Nova’s Fics

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.” 

The rest of the morning unraveled like a bad movie script. Your overpriced coffee was bitter in a way that lingered too long, your toast burnt beyond saving, small inconveniences stacking on top of each other until they stopped feeling small at all. You forgot to get gas, but didn’t bother to stop, like it didn’t really matter if you made it on time or not. Still, you drove faster than you should have, fingers tight around the wheel, chasing something you couldn’t outrun.

Because you knew.

You knew before you even turned into the garage. Before you saw him. Before the moment had a chance to fully form. It was already there, sitting heavy in your chest, that same looming certainty that had followed you out of sleep and into the light. 

And there he was.

Leaning against his car like he’d been waiting a while, like he knew exactly when you’d pull in, exactly where you’d park. The one you’d claimed long before any of this started, before he became something that could ruin you.

It felt inevitable. Like every choice you’d made over the last five months had quietly led you here, to this exact moment, to him standing there in the half-light of the garage, watching you pull in like he already knew how this was going to go. Like he’d already said the words in his head a hundred times.

Your hands stayed on the wheel, gripping it tighter and tighter until your knuckles ached, your breath shallow, uneven. You let yourself have one more second, just one, to imagine something different. A third option, one that didn’t hurt, one that didn’t feel like you wasted so much time chasing a dream you’d never be able to achieve. You weren’t even waiting for an answer, you were just waiting for confirmation of something that had already happened. And you both knew it. 

The passenger door opened, and he slipped in silently. Your eyes were locked on the cement walls of the parking garage, where the morning light was slipping in between the cracks. A beautiful golden haze, mocking you from a distance. 

“Just say it.” You choked out, not even able to look at him. 

He took a breath, “She wants to try counseling, she knows I’ve been cheating. She doesn’t know who, and I’d like to keep it that way.” 

The laugh you let out is harsh, mean. 

“I don’t want this to impact our work,” he rushes, almost stumbling over the words. “Or our friendship. Y/n, I… I care for you.

Your stomach twists. You know it’s too late. You know what he’s saying. Your heart feels hollow, dragging in your chest. You glance at him briefly, the light catching the lines in his face, the same face that pressed into yours last night, the same hands that held you. You felt fucking sick, devastation carving a hole in the middle of your chest. He didn’t even try to fight for you, but why would he? He wasn’t yours, and he never will be. You weren’t his wife, he didn’t make vows to you. You were a warm body at the end of the day, his twin flame in the ED, but that’s where it ended. 

“I just can’t do this anymore, I’m e-ending it. I need to focus on my kids. I can’t, this, us it’s not fair to you. Just… last night, you said you loved me, and I’m so sorry. I’m fucking pathetic, I know-“ 

“You told me you loved me last night, too, Frank.” You exploded, arms thrown up. “You said, you f-fucking said it. Made me say it.” 

You’re shaking your head in disbelief, watching his face scrunch in pain. “I know-“

”No,” You bellowed, “You don’t fucking know, I’m in love with you, and you can’t even look me in the eyes and admit you love me back. Can you?” 

His silence was all you needed; your eyes sting, tears welling up again, but you force yourself to blink them back. 

“Well, at least you got your dick wet, right?” You sniffle, “I’ll ask Robby to transfer to night shifts, you won’t ever have to fucking see me again. That much I promise you.” 

“Y/n, wait-“ 

“Get the fuck out of my car.” You said, words final. He waited a moment, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind. To beg for him back, something that made his guilt easier to swallow. But you weren’t going to give him that. You didn’t watch him open the car door, didn’t walk him sulk back into the building. You waited until he was out of sight for your shoulders to shake. Sobbing into your hands. You had no one to blame but yourself; you knew this. 

But god, it didn’t make the pain any less devastating. 

You give yourself time to wallow in your own guilt. Once the sobs have passed, you wipe your face with the heel of your hand, drag in a breath that burns your lungs, and force yourself out of the car.

By the time you walk through the doors, you’ve pulled the mask back on. Shoulders straight, expression neutral, voice steady. No one would know you cried and screamed in your car so loud that your throat hurt. No one would know you just lost something that never really belonged to you. 

Robby’s already gathered everyone by the time you finish adjusting your badge. Calling all the senior residents over for the morning ritual.

You wave, sending a small smile to them as you begin rounds. Robby is briefing before a voice breaks everyone’s attention. Louie is sitting in a wheelchair with a wide smile on his face. 

“Hey, Dr. Robby, how are you doing?” He beams. 

“Louie Cloverfield, blood alcohol of four hundred twenty at eleven P.M.,” Frank says, the group slowly walking over to the corner where he was seated. 

“How’s he still alive?” McKay asked, Santos gawking. 

“For you and me, that’s lethal. For Louie, it’s Happy Hour.” Robby says, having Louie stick his hand out. Some more labs are ordered, another prescription, and another push of Ativan. 

Before you could walk off, he stopped you, “Dr. Y/l/n, what’s got you down in the dumps today?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin. “Oh, nothing, Louie,” you say, the smile coming easier this time, almost real. “You behaving?”

“Always,” he lies easily, opening his arms. “Come give me a kiss, darling.”

You roll your eyes but step forward anyway, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his forehead. 

“Dr. Y/l/n is Louie’s favorite doctor.” Robby pointed out, “Even though he says he doesn’t play favorites.” 

“You know I don’t, doc.” Louie beamed, waving as the lot of you continued through the rounds. 

You feel Langdon’s eyes glancing up at you whenever you speak, like he wanted to say something playful. To act like nothing was wrong, like just minutes before, he didn’t rip your heart out of your chest and stomp on it.

The moment passes, and the group moves on, flowing seamlessly into the next patient, the next task, the next piece of the day, and for a little while, it feels manageable. You focus on the work, on the charts, on the details that demand your attention, and it almost drowns out the noise in your head. Almost. 

Every time you catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye, it sends a sharp, unwelcome spike through your chest, but you don’t give in to it, you don’t look directly, you don’t slow down, you don’t acknowledge him at all. But you soon realize how painfully small this department is. 

You were cursed; that was the only way to explain how horribly this day was going. The hits didn’t stop; they just kept coming. You leaned against the computer, typing up your charts, when a conversation grew closer to the nurses' station. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, Tanner, he’d take care of it. I think it would give him a good sense of responsibility.” Langdon was speaking, Collins tapping away at her own computer, glaring up at him. 

The sound of his voice hits you like a physical thing, sharp and immediate, and your stomach drops before you even fully process the words. You don’t have to look to know it’s him, don’t have to turn to picture the way he’s standing there, casual and at ease. You don’t think they can see you, so you sink into your chair, trying to keep it that way. 

Dr. Collins hums thoughtfully beside him. “A four-year-old is gonna take care of it? Yeah, right. Just more stuff for your wife to clean up after.”

“He promised me,” Langdon replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, he’s been asking for one forever, and I thought maybe it’d help, you know? Give everyone something to focus on, bring things back together a little.”

Your grip tightens around your mouse, fingers pressing into the edges hard enough to ache. Bring things back together. The words echo in your head, twisting into something bitter and sharp, because you know exactly what he means, and it has nothing to do with you. It never did, not really.

The conversation ends, and you’ve never been more grateful. That is, until another lull in charting, your tablet on your hip as you discuss a discharge with Kim. 

“Robby, how do you feel about dogs?” His voice hollers over the desks, making your jaw clench. You try to tune it out this time, you really do. 

If you had to hear him talk about buying a stupid dog one more time, you were going to scream. You didn’t give a fuck that within the same 24 hours of him being inside of you and telling you that he loves you, he went out and bought his son a dog. You didn’t care that he was going to go home and cook his wife salmon, and go out into his big yard and play with a brand new puppy. 

He’s showing pictures to everyone on his phone when you let out an evil cackle. 

 “A dog isn’t gonna fix your marriage, you realize that, right?” The words slipped out as you snatched your tablet back up. You didn’t bother staying to see their reactions; it would have only pissed you off more. You spin on your feet, grabbing Santos to pull her into another case with you. 

“Who pissed in Barbie’s cheerios?” Robby asks, looking at Langdon with a crazed look. Langdon’s eyes were stuck on your back as you stomped through the halls. Robby didn’t think anything of it, too busy mocking your anger as you stormed off. 

You pull the curtain back, smiling widely at the patient. “My name is Dr. Y/n, this is Dr. Santos, she's going to be assisting me in your care today!” You say, too enthusiastic to be believable. 

The patient is a middle-aged male, semi-conscious, brought in after a bad fall down a set of stairs, with a possible head injury, definitely a broken wrist, and blood matted in his hair where he must’ve hit something on the way down. He’s fully out by the time you administer pain meds. 

After running his labs and a CT, you and Santos create a good rhythm with him. You’re suturing the laceration along his scalp, fingers steady despite the noise around you, while Santos manages the splint, her movements efficient but a little quieter than usual.

“You and Langdon are close, right?” she asks suddenly, her tone careful in a way that immediately puts you on edge.

A chill runs up your spine as you thread the suture through, cutting it at the knot. “Sure, yeah.” You say while starting another one, because it’s easier to just pretend that nothing has happened between you two. 

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, like she can’t quite force the words out. “Have you noticed anything weird about him?”  

“He’s a weird guy, haven't you noticed the last few weeks?” You say flatly, finishing off one of the last knots, “You’re going to have to be more specific. Is this about him being a dick to you earlier? Because sometimes you just have to ignore him, he’s a dick-“

”No, like..” She hesitates, then reaches into her pocket, pulling something out and holding it low enough that it stays between the two of you. “There’s been some drug discrepancies in a few cases with him. I’ve never really worked with him before, but this is too many coincidences."  

The words settle heavy, immediate, and you feel something in your chest tighten. 

“Specifically with Dr. Langdon,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “I know you and him are close, and I just wanted to ask if you’ve noticed anything weird.”

Your eyes drop to what she’s holding.

A vial. The top snapped off clean, but wrong somehow, like it wasn’t opened the way it should have been. If you’re not wrong, it looks like there’s glue around the top, like someone tried to glue it back together. She explains how the dosages didn’t match, like someone stole the drugs and replaced them with saline. 

“Langdon is many things,” you start automatically, the defense rising before you can stop it, before you can even think it through, “but this isn’t..” 

You pause again, a heavy realization settling over your chest. Maybe you don’t know Langdon at all, maybe you never did. He was a man who went home every night to his family, lying directly to their faces. Who’s to say what he was doing here, right under everyone’s noses? 

You finish the suture with steady hands that don’t match the way your thoughts are starting to spiral, tying it off clean before stepping back, stripping your gloves off with a little more force than necessary.

”There were 10 Librium pills missing when Louie came back this morning, now this.” She sighs, staring down at the bottle. You can tell it’s been weighing on her all day, and while you’re glad she trusted you enough to talk to you, you wish she hadn’t.

”Listen,” you say, your tone shifting, flattening into something closed off, because you can’t let yourself get pulled into this, not when everything else is already too much. Not when you’re already implicated in something horrible with him. “If you think something’s happening, you tell Robby. I trust your judgment.”

Santos hesitates. “But-”

“I just want no part in this,” you cut in, sharper now, the words coming out faster. “Santos, I want no part. As a matter of fact, we didn’t speak at all about this. Okay?”

She blinks at you, a little startled by the intensity, but she nods, shoulders drawing in slightly as she tucks the vial back into her pocket.

You let out a breath, “I won’t say anything, just please tell Robby. If anything happens, I have your back.” You gave her a weak smile, to which she nodded slowly. 

She turns on her heel and moves out of the bay, leaving you standing there for a second longer than necessary, your hands hovering uselessly at your sides.

As soon as the door closed, you were left alone in the room with the patient. Your face falls into your hands. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” You mumbled to yourself, practically throwing yourself into the plastic chair in the corner. 

Everything you missed or looked over the past few months came rushing back to you. You knew about his injury, even helped him apply lidocaine patches in the break room on long shifts. Some nights you’d see the pain on his face, the way he shifted. Those were nights you’d be on top, not wanting to hurt him any further. Then there were nights when he’d pick you up and fuck you against the door, or the floor. Those nights, he was always more eager than others; you blamed redbull or even just the adrenaline from the affair itself. 

Was the affair just another high for him? You weren’t Frank Langdon’s only choice of drug; you weren’t even the most important one. 

Now you couldn’t stop thinking of every time you worked on a case together. Did he overprescribe? Was he using intravenous drugs, too? Did you see any marks? Was he being safe with his drug usage? Could he have given anything to you? 

The morning your badges were switched, did he use your badge to treat? Suddenly, the world had been tilted on its AXIS. Your stomach turned, and you felt like you were going to be sick. 

The patient on the bed let out a snore, making you jump in your seat. It could have been 10 minutes, it could have been 30, you didn’t know how long you sat there, stuck in your thoughts. You pressed your palm to your racing heart and pushed out of the room. 

Your pulse starts to pound in your ears, drowning out the noise around you, and suddenly everything feels too loud and too far away at the same time. You don’t even realize you’ve gone still until Princess’s voice cuts through, somewhere off to your left.

“-and then Robby just lost it, I’m telling you,” she’s saying, half incredulous, half entertained in that way she gets with Perlah. “He and Langdon got into it by the lockers. Like, actually into it. Now people are saying Langdon’s gone home.” 

Your eyes look over the station, meeting Santos' gaze. She jerks her head down immediately, looking back at her chart. So she told Robby, good. So she is right, bad. Really fucking bad. 

“Do you know anything about this?” Perlah asks, nudging your shoulder with hers. 

You barely budge, your mouth dry and face pale. 

“Where’s McKay?” You mumbled softly, feeling like you were about to pass out. 

“What?” Someone asks, you’re not sure who, before you repeat yourself, louder this time. 

“Someone page her for me, please. I’ll be in,” You read the board, picking the first empty room. “North 2.” 

You walk away, ignoring their questions. The faster you can get into the room, the less likely it is that you’ll end up passed out on the ED floor. 

The door shuts behind you, and the quiet overwhelms you immediately. Your chest tightens so fast it feels like something is physically squeezing your lungs, and suddenly the room feels too small, the air too thin. You push off the door, pacing once, twice, your hands dragging through your hair. Before you’re able to throw up in the biohazard bin, there’s a knock on the door. 

“What’s going on?” McKay’s voice cuts through, steady, grounding in a way that almost makes your knees give out.

“I need you to run tests,” you say too quickly, your voice already shaking, your fingers gripping the stethoscope still hanging around your neck like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Everything. Full panel. Blood, urine, anything that can be transmitted, I need it now.”

McKay doesn’t move right away, but her eyes sharpen, concern settling in as she takes in your face, the way you’re holding yourself together by a thread. She’s seen this before, in patients, in the mirror. 

“For what?” she asks gently, not pushing, just enough to understand.

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “Anything transmittable," you repeat, your voice cracking. “If someone..If they were using uh intravenous drugs, dirty needles maybe, pills, I don’t know, I just…everything.”

“Okay, yeah.” She nods after a minute, having you take a seat on the edge of the bed while she gloves up. “Is this… the guy you said you were seeing? Casually?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out, just a hiss when she draws a few vials of your blood. 

It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but she speaks up again. “Are you.. safe at home, Y/n?” 

You nod, a sob ripping from your chest before you could stop it. 

“What happened?” she asks, softer now.

You shake your head once, like you can’t even fully explain it yourself. “I found out they’re using,” you manage, the words tumbling out unevenly, your breath starting to hitch. “I don’t even know what or how, I just-I got so scared.”

Your vision blurs suddenly, your chest tightening further, faster this time, like your body is finally catching up to everything your brain has been trying to outrun.

“I-” Your breath stutters. “I can’t-”

“Hey,” McKay steps closer immediately, her voice firm but calm. “Look at me.” She pulls the bed up higher, forcing you upright. 

You try to catch your breath, but your vision tunnels, your hands starting to shake as your breathing spirals, too fast, too shallow.

”Do you want me to get Langdon?” She asks, her hands on your wrists to check your pulse. 

“He’s gone, I can’t breathe,” You choke out, and you hate that he’s the only person you want right now. You hate how everyone in this hospital knows how close you two are, how he’s the first person they’d call for anything. 

“You can,” she says steadily, one hand coming to your shoulder, grounding, anchoring. “Slow it down. In through your nose.”

You try to follow it, but your chest feels locked, your lungs refusing to cooperate.

“In,” she repeats, calmer this time. “Come on. With me.”

You drag in a shaky breath, it catches halfway, but it’s something. Your chest aches, but you feel yourself calming down. You didn’t even realize you were shaking until McKay’s hands held your shoulders gently. 

“Good,” she murmurs. “Out. Slow.”

It takes a few tries, a few uneven, broken breaths, but eventually the tightness eases just enough for you to feel like you’re not about to pass out.

“I’ve got you,” she says again, quieter now.

You nod weakly, tears already slipping down your cheeks as you try to get your bearings again.

”I’m so sorry.” You cried, rubbing your palm against your chest. “It’s been a horrible day.” 

“I see that,” She says, concern still written all over her face. “Do you wanna continue?” 

“Yes, please.” 

She moves more slowly this time, taking samples and writing orders while you try to ground yourself. Trying to think of anything but Frank. You focus on the overpriced takeout you're going to buy later, the bottle of wine you’ll drink as you’re slipping into a hot bath. Maybe you’ll buy a dog, but more likely a cat. 

“Okay,” McKay speaks up, “I’m going to send bloodwork off for a pregnancy test, but I could do an ultrasound while we’re here. It’ll be faster.” 

“God,” You sigh, “I’m on birth control, b-but-“ 

“You know the risks, Doctor. Better to be safe than sorry. Let’s check,” she says gently.

You lie back, staring up at the ceiling, your hands trembling as they come to rest over your stomach without you even realizing it. The cold gel makes you flinch, the probe pressing down as she watches the screen, focused, quiet.

You watch her face more than the monitor, searching for something, anything. The silence stretches. All you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Nothing obvious right now. Womb is empty.”

The relief is immediate and overwhelming, crashing through you so fast it makes you gasp, your body going slack against the bed as tears spill freely down your temples into your hair.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half sob, half laugh, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. “Thank god.” 

McKay lets out an amused chuckle, wiping the gel off your stomach. “When was the last time you had unprotected sex?” 

“Last night,” You cringe. “I feel so stupid.” 

She just nods, setting the ultrasound machine back up to be cleaned. “I can write you a script for a plan B, if you want? I’m also starting you on prophylactic meds. Just in case.”

”I’ll run everything stat,” she adds, her tone firm. “You’ll know as soon as I do.”

You nod again, wiping at your face, trying to pull yourself together, but your hands are still shaking. 

For a moment, she just stands there with you. 

Then, softer, “You’re not stupid for trusting someone.”

“Thank you,” You grab her hand softly, “I just didn’t know who else to trust without having to explain. I’m sorry I dragged you here.”

She smiles, “Don’t apologize, not to me. You got me, girl, always.” 

She slips out, ordering you to lie back and get some rest. You knew it’d be virtually impossible, but you let yourself pretend. She came back in with the meds and a juice box, telling you she told everyone you threw up and just needed a moment. Bad takeout, which was believable enough. Your test results came back normal, another pound off your chest. Negative for STDS, a retest for HPV in a few weeks. A follow-up with your OBGYN. 

But, she lingered for a moment. Hand’s fiddling with the sleeves of her jacket. 

“I’m gonna make an observation,” McKay spoke, “I don’t want a response, it just feels like something you should know.” 

You nod, urging her to continue. 

“On the way to get your pills, I overheard Robby asking Dana to audit Langdon. All the drugs he’s prescribed and all the patients he’s treated.” She says slowly, as if she spoke any louder, it would spook you. 

“If there's any chance at all that Langdon has convinced you to turn the other way or use your numbers, then I would get ahead of it. The rest of it, patient confidentiality. “

She sees you go to open your mouth and adds, “I don’t need an explanation. I don’t judge, I know you, Y/n. You’re a good person, an even better doctor.” 

She left you with a comforting smile, leaving you alone with yourself again. 

You got dressed again, giving yourself a moment to pull yourself together before slipping back into the chaos. You grabbed your tablet and tried to jump back onto the patients that they covered for you when you spotted Dana in the Pyxis. Her tablet in her hand as she continues the audit. She has a frown on her face, already pulling something up, her focus immediate and sharp.

And then, “-hey, are you even listening to me?” Mel’s voice, right in front of you.

You blink, but it doesn’t help; your thoughts are still miles away, still stuck on the same loop.

“Yeah,” You hummed, scribbling dates down frantically on a sticky note, “Let me pass this to Dana and I’ll meet you there.” You told her without looking back. 

You were immediately on your feet, finding Dana in the corner, her eyes locked on the tablet in front of her. “Dana.” 

“Hmm?” She asked, not even bothering to look up. It was standard practice, especially on chaotic days like today, for everyone to multitask. 

You slid the sticky note onto her tablet, forcing it into her view. “I need you to run an audit of me for these days and cross-check it with my charts.”

She nearly dropped the tablet, pushing her glasses on top of her head. “Why?” Her voice was clipped, straight to the point. 

“Langdon had my badge that morning for nearly two hours before I noticed,” You spoke quickly and quietly, “I overheard some things that I’m finding very hard to believe, but…”

“How did your badges get switched?” She asked, her eyes cold on yours. 

Your face fell, brows falling into a frown. “He gave me a ride to work that morning-” 

“Hard to get dressed in the dark?” she interrupts flatly.

The implication hits you like a slap.

You actually take a small step back, eyes widening. “D-Dana, no, it’s not like that-”

“I’m offended you think I’m an idiot,” she scoffs, her voice low but biting.

“Dana.” You drag a hand over your face, the exhaustion, the stress, the humiliation all crashing together at once. “It wasn’t supposed-”

“I don’t wanna hear it, kid,” she cuts you off, already turning her attention back to the tablet, though her expression has hardened into something you’ve never seen directed at you before. Disgust. “I don’t wanna believe it either. I’ll do the audit.”

What more can you do but nod? Before you leave, she says her last parting words. “You'd better hope and pray that Robby's wrong.”

You find Mel and slowly get back into the groove of working. Trying your best to make it through the last hour without any more incidents, but you should have known. The moment the intercom crackled, your shoulders tensed. 

“Code Triage, emergency department now.”

The words slice through the room like a blade.

“Code Triage, emergency department now.”

There are murmurs of confusion among the interns, gasps from the nurses as you all huddle towards the ambulance bay. You catch Samira’s gaze, both of you shrugging to let the other know you have no idea what’s going on. 

As soon as Robby steps up, the murmurs cease. He clears his throat before speaking, "Okay, everyone, listen up. There’s an active shooter at PittFest.” 

A gasp rippled through everyone, your back hitting the nurses' station in shock. 

“As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims. We don't know yet how many we are getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. They either go home, go upstairs, or they go to Family Medicine.”

“Call your loved ones now if you need to. I can guarantee you cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes.” He finishes, clapping his hands together before everyone disperses. 

“Fuck,” McKay grumbles, “My kids here.” 

“Call your parents.” You urged her, seeing Robby’s eyes stop on you. 

“Are you clear to work?” 

McKay answers before you do, “Just some bad food, she’s got the all clear from me.” 

You nod, “It’s all hands on deck, I’m good.” 

You think he’s going to walk away when McKay does, but he doesn’t. He looks around, waiting for a chance to speak when no one's listening.

 “Langdon’s gone.” He says, his words clipped. 

“I heard.” Your voice comes out smaller than you wanted. 

He breathes in through his teeth, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Barbie?” 

“Not that I know of..” You whispered, knowing there's no way your conversation with Dana had gotten back to him yet. 

He clasped a hand on your shoulder and just gave you a curt nod before he left to greet Abbot at the door. 

The next few minutes blur into motion, into urgency, into the kind of controlled chaos that leaves no space for anything but action. Gowns go on, gloves snap into place, masks pulled tight, everyone shifting into position with practiced precision as the first sirens start to echo in the distance. You’re thankful to be on red triage with Abbot and Samira, giving you something to keep your mind off of, well, everything else. 

There’s blood, so much blood it hits you before anything else does, the metallic scent sharp and thick, burning its way into your nose, settling into the back of your throat. For a few seconds there, you’re back in Kabul, under active fire, trying to crike bleeding civilians in the dark while choking on sand. You push that away, falling into a steady pace. Patients are coming in fast, too fast, gurney after gurney, some screaming, some eerily silent, some already gone by the time they hit your hands.

Your hands move before your brain catches up, cutting through fabric, assessing, calling out vitals, your voice steady even as everything else feels like it’s moving at double speed.

“Get me a chest tube,” you snap, already working, your gloves slick, your focus razor sharp.

Samira is right beside you, matching your pace, your rhythm, the two of you falling into something almost instinctual despite everything.

The first thirty minutes are relentless.

There’s no pause, no break, no moment to think, just patient after patient, decision after decision, life or death measured in seconds. Patients moved in and out, a twisted carousal of flesh and bone. You lose track of time entirely, your world narrowing down to what’s directly in front of you, the rise and fall of a chest, the feel of a pulse slipping under your fingers.

“No, no, no-come on,” you mutter under your breath, pushing harder, faster, your hands moving without hesitation.

Abbott is right there with you. “If there’s no pulse, we’re not going to get them back.” He says, matter-of-factly. You knew he was right; you couldn’t keep up with the blood loss, not right now. The bullet tore directly through his lungs; it was a losing battle. 

The room feels like it closes in, the noise around you fading just enough that all you can hear is your own breathing, too loud, too fast. Your nerves are already shot from today; you’re surprised you’re still standing. 

“Fuck!” The word tears out of you before you can stop it, raw and sharp as you step back, ripping your gloves off with shaking hands. “White and black, send to peds.”

Abbot’s hand brushes your back, brief and grounding, the only comfort you’re going to get in a moment like this, and you lean into it for half a second before forcing yourself forward again, already turning toward the next gurney being wheeled in.

You don’t have time to feel this. You don’t have time to feel anything. All of your other shit needs to go out of the window. 

“Where do you need me?” The voice cuts through everything.

And you know it's him, even when you look up to see Frank standing there, still tying the trauma gown around his neck. 

Abbott doesn’t hesitate, already pointing toward another incoming patient. “Over there, help with that gurney!”

And just like that, he’s pulled into it, into the same storm you’re standing in. This wasn’t going to end well. The moment Robby sees him, the ED is going to explode into even more chaos than it already is. You roll your shoulders, pulling the next gurney into the trauma room. 

The next stretch of time doesn’t feel real so much as it feels endless, like the department has been swallowed whole by noise and blood and motion, and there’s no clear beginning or end to any of it. The smell is the worst part, metallic and thick, clinging to the back of your throat no matter how many times you swallow, no matter how hard you try to ignore it.

Entry points. Exit points. Blood loss. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. One unit, OR or peds. 

You’re surprised you’re not dizzy with how fast you’ve been running around. Your hands are already slick, pressing hard into the pulsing bleed of an arterial gunshot wound, feeling it pulsate beneath your gloves. You’re trying to find the bleeder when Samira yells.

“I need help with a pediatric airway.” She yells across from the ED. 

You look around. Abbot is in the middle of an intubation himself, and Robby is rolling a patient on the gurney in from triage. 

“Y/n,” Frank yells, at the same time Robby does. 

It’s an awkward moment of a pause, the two staring at each other. Especially in agreement with you. 

Franks is already dropping his gloves as he walks over to you, “Switch, you’re the best at pediatric airways.”

All you can do is nod, switching with him seamlessly before you run over to Samira, assisting her with a bougie and no glidescope. It’s all tactile, and it makes your back ache as you lean over the child. The child who shouldn’t even be here in the first place. 

“Thanks,” Samira sighs.

You just nod, reaching up without thinking to tuck her hair back behind her ear as you peel off your gloves, your hands trembling just enough that you hope she doesn’t notice.

You’re already turning away before the moment can settle. Before anything can.

“That’s why you’re my best resident, Y/n.” Robby makes the point of saying it to you as he rushes past, all while looking at Frank. You ignore the pathetic frown that graces Frank’s face, because there’s no time right now. 

“Your patient is being sent up with Walsh,” Frank informs you, and you barely acknowledge him. 

“Next one coming in!” someone shouts, and you barely have time to reset before another gurney is slammed into place in front of you.

He’s big, bigger than most of the other patients you’ve seen so far, and it complicates everything immediately. Lifting, rolling, access points, all of it harder, slower, heavier when seconds are the only thing you don’t have enough of. Frank is still next to you, helping you assess the patient. 

“Male, mid-thirties!” Langdon calls out as he moves with you two, Mateo already cutting through fabric. “GSW, responsive to pain only!”

Fabric tears under Mateo’s hands, the patient groaning low, barely conscious, his body twitching in response to the pain as you press into his abdomen, searching for what you can’t see.

“Yup, upper left quadrant entrance,” You confirm, “Get-“  You’re cut off by the patient thrashing violently, groaning loudly. 

“He’s responding,” Mateo says quickly.

“Yeah, I see that-hold him-” Frank grunts, all of you trying to push the patient back onto the gurney. 

The man groans again, louder this time, his body tensing, muscles tightening under your grip.

“Hold him down, grab his foot.” The nurse alerts, as you’re still trying to keep control of the situation. 

Then everything happens so fast, he jerks up halfway off the gurney, his arms reaching down to his ankle. 

“Whoa, gun, GUN, he’s going for his gun,” Frank yells. 

The words rip through the air as his hand slams into you, hard, shoving you backward with enough force to send you crashing to the ground, your shoulder hitting first, your breath knocked clean out of your lungs. He’s still gripping the patient’s leg, while his body practically throws itself in front of you, separating you from the weapon. 

For a second, the entire department goes quiet; all you hear is people dropping to the ground. You could hear a pin drop as SWAT alerts everyone to stay down, marching over to you all. 

“Sig P35, 9 Mil.” An officer announces, removing the gun from his holster. 

You go to stand on shaky legs, trying to check the patient's breathing, but Frank’s arm stops you. Unmoving. He stays there, one hand still gripping the patient’s leg to keep him pinned, the other still half-extended behind him, like he’s not entirely convinced it’s over. Like he’s not entirely convinced you’re safe.

“Driver’s license?" 

“He just got here.” Frank sighed, slowly letting his leg go. 

You take that as a sign to stand, rubbing hard on his sternum. “Not responding to pain now.” 

“All clear!” Frank alerts everyone, watching heads slowly pop back up. 

“You sure?” McKay asks, and you nod shakily at her. 

You suck in a shaky breath, your lungs finally working again, as soon as SWAT pulls back. 

Frank exhales, sharp and controlled, before his voice cuts through everything again. “Everyone, back to work.”

Your hands are already palpating his neck. “Agonal breathing,” you say, eyes flicking over his chest, the uneven rise and fall that barely qualifies. “He needs an airway, now.”

“I’m working on an IO,” Frank shoots back, already moving, already reaching.

Mateo is at your side a second later, fast, efficient. “Drawing up ketamine and sux.”

“Good,” you mutter, adjusting your grip, trying to keep the airway as stable as possible. “We’re losing him.”

“Here,” Frank says, shifting slightly, making space. “Have at it.”

You barely register the officer stepping closer until he speaks.

“Concealed carry permit,” Officer Harrelson says, holding up the ID like it explains anything. “We’ll run-”

“These wounds are too big for a nine.” It comes out of you automatically, your eyes still scanning the patient, your brain working fast. 

“Agreed.” The officer nodded, walking back over to their makeshift command in BH2. 

Frank looks up your words, failing at getting an IO into his arm. 

“How do you know that?” he asks, sharp but curious, something threading through his tone that makes your chest tighten.

”Took a gap year to shadow a doctor in Kabul with Doctors Without Borders after my first few years of residency, before I transferred here. Thought I told you.” You lied; it was the worst 6 months of your life. You hadn’t told him, you really hadn’t told anyone besides Samira and Abbot. Even then, Abbot could read it on your face after a particularly rough night, you didn’t offer it up. 

“You didn’t talk about it,” he says, not as a question.

You glance at him then, just briefly, your mouth pulling into something that isn’t quite a smile, isn’t quite anything at all.

You gesture vaguely with one hand, already turning back to the patient. “It was worse than this, I couldn’t even make it the whole year,” you say, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “Would you?”

There’s no answer to that, not that it matters. 

“Failed IO,” Frank mutters a second later, frustration creeping in as he adjusts. “Guy’s huge. Needle won’t reach the bone.”

You don’t hesitate. “He needs induction meds and blood,” you say, sharper now, pushing forward, forcing the next step.

Mateo shakes his head from the other side. “I’m having the same problem here. I don’t see anything usable for an IV.”

“Robby,” Frank calls out, louder now.

“What?” comes the immediate response from across the bay, annoyance creeping in his tone.

“Guy needs access, but the IO won’t reach the humerus.” He glances at you for half a second before continuing, “Proximal tibia?”

You’re already shaking your head. “Tibia’s not great access,” you say quickly. “You can only get about a liter an hour down there.”

“You get what you get,” Frank shoots back, already moving to insert the IO. 

Somewhere behind you, something starts beeping, loud, insistent, cutting through everything.

“God damn it!” McKay snaps.

Frank exhales sharply, irritation flashing. “Whatever that is, can you please turn it off? I can’t hear myself think!”

But you’re already back in it, already pushing past the noise, the conversation, the past that almost surfaced for a second before you shoved it right back down where it belongs.

“I can’t get an airway; the light on the scope is dead.” Frank huffs.

“Keep bagging,” you cut in, stepping forward before anyone else can hesitate, your voice sharp, controlled. “Give me a 7.0 ET tube.”

There’s a flicker of confusion.

“He’s a big guy,” Frank pushes back instinctively. “He needs an 8.”

“Not for this,” you say immediately, not even looking up as you pull your gloves tighter, positioning yourself at the head of the bed. “Number 7.”

Frank’s eyes snap to you, something between surprise and challenge. “What are you doing?”

You don’t hesitate. “Tactile intubation.”

“Robby,” Frank hollers again, his eyes never once leaving your hands. 

“My index finger goes into the vallecula,” you say as you work, your tone steady despite the pressure, even though you can feel Frank watching you now, really watching. “Middle finger guides the tube past the epiglottis.”

“But if you hit the esophagus, he’s toast,” Langdon shoots back, tension threading through his voice. “Robby told us to never pass a tube unless we see the vocal cords.”

“Correct,” Robby says, his body leaning over your shoulder now. 

Your hand moves with precision, muscle memory taking over, the chaos around you narrowing down to feel alone. 

“If I stay in the midline,” you continue, quieter now, more to yourself than anyone else, “I should be able to get it past the cords.”

You can hear everyone’s heavy breaths as the tube passes through the cords, “Okay, bag him.” 

“Looks good on end-tidal,” someone confirms, relief breaking through the tension like a crack in glass.

Robby lets out a laugh of relief, “Dr. Y/n is on fucking fire today. You sure you don’t want that respiratory fellowship?” 

“Right now I want to go home.” You sigh, double-checking his airway. 

Your relief only lasts for a few minutes before he starts tanking once again. The IO in the tibia is unable to keep up with the blood loss. 

Frank’s moving in seconds, digging around for a needle and a central line kit. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Giving this guy a chance,” he shoots back without looking at you. “He needs a big central line. Fast transfusion.”

You glance at the patient, his size, the lack of landmarks, the chaos still pressing in around you, and your stomach twists.

“You can’t do an IJ without ultrasound,” you push, stepping closer, your voice low but urgent. “Especially not on him. You’ll kill him if you collapse a lung or hit the carotid.”

Langdon doesn’t even hesitate. “I’m not doing an IJ.”

There’s a split second where your brain tries to catch up to what he is doing as he repositions, dragging the line up higher, adjusting angles with quick, practiced movements.

“Unhook that blood line,” he says, already in motion. “Bring it up here.”

You watch his hands, the placement, the angle, and then it clicks.

“This is a supraclavicular subclavian,” he continues, focused, precise. “If you have to go in blind, this is the only safe way to access a giant vein.”

Your heart is pounding again, “Hold compressions,” he orders.

His fingers find the landmark, quick but deliberate. “A centimeter from the lateral head of the sternocleidomastoid,” he says, almost like he’s teaching through it, like he needs the words to anchor the motion. “A centimeter off the clavicle, aiming at the contralateral nipple.”

You can’t help but watch him for a second too long, caught off guard by how steady he is, his hands always sure. It pulls you in despite everything, muscle memory taking over as you fall into step beside him, the two of you moving together without thinking, seamless in a way that’s always felt a little too easy.

This. This is what made it so easy in the first place. Why your relationship blurred so quickly, why the lines never stayed where they were supposed to. You were two twin flames, dancing around each other like it was the only thing you knew how to do. 

“I’m in, resume compressions. Squeeze blood.” His voice brought you out of your thoughts. 

Movement explodes back into your little corner of the chaos, compressions restarting, the line catching, blood finally moving where it needs to go. You stare at it for half a second longer than you should, something like reluctant relief settling in your chest.

“Where’d you learn that?” You almost pant. 

“EM: RAP podcast,” he answers quickly, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just gamble on a life in front of you. “We’ll be ready for a second unit in under a minute.”

There’s a beat. “Boom.” 

You’re shaking your head at him, trying to steady the beat of your heart, ripping off your soiled gloves in exchange for new ones as the patient is now stable enough to be watched by the nurses. If Frank did something like that on any other day, you’d be dragging him into an on-call room. Praising him and letting him tease you about your competency kink. Maybe you’d get on your knees, letting him use you as he seemed fit. Now, the thought just left a sour taste in your mouth. 

You don’t even register you’ve moved until your hands find the water bottle you left on Dana’s desk. You lift it to your mouth and chug, water spilling past your lips, cold and grounding and not nearly enough to wash the day out of your system. Frank’s right behind, following you like a lost little lamb. Triage has slowed; there hasn’t been a red wristband in the past 15 minutes or so. 

You don’t think as you hand the water bottle over to him. It’s just instinct because you’ve done this a hundred times before. For a moment, it feels like nothing between you has changed, like this is still normal. This morning never happened, your best friend is in front of you. You never ruined the friendship, you never destroyed your morals for fleeting moments of something that was never yours. 

He takes a quick drink, hands it back, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Are you okay?”

”Absolutely fucking not.” You laugh out, and it feels like the only honest thing you’ve said all day. 

Before he can even open his mouth to respond, the bay doors are bursting open. Robby is pushing a gurney, Dana hot on his trail.

“You need help over there?” Langdon calls, already half-turning toward him.

“No, we’re good,” Robby snaps, not even looking up. 

“Fuck,” You whisper, watching him spring into action, “That’s Jake’s girlfriend.” 

You end up getting pulled into an assist with Abbot, both of you watching Robby carefully. It’s chaos, she’s gone, and it seems like only you and Abbot can see that. 

“How much blood are you pushing off the cell saver?” someone asks.

“Every last drop,” Robby answers, voice tight, controlled in a way that tells you exactly how bad it is.

Abbott steps in, taking over for him, his tone already shifting into a soldier's. “O-neg. Monitor the pulse. She’s stable enough for trauma ICU if an OR’s not ready. How many units so far?”

“Four,” Robby says, not missing a beat. “Plus the cell saver.”

“Last one?” Abbott presses, glancing toward the doors, toward the line of patients still coming in. “We’re getting backed up out there.”

“I don’t know.” There’s a crack in his voice. “Dana, try TXA. One gram. Might help her clot.”

“Got it,” Dana answers immediately.

Abbott exhales sharply, his gaze hardening as he looks between the patient and the rest of the department.

“The bullet tore through her heart,” he says, not unkind, but firm. Grounded in reality. “Anyone else with a wound like this is pronounced in the field. You can’t keep up with this kind of blood loss.”

Robby doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge he’s speaking. 

“If she were our only patient,” Abbott continues, louder now, forcing the words into the space Robby is trying to ignore, “We’d crack her chest. Maybe ECMO. Maybe. But even then.”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. Then his eyes flick to you.

“Tell him.”

The words hit you like a shove.

You freeze for half a second, your hands still moving on your own patient.

“Abbot-” you start, low, hesitant.

“Tell him,” he repeats, sharper now.

Your stomach twists. Because you know, and he knows that you know. 

You glance over again, at the blood, at the sheer volume of it, at the way they’re trying to outrun something that can’t be outrun. And you hate yourself a little for what you’re about to say.

“I’ve seen this in the field too,” you manage, your voice tighter than you want it to be, louder than you expect as it carries across the space. “Wounds like that, out there, we don’t even try. It’s a lost cause.”

“This isn’t the fucking Middle East!” He snaps, demanding Dana push another bag of saline. 

You meet Abbot's eye, a sympathetic look of defeat as he walks back towards you. 

“Robby-” you try again, softer this time. He just ignores you, and you roll your shoulders, finishing the hemostatic bandaging on your patient. 

You’re not there when they call it, you’re pushing another patient up to the OR with Walsh. You make it back down in time to hear about Santos's impromptu REBOA, leading you to get sent on pink duty for the time being. It’s a slower pace, still not enough to make your blood pressure lower, but enough to where you don’t feel dizzy. 

By the time all the yellows and pinks are stable, rumors are floating around that the shooter is dead. It doesn’t relieve you as much as it should, because the damage is already done. The blood staