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The line into the club is long. You don’t want to think about the crowd inside.

Pushing past those thoughts, you focus instead on the positive, why you’d gotten dressed up to go out tonight. 

You shuffle with the crowd, staying close to your group of friends. After minutes of chatter, your group makes it to the front of the line. You pay your entry, then all beeline towards the bar. 

Several shots later, with the DJ well into his set, you hold up your phone to your friends, displaying a text — Going to the bathroom. BRB. 

When you exit the bathroom, you see him in the hallway. 

You know it should concern you to see a man lingering, but there was something to him that made you think, okay. 

He says hi.

You chat.

The next thing you feel is the thrum of the bass-line as it pounds at the back of your skull. 

Pretty Blue Eyes has you pushed against the wall, hands moving over you, gripping, exploring.

Like he already knows. 

He looks up at you with pupil-blown eyes, like he’s asking before he takes, and you nod your head—yes, god, yes.

You think about how you’re not like this usually. 

Then you kiss him again. 

A flash of a familiar hair color pulls your attention, because of course—it’s your friend. 

“Hey—holy shit—we gotta go. Alex puked,” they say.

You groan, mouth still halfway against Pretty Blue’s lips. “But I'm having such a good time."

He chuckles, smooths over the front of your shirt where it’d wrinkled in his grip. “Sounds like you’re needed.” 

You hold a hand to your face, fingers mimicking a phone. “Call me.” 

Pretty Blue winks. 

He’s not really cut out for the lull of the night. Even if the night shift has a reputation for being both the most exciting and stressful shift a doctor can work– full of drunk people and freak accidents– his body is too used to the early mornings and can’t quite make the switch. But Shen had begged him to trade shifts, something about a concert and the girl he was seeing and “please, man, please”, and Frank just wanted to finish his charting in peace so he said “jesus christ, alright”. 

So that’s how he ended up here, yawning as he takes a look at the CT scan results from his motorcycle crash patient. He blinks blearily before threading a needle and stitching up an ugly gash on the back of a truck driver’s hand, and gratefully accepts the energy drink Parker offers him before staring blankly at the patient spread sheet. 

Then it’s a couple of stomach aches, one of which ends up being appendicitis, an overdose that thankfully only needed Narcan and overnight monitoring, and a homeless person who got beat up by some frat boys and was waiting for his x-ray results to see if he had swallowed the two teeth he’s missing.

He’s pushing Mrs. Anderson’s wheelchair through the doors of the ED when he hears the commotion happening in the waiting room. A forty-year-old man is banging his palm on the reception desk, demanding to be seen. 

“Sir, you will be seen as soon as one of our providers is available,” Joanna, the night shift ward clerk, says through the microphone.

“I’ve been waiting for three fucking hours,” the older man snarls. “I could be dying out there for fuck’s sake!”

“Sir, I assure you, if you were dying you would not be waiting out here,” Joanna says in her most comforting tone. Unfortunately, she lacks one.

The irritated man sighs, his jaw clenched tight and his fist curling. Frank turns to approach the situation. Just as the man is about to open his mouth, Dr. Abbot appears behind Joanna with a tablet in hand. “Mr. Cooper, we just got your EKG results back,” he informs, straightening his back with a pointed look. “As soon as a bed frees up, an attending will come find you.”

A beat of silence. Mr. Cooper’s jaw ticks. He sizes Abbot up and down and seems to decide that fighting him about waiting times is not worth it anymore. With a sharp nod of his head, he raises his hands in mock surrender, backing away from the front desk. Slowly, he walks back to where he was sitting, and the waiting room goes back to its usual cacophony of sounds. 

Frank exhales and squeezes the rubber around the handles of Mrs. Anderson’s wheelchair. He’s thankful he didn’t have to intervene this time– his patient satisfaction score was already low, and he couldn’t afford to piss Robby off any more than he already has by being back. 

His eyes scan the waiting room; luckily there aren’t many people tonight as there normally are during the day. There’s a mother with her child slumped against her side, her hand rubbing tender circles on her kid’s small back, and two young men sitting near the vending machines, talking and laughing– clearly friends. There’s also an older woman coughing into the crook of her wrinkled elbow, a young woman resting her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder while he holds her hand, and an elderly man leaning his forehead against his walking stick, eyes closed. And of course, Mr. Cooper, his arms crossed and staring daggers at the ED doors. 

