldn't he?

It had always been a little hard to separate his relationship with you and his professionalism. Frank supposes that's what happens when you marry your med school sweetheart-

if that was what one even called it.

The lines tend to get a little blurry. Things get harder to leave behind when walking into work.

It hadn't been a problem so far. At least, Frank didn't think so. Some of the nurses might disagree. With their nosy betting boards and rumor mills that were going to be the death of him.

Frank looks up as Robby passes by, giving him a smile and a strong pat on the shoulder.

"Everything good Langdon?"

"Uh, peachy Robby."

"Good. Keep up the good work." Frank nods, grinning.

He liked the chief attending. Liked how Robby didn't make it a big deal that Frank was married to a fellow resident. When you both had approached the man about your engagement last year, just finishing up your last year as a med student, Robby had just shrugged and carried on.

"Yeah. We can work something out about that. You two seem level headed enough to handle work and a wedding."

Now Frank doesn't mean to overhear Robby's conversation. It's almost surprising he can hear it at all from where he's stationed.

But Frank supposes that's how most of the nurses manage to dig up information on each other. Nothing was safe or secret in the Pitt for long.

"What was all that about earlier with Jack?" Dana asks as the attending approaches the nurses station. Robby sighs.

"Oh, you know him. He's always got a secret consult or two."

"A consult?"

Frank's ears prickles at that. You were supposedly talking with Abbot earlier. You didn't mention anything about a consult.

"Yeah. Apparently he needed to run a pregnancy test for an 'off the books' patient."

"Off the books?" Dana laughs. "Uh oh."

Robby chuckles dryly. "I know. Think we should get a betting board going about which one of us it is?"

Frank leans in closer, his heart beginning to pound as he tries to register what that meant.

What on earth were they talking about?

"God knows it's not me. Has to be a nurse." Robby shrugs.

"Or maybe one of the residents -"

Frank's hand slips on the supply cart he was leaning on, the wheels unlocking beneath his weight and sending the cart crashing into the wall beside him.

Frank looks up alarmed, meeting Dana and Robby's wide eyes. He swallows thickly, letting out a mumbled 'sorry' before fixing the cart and disappearing down the hall.

His heart pounds in his chest as he clutches the front of his scrubs, his eyes darting around the Pitt trying to find you. There was no way. It couldn't be-

Frank thinks he must have heard Robby wrong. A pregnancy consult? A resident?

He must have got it all wrong.

Because you weren't pregnant. The two of you had just gotten married. You'd only been living under the same roof for a max of four months-

Pregnant!

Frank is sure he would have noticed. Aren't there syptoms? Signs?

He's a doctor. He should know this.

But as he stalks down the hall, eyes darting across every face he passes in an attempt to find you, he finds all his medical knowledge has been thrown out the window.

Everything he'd learned from a textbook about obstetrics is gone. Replaced with the sole idea that he might be a father.

Frank can't help the way his mouth quirks upward. The slight grin he was unconsciously wearing in spite of the fact his heart was beating so fast, he was sure he'd rupture an artery if he didn't calm down.

Frank slows his pace, neck craning as he searches down the crowded hall for you.

He doesn't have to look much further, because there you are. Your hair pulled up in messy ringlets, your water bottle lid clutched in one hand as the other presses the jug against the fountain. You stand there, watching as water trickles into the metal canister, a far away look in your eye.

He stills, watching you from his place down the hall. And Frank knows.

He knows just by looking at you.

Really looking at you.

How had he not noticed? How had anyone not noticed?

You were glowing.

Radiant in an unnaturally ethereal way that most doctors only got from a week long vacation in the Bahamas. Frank was connecting all the dots now, remembering various comments you'd made in the past few weeks about food or being tired. He remembers something you'd mentioned about your clothes shrinking in the dryer-

God, that was the most apparent part. The part that really gets him.

Because staring at you now, Frank is almost positive you are already showing. It's barely there. Just a slight swell pressing against the waistband of your scrubs. Most people wouldn't even notice.

But he can see it. He knows you well enough to know the swell he's looking at now had not been there last week, or even a few weeks ago.

Frank is still staring at you when you finally finish filling your bottle and turn. You freeze, eyes wide as you look up to meet him. Frank can see the way you pause, the stiffness that courses through you.

The panic that flashes across your face. The realization-

He knows. Somehow he knows.

Frank just gives you a small smile, reassuring and kind. Loving. He approaches you slowly, feeling a little like he did when he first wanted to ask you out. Unsure and scared but certain of one thing.

He loves you. Totally and completely.

You stare up at him wide eyed, pupils blown with anxiety. Frank stops just in front of you, half aware of the other doctors and hospital staff who skirt around the two of you. He reaches out carefully, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You let out a trembling breath, eyes not leaving his face, trying to read the emotion on it. Frank reaches for your hand and nods toward the other side of the hall.

"Can we talk outside."

You swallow thickly, nodding.

------------------------------------------------------

You can't say anything. Don't even know what you would say.

You follow Frank as he guides you through the throng of hospital staff, his hand grounding and warm as he holds yours firmly. He leads the way to the ambulance bay, pulling you out into the warm afternoon breeze.

You blink, eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight. Frank just turns, looking you up and down.

"Is it true?" You freeze.

"What?"

"Is it- are you..." Frank pauses, thinking for a moment. Then he begins again. "Was the thing Abbot helped you with about a pregnancy test?"

You stare at him for a moment, caught off guard.

But then you nod. And Frank beams.

You swear his smile is brighter than the sunlight filtering into the ambulance bay, and you let out a surprised gasp as he gathers you in his arms.

"Frank!" You let out a wet laugh, unable to help it with the way he's holding you so tightly. You wrap your arms around his neck, letting yourself close your eyes and melt into him.

"I can't believe it. I can't- we're having a baby."

"Frank," you start when he finally puts you down, cupping his face in an attempt to ground his wandering thoughts. "Frank, how did you know-"

"I overheard something Robby said. I didn't mean to, but I put two and two together and-"

You sigh, scratching the back of your head. "Nothing stays secret in the Pitt for long. I didn't even know until this morning. Not for sure anyway."

"No," Frank shakes his head, his hands reaching out to rest on your hips. "And I don't think it would have for much longer. You've got a mini bump already, baby."

You flush, looking away. "I do not."

"You do," Frank grins. Your smile falters slightly, shoulders dropping.

"I was trying to figure out how to tell you all morning. I almost had to redo an entire patient chart, I was so nervous thinking about it-"

"Nervous?" Frank frowns, his eyes softening. "Hey, what are you nervous about?" You laugh in disbelief.

"What's there not to be nervous about, Frank? We just got married! We're new interns! This isn't exactly the most opportune time to have a baby."

"Is there ever?" Frank shrugs. You give him a look. Always the idealist. "Sure, it's a little early-"

"Frank! A little? My mom just sent us another wedding gift from my great aunt across the country."

"Well, yeah okay. We just got married. So what if we're having a honeymoon baby? We both agreed we wanted kids, right? This was always the place we'd end up eventually."

"It's not just that," you sigh. "I mean, what happens if I have this baby and I can't go back to work? All that financial pressure on you? Having to juggle a wife and a baby and the ED? That's too much-"

"Hey," Frank shakes his head, reaching out to cup your face. "You don't have to worry about what I can handle or can't. It's a lot, I won't deny that. I'm scared at the idea of having someone so little to take care of so soon. But baby, I'd be lying if I said I'm not excited."

You let out a shaky breath, pouting as you stare into his baby blue eyes.

Goodness, you hope your baby would have his eyes-

The thought seems less scary now. Frank grins, thumb brushing across your cheek.

"A baby? With you? My wife and love. I can't think of a better thing to be surprised with."

"But-" Frank presses a kiss against your lips, your next protest lost as you grip the fabric of his scrubs and kiss him back. He smiles against your mouth, a little breathless and flushed.

"Honey, it's going to be okay. I promise."

"Are you sure Frank? Are you sure it's not too much?"

"No. It's just the right amount of 'much.' We always did like to make things a little fun, right?"

You laugh. "I guess so."

He sighs, pulling away slightly to look down at you.

"Another Langdon. "I can't believe it."

You smile into his chest.

"I can't either."

You were still scared. Still overwhelmed at all the changes that would be taking place over the next few months.

But beneath all that, was something brighter now.

A baby. Another Langdon.

------------------------------------------------------

Bonus:

It began with Frank's coffee.

As it turns out, waking up at the crack of dawn has become the norm for both of you now. You lounge on the couch, legs propped up on the cushions with a few extra pillows, the smell from the kitchen heavenly as it wafts through the living room.

You can just make out the backside of Frank's tall frame, shoulders hunched slightly as he pours two cups of the freshly brewed coffee- decaf. Something you'd had to adjust to the past six months.

You smile as a gentle gurgling draws your attention back to the tiny baby boy in your arms.

"Hey Benny," you carefully cradle the newborn, his onesie covered legs scrunched up as you shift him into a better position. "I'm still here. Just making sure your dad doesn't put too much of his creamer in my cup. I don't think you'd like it."

"I heard that," Frank's voice carries from the kitchen.

"Well, it's true," you call back. Ben, just blinks at you, tongue sticking out of his mouth like he wasn't sure of what to do with it. You chuckle, staring at his pretty blue eyes, a shade darker than Franks.

Frank swore they were a darker color when the boy was first born. But you knew. It was the first thing you'd noticed through the tears and exhaustion.

They were the same cerulean shade as your husband's. Glimmering beneath the light. A deep and pretty blue that was piercing and beautiful at the same time.

You can hear the clinking sounds of glass, Frank coming into the living room balancing two coffee mugs in one hand and a plate of scones and hard boiled eggs in the other. You give him a tired smile, beginning to move your legs off the couch when he stops you.

"Oh no mama. I'll sit on the floor."

"With your back-"

"You are still recovering," He insists, setting down the plate and mugs on the coffee table. "Besides, I can change this little guy down here while you start eating."

Frank bends lower to run a hand over the soft fuzz on your son's head, your husband wearing a dreamy smile. You nod, giving a quiet okay as you hand over the boy. Frank cradles the baby's neck carefully, his muscled arms practically engulfing the little boy.

You watch fondly as Frank sits down on the floor in front of you, practically a professional at juggling a baby and diaper bag already.

Truth be told, you couldn't imagine your mornings any other way now.

And you loved it.

------------------------------------------------------