Frank’s about to push Mrs. Anderson forward when he finally notices you, slumped on one of the plastic chairs against the wall, one foot missing a heel. You’re typing quickly on your phone, the charm strap you added to it clinking with every tap on the screen. You giggle at something, head lolling to the side. 

Frank whistles to security and asks him to take Mrs. Anderson outside, where her daughter is waiting in the car. Once the older woman is out of sight, he calls your name, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at you worriedly. “What are you doing here?”

At the sound of his voice, you perk up immediately. “Frankie!” you squeal, craning your neck up and smiling dopily. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says without even thinking, kneeling down to your height. He’s greeted by a waft of your warm perfume. Something vanilla and a little flowery under the alcohol and smoke that clings to your pores. He reels, finding he’s not really lying about missing you– it’s been almost two months since your last visit to the ER, the longest since he met you. He is glad, of course, that you’ve stopped getting hurt so often, but his days just aren’t the same without having you yap his ear off while he stitches you up or checks you for any illnesses. 

“What happened to you?” he finally asks. 

“I think I hurt my foot,” you slur with a pout, raising the offending foot that’s missing a heel in the air and nearly hitting him the face with it. Frank barely dodges it. He gently grabs it and notices how swollen your ankle is, a small purple bruise starting to show. 

“Yeah, I can see that.” He lowers your foot back onto the floor and picks up your discarded heel, curling his finger around the flimsy strap. Absolutely no ankle support whatsoever– he shouldn’t be surprised. “Come on, I’ll take a look at you.”

He wraps one of your arms around his neck and slips his other arm beneath your armpit to help you get up easily. Once you’re standing, you slump against his side, too drunk to stay upright on your own. Carefully, he helps you walk towards the ED doors, your hurt foot dangling in the air you take short, quick jumps with Frank’s help, giggling to yourself. 

You are near the doors when one of the young men Frank had noticed earlier scoffs to his friend, “Guess you need to know the doctor’s name to get some help around here.”

His friend smirks and does a poor show of pretending to be secretive. “Yeah, that or dress like a hooker.”

You stiffen besides Frank. “I-I can wait a little longer,” you whisper. 

He feels you trying to lower your glittering skirt a little. Frank’s hold on you tightens, his jaw ticking as he turns to look at the two men. “We see patients in order of medical care needed,” he recites, trying to keep it civil. 

“Seems like just a sprained ankle to me,” the man that spoke first shrugs. 

Frank’s eyes narrow. “You a doctor?”

“No, but–”

“She could have broken her ligaments, which requires surgery,” Frank cuts him off. To hell with patient satisfaction scores. “Or she could have a broken bone, which could have punctured an artery and could be bleeding internally. So, I gotta make sure it’s just a sprained ankle so we can free up a bed to take care of you next. Only if that’s okay with you, of course.”

You look at him like he’s grown two heads. The man wriggles in his seat, uncomfortable. “Sure, man, whatever.”

Frank smiles sarcastically. “Thank you so much for letting me do my job.”

He squeezes your side and helps you past the ED doors, ignoring your worried look. He leads you to a free exam room and helps you sit down on the bed. 

“Am I really gonna need surgery? Am I dying?” you panic while he calmly slides on top of a stool and rolls closer to you. 

“You’re not dying. Not yet, at least.” When he realizes you’re still scared, he explains. “I only said it to make that asshole feel bad for saying all that shit about you.”

“Oh,” you exhale, shoulders relaxing. “Phew.”

He grabs your foot once more and places it on his thigh. He licks his lips before asking, “So, how did this happen, exactly?”

“Well, I was with my friends– y’know, girl’s night out. And we went to a bar and we had a lot of drinks… They were so tasty. Did you know that the sweeter the drink the more alcohol it has?” Frank’s not too sure where exactly you got that ‘fact’ from. “Anyway, we were going to the club, but our taxi dropped us a block away and we had to cross the park.”

While you ramble, Frank presses along your talus bone and ankle. Your face scrunches up in pain when he presses a little too hard on the outside of your foot. “So, we were walking, and Jennie said something funny– I can’t remember what it was but it was really funny. And we were laughing and it was so dark that I didn’t realize there was a hole and I fell– Ouch!” you cry when Frank moves your ankle to the right.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He rests your foot back on his thigh and keeps his hand there, holding it gently and feeling the soft, almost buttery skin. Definitely moisturised. Slightly shimmery under the fluorescent lights. He swallows. “So, you fell. D’you come here after that?”

“No,” you giggle like he asked the stupidest question. He scowls. “It didn’t hurt at first!”

“Because you’re drunk,” he says flatly.

You shrug, like that detail isn’t particularly important, flicking your hand in the air dismissively. “We were inside and we were dancing and it was so much fun! But then it started to really hurt and I couldn’t even stand anymore but there were no seats inside,” you pout, sad that you were forced to end your night out early. “So I had to leave the girls and get an Uber to get here. I was waiting for a super long time and then you showed up and now we’re here!” You finish your tale with a happy smile.

“Right,” the corners of Frank’s mouth tilt upwards the tiniest bit. “And how much did you have to drink?”

“Um…” The fact that you have to use your fingers to keep track of all the drinks you had makes him raise an eyebrow. That can’t be good. “First I had a margarita, then a sex on the beach, then a cosmopolitan– no wait, Emma wanted shots, so we did a couple of those, and then the cosmopolitan–”

“Jesus,” Frank sighs. No wonder you didn’t come immediately after falling, your pain sensors were completely obliterated. 

“Then two vodka cranberries.” You look at your fingers. “Seven drinks!”

Frank blinks. Good thing he asked. “Well, uh, the good news is it does look like it’s just a sprain.”

“And the bad news?”

“I’m still gonna order an x-ray to see how bad it is.”

Your shoulders sag again. “Do I have to go out there again?” you pout, playing with your fingers. The light catches on your lips and makes your lipgloss pop. It’s a deep brown shade, like dark chocolate.

Does it taste like it too? The intrusive thought pops into Frank’s head. He shakes it away. “Uh, no, you’re staying right here. I’m gonna give you some fluids.”

He drops your foot carefully and stands, hands going to the ends of his stethoscope as he moves across the room to the small cabinet that stores the needles, angiocaths, IV tubes and the rubber bands they use as tourniquets. 

“What? Why?” you ask, confused. 

“You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover otherwise.” He walks back to you, items in hand. “Can you lay down or d’you need help?” He wonders while slipping on a pair of blue gloves.

“I can do it,” you say, scooching closer to the head of the bed, using your hands as leverage to lift yourself up in short movements. 

Your skirt rises up even more. Frank pretends not to notice.

Once you’re laying comfortably, Frank sits back on the stool and grabs your arm, twisting the rubber band a little over your elbow. “Shouldn’t a nurse do this?” you wonder.

His index finger pokes you as he searches for a vein. “What, you don’t trust me?” Once  he finds it, he wipes some alcohol over the area, mumbling, “Just a little pinch.”

“I trust you,” you say sincerely. He feels your eyes on his face as he punctures the skin and vein, tries his hardest not to let his gaze stray away from your arm. Once a drop of blood flashes back in the angiocath, he pushes the catheter forward and pulls the tourniquet off, connecting the IV tube to the end of the catheter. 

“Alright?” he asks, securing the IV with some tape. His eyes meet yours.

“Alright,” you whisper, smiling slightly against the pillow. You blink slowly, sleep starting to take over your muscles.

Frank stares at you for a long minute, taking in the faint freckles beneath the blush on your cheeks, the tiny scar above the arch of your eyebrow, the blue shimmer in your eyelids and the highlight on the tip of your nose. 

He’s quiet when he asks, “You have someone to take you home later?”

You shake your head. “My parents live in another state and my friends, well… I don’t think they’re gonna be picking up my calls for a while.” You chuckle, but it’s devoid of any real amusement. You shrug one naked shoulder, your skin scratching against the pristine white bedsheet. “S’fine, I’ll just Uber again.”

Something too much like worry twists in Frank’s stomach. He doesn’t like the idea of you going home alone, in a stranger’s car. Already hurt, no less. That’s a disadvantage if something were to happen.

He tells himself it’s concern for his patient’s safety. He tells himself he would do the same for any other patient. It’s not personal. 

It’s not.

Before he can think twice about it, he blurts, “I can drive you.”

–

He really shouldn’t be doing this, Frank thinks as he drives.

There are rules– hospital rules, HR rules. Both explicit and implicit. Rules that frown upon any sort of unprofessionalism with a patient. Inside or outside the hospital.

He knows this. 

And yet you sit in the passenger seat next to him, bopping your head and muttering along to whatever song you had chosen to play– something too sugary and too pop for his Spotify age of 75 but that makes total sense for you. He lets you control the music, connecting your phone to his car bluetooth, your name in a tiny font glaring teasingly at him every time he looks at the display.

Your hurt leg is stretched out in front of you. He had been right, it was only a sprain, but you still needed to wear an orthopedic boot to keep your ankle as stable as possible so it could heal right. 

“You’re kidding me,” you had said when he broke the news, completely aghast.

Frank’s pretty sure he hadn’t joked once while giving you your diagnosis. “Uh, no. You’re gonna have to wear it for a month–”

“A month?!” you had screeched.

He had ignored your outburst completely, used to your dramatics after almost a year of treating you on and off. “And you’ll need a couple of physical therapy sessions after you take it off.”

You couldn’t let go of the orthopedic boot thing. “It’s gonna ruin all my outfits!” you had cried, kicking your good foot in the air uselessly.

Frank had only sighed, eyes rolling in their sockets, and knelt in front of you to help you put the boot on.

Your other leg, the good one, is tucked beneath you. In this position, your skirt rides up somehow even higher that it probably should, leaving almost your entire thigh exposed to his gaze. He tries his hardest to pretend you’re not there, because he wanted to see if you were okay while passing a speed bump and instead had been gifted with the sight of your chest jiggling behind the very sheer and tight piece of clothing you called a top.

He hadn’t looked at you once since that incident, choosing to focus on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel with so much force that his knuckles turned white.

He’s thankful when he finally reaches your house. Frank parks and points a finger at you. “Don’t move.”

He feels your eyes on him as he gets out of the car. The fresh air helps him relax ever so slightly, cracking his neck as he goes around the front of the car and opens the door for you. 

You make him so tense sometimes. 

“Careful,” he stresses, watching you get out of the car like a deer learning to walk for the first time. You make sure your good foot is firmly on the ground before you place the hurt one too. With cautious movements, he helps you up the steps to your apartment building.

You fish for the keys in your small purse, never once letting go of Frank’s arm. You nudge him inside the lobby so he can help you up to your apartment, the elevator ride quiet with Frank’s mind going a million miles per hour.

“Well, this is me,” you say softly when you reach your apartment door. You let go of his arm. “Thank you, Frank. For the drive and… well, everything really.”

Frank shoves his hands into his pockets, fists curling. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he tries to sound casual, body swaying a little. “Your place’s just on my way home, so…”

Lie.

“Still,” you shrug. “Thank you.”

There’s a moment of silence where you stare at each other. Frank stands there, uselessly. He has no idea what to say, what to do. Should he hug you goodbye or just bolt?

“You sure–”

“D’you wanna come inside?” you say at the same time.

You laugh together, Frank’s low chuckle reverberating in your ears and stirring something in your stomach. “Do you wanna come inside?” you repeat. “For a coffee, I mean. As a thanks.”

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. Somehow, the command doesn’t reach his brain because he says, “Yeah, okay.”

The smile you give him is so bright it could blind him. Something stirs in his chest, warm and cozy and nearly desperate. He swallows harshly.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Dr. Langdon,” you playfully say as you open the door. You quickly kick away what looks very similar to a lacy blue bra. Frank pretends he didn’t notice. “Sorry for the mess,” you smile awkwardly.

He doesn’t know about humble (he’d argue his new apartment is much worse than yours), but messy sounds about right. You clearly weren’t expecting any visitors– there’s clothes thrown all over the place, a pile of shoes near the door, bottles of wine and takeout boxes strewn around your coffee table, a couple of dirty plates stuck on top of each other in the sink and even some stray cups littered all around your living room.

But, beneath the mess, he can see how much thought and care went into making the small apartment feel like a home. The pink couch matches the pink and brown persian rug in front of it, the wooden floor is intact with no sign of a stain on them. The tall windows are framed with multiple layers of cotton gauze and green lace as curtains, and there’s piles of books and CDs next to the TV rack. 

A big canvas with a swan painted on top of a dark background hangs on the wall behind the couch. Did you paint it? Frank’s filled with an inexplicable urge to discover more about you, to know every single detail he missed learning while he was in rehab.

“S’really nice. Did you paint that?” he dares to ask, thumb pointing to the wall.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, a couple of months ago. I hit my thumb like 5 times trying to hang it up,” you laugh. Frank smiles. He can believe that. “Uh, you mind taking your shoes off?” you ask him, struggling to get the thin strap of your shoe down the curve of your heel. “I just- I have a thing about outside germs, but if you don’t want to, it’s fine. No biggie,” you explain nervously.

Frank kicks his sneakers off quickly. “I don’t mind.”

You exhale, thankful, and quickly perk up again. “Right, so, coffee,” you waddle to the kitchen area, Frank right behind you with his hands ready to catch you if you need it. You open a cabinet and grab a bag of ground coffee from the first shelf. You struggle to twist open the moka pot. “How d’you like it?” you gasp as the pot untwists.

“Just black,” Frank says, resting his shoulder against the column between the kitchen and the living room.

You pour some tap water into the valve and fill up the funnel with the ground coffee. Once the moka pot is ready, you turn the stove top on and leave the pot on the smallest burner. 

You lean against the counter. “What, no milk?” Frank shakes his head. “Not even a little bit of sugar? You ask, skeptical. He shakes his head again. “Wow, you’re a psychopath.”

Frank huffs out a quiet laugh.

The air fills up with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. You turn to the same cabinet to grab the last cup there, the rest of the cups you normally use littered around the living room and your nightstand. You try to reach for another cup in the cabinet above, but it’s too high for you, and you can’t exactly climb onto the counter like you’ve done multiple times in your current condition.

Before you can say anything, you feel Frank behind you, his chest hitting your shoulders. “I got it,” he mumbles, placing the handmade ceramic cup softly against the grainy counter.

His hand brushes your arm as he steps back. Your skin tingles.

You swallow. “Thanks,” it comes out as a soft breath. You fill both cups with the steaming coffee and add three teaspoons of sugar to your cup. You offer Frank one, “Here.”

He takes it, his fingers curling around the ceramic, nearly dwarfing it completely. He follows you to the couch, where he offers you his arm once more so you can sit down comfortably. 

He sits down on the brown velvet winged chair in front of you and takes a quick sip of his coffee, nearly burning his tongue. You point to the boot that goes up to your knee. “Can I take this thing off?”

Frank debates it in his mind, settling for, “Yeah, but you should put some ice on it. It’ll help bring the swelling down.”

You whine in complaint, throwing your head back on the couch. “Ugh, but I don’t wanna get up again.”

“I’ll get it,” Frank offers, leaving his cup on the coffee table between a bottle of white wine and a box of chinese takeout. He rummages through your freezer, searching for an icepack but there’s only tubs of ice cream and bags of frozen food. “Uh, y’want the bag of nuggets or the raspberry sorbet ice cream?”

“Bag of nuggets, please!”

Frank comes back with the bag in hand, the tips of his mouth tilting in amusement at the absurdity of the situation. He sits down beside you, much closer than he probably should, his knee hitting yours as he settles comfortably against the fluffy throw pillows. Your knee burns at the contact.

“C’mere,” he pats his thigh.

You turn gingerly, throwing both legs across his lap. “Gah, it’s cold!” you exclaim when Frank presses the bag against your swollen ankle.

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be,” he chuckles, holding your leg in place so you don’t kick the bag away.

“I thought healer hands were supposed to be soft or something like that.”

“That’s only for well behaved patients.”

“And I’m not well behaved?” Frank raises an eyebrow, looking down to your still wriggling leg. “Rude!” You laugh, slapping his arm as you giggle. Frank’s pupils glint at the sound, feeling on cloud nine. Your eyes flick up to his, then move down to the easy smile on his lips.

He watches you for a long second, the flicker of something in his face that you can’t quite decipher before he’s pressing his lips against yours. Your eyes widen in surprise, a muffled “hmph!” falling from your lips before they slowly flutter shut, hands going to his shoulders and squeezing tightly, your entire body relaxing against the armrest.

The bag of nuggets drops to the floor. Like he’s been burned by your touch, Frank pulls away quickly. “Shit,” he mutters. He mumbles a series of apologies desperately. “I shouldn’t have– You’re my patient–”

With a gentle hand on his cheek, you turn him back to you, leaning your face closer and closer until your nose grazes his. Frank stays still, entranced, afraid that if he moves the spell will break and he’s going to have HR, Al-Hashimi and Robby on his ass.

When you finally kiss him again, he groans into your mouth, his hand going to the back of your neck and pulling you closer to him until you have no choice but to climb onto his lap, mouths moving in desperation. His tongue teases your lips, begging you to let him in, some of your chocolate lipgloss sticking to his tastebuds.

You pull away for some fresh air. Frank attaches his mouth to your jaw, his lips sucking and biting down the slope of your neck, leaving a trail of spit in its wake. You wriggle on his lap. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into your skin, hips bucking up to meet yours, fingers grazing any sliver of skin he can reach– your arms, your waist, your ass under your skirt. You shiver above him. 

“Frankie, please, I want–” you mewl, arching into him and feeling him harden right beneath your pulsing cunt. His hands grip your hips so tightly the sequins of your skirt dig into his palms. 

He swirls his tongue around your. “Where’s your room?” he asks into the kiss. You point to the ajar door behind you. “Fuck, come on,” he urges you upwards with a pat on your ass.

It’s a clumsy thing, the way you walk together. You stumble onto each other, lips never departing for too long except to remove your clothes. He nearly trips over a stray ballet flat, and you hiss into his mouth when you rest too much weight on your bad foot.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Frank mumbles, getting rid of your lacy white top and throwing it over his shoulder. You scrape your nails down his naked chest, red streaks appearing on his skin. “I got you,” he says, making you sit on the bed and pushing you back until you’re laying on the mattress.

He takes a second to look down at you, splayed on top of your ruffled duvet cover with your lips swollen from his kisses, your hair a mess from his hands and multiple reddish bruises blooming above your collarbones. His cock twitches. “You’re so beautiful,” Frank pants, taking his jeans off.

You use your arms to hold yourself up, chest heaving, looking at him through half-lidded eyes as he settles himself above you. He kisses your cheek, then your lips again, littering kisses down your chest and stomach until he reaches the waistband of your skirt. He doesn’t bother taking it off, just bunches it around your lower stomach, eyes zeroing on your clothed pussy.

He pushes the baby blue cotton to the side and traces one teasing finger up your slit, feeling the wetness gathering there. “God, you’re so wet already,” his voice strangled, breathless, as he spreads your folds apart to take in every inch of you.

“For you,” you whimper when he licks a broad stripe up your cunt. “Just for you, Frankie.”

He groans into your pussy, eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips rutting into the mattress in search of the tiniest bit of relief. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and suckles on your clit, his tongue moving in tight little circles. You moan desperately, hands reaching for his hair and pulling, pushing his face so close to your cunt that he can barely breathe. 

You keen when his tongue pushes into your hole, your clit catching on the tip of his nose. “Gonna– So close, Frankie.” Your hips grind against his face. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you beg tearfully.

He doubles his efforts, refusing to stop for even a second until your legs shake as the coil inside you breaks, a choked gasp spilling from your parted lips, your taste coating his tongue. Only when you try to pull away from him does Frank relent, kissing your clit sweetly.

His chin glistens with your release as he comes up from between your thighs. Your legs part so he can settle comfortably on top of you, hands dragging him down for a kiss that has you tasting yourself in his mouth. “See how good you taste, baby?” Frank mutters against your lips. “Got the sweetest little pussy. Just for me, right?” You whine, shy, and try to hide your face in the sheets. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Say it again, honey.”

“Just for you,” you whisper through pouty lips. Frank pulls you in for a wet kiss, pushing his boxers down quickly. 

Tongues still swirling around each other, Frank takes a hold of himself and spreads your sticky folds apart with his leaking tip, reveling in the little sounds of pleasure you make. He looks down at where your bodies meet, stares in fascination at how your little hole flutters desperately around nothing, waiting for him to fill you up. 

“Look how needy she is, fuck,” he says, awed. He lets a thin thread of his own spit dribble onto his cock, his hand spreading it around his length. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod shakily, hiking your hips up. Slowly, he pushes inside, sinking into your warmth with a shuddering breath that makes his whole body tingle. The stretch of him has you moaning blissfully, nails digging into his forearms. 

Frank stays still for a second, breathing deeply through the squeezing of your cunt. It’s been way. It’s been too long since the last time he’s had sex, way too long, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin this– you, with the adoration and trust in your teary eyes and the way you cling to him so needily, by cumming in less than 30 seconds like a teenager. 

Once his pulse settles, he rolls his hips slowly, deeply, his cock dragging in and out at a leisurely pace as he searches for the spot that will have you screaming his name. When you mewl, a soft and high pitched sound that has his cock twitching inside you, he picks up the pace. 

“W-wait, my foot,” you whimper. “Hurts.”

“Sorry,” Frank whispers, sincerely apologetic. He takes a hold of your leg and places it on his shoulder, kissing your ankle. “I’m sorry, baby. That better?” he asks, leaning over you, pressing your thigh against your chest.

The new angle makes him reach even deeper. Your eyes go blank. “Frankie,” you gasp.

A tingle goes up his spine at how wrecked you sound. He falls on top of you, forearms bracketing your head. “Baby,” he nudges your face with his nose, mouthing at your neck. “God, y’feel so good, honey. Such a tight little cunt.”

One of his hands goes down to where you’re joined, his thumb swirling the mess of your sticky fluids and his spit over the puffy pearl. His mouth hovers above yours, lips brushing as he asks in a quiet tone that has you squeezing around him, “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You gasp. “S-so good, Frankie. You’re making me feel so good.”

Frank grunts. Strands of hair fall over his forehead as he crashes his hips into yours, hitting your spongy spot over and over again. The air buzzes with something electric, something like desire and something too close to devotion.

“Oh my god,” you sob, nails scraping down his back. He groans at the sting. “Gonna–”

“Cum for me, baby,” Frank pants, hot breath hitting your face. “Lemme feel that pretty little pussy make a mess on my cock.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, thighs quivering and chest heaving with broken mewls as you pulse around him. “That’s my girl,” he kisses your temple. You keep fluttering around him, walls twitching with every push and pull of his hips. “So pretty when you cum, honey.”

He thrusts again and again, his body tensing with the inevitable surge of his own pleasure. He groans your name, hiding his face in your neck. “M’gonna cum,” he warns, breathless. “Where d’you want it, hm?”

You’re lax beneath him. You pull him away from your neck by the hair, Frank whimpering pathetically. You cup his cheek, kissing him. It’s messy and wet and hungry, teeth clashing as you whisper into his mouth, “Inside. Wanna feel you.”

Frank curses loudly. His thrusts turn sloppy as he spills into you, hips stuttering and his cock burrowing itself so deeply inside you you can practically feel him in your throat.

He flops down on top of you with a sated sigh, his weight an unexpected but welcoming pressure. Everything feels hazy in the morning light that pours in from your bedroom window. Frank kisses your neck lazily, your nails tracing shapes on his back, his skin littering with goosebumps.

Once you’ve regained your breaths, Frank comes up from where he was hiding, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away with one hand, the other petting your head gently. His blue eyes stare at you intently, as if committing you to memory. “I should go,” he whispers, his fingers tracing over your eyebrow and cheekbone.

He wants to stay like this forever: bodies sweaty and tangled together in the soft light, your hands on his back, his eyes on you, the fuzzy feeling in his heart. Is this what every morning could look like from now on? He doesn’t dare to dream too much– you are, or were, his patient. He’s already broken enough HR rules for it to become a problem if someone finds out. If Robby finds out.

He’s still on thin ice.

“Not yet,” you mumble drowsily, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him out of the labyrinth that his mind was becoming. “You still gotta put some ice on my ankle, Dr. Langdon.”

Frank laughs, thinking of the bag of nuggets left on the rug. He kisses your forehead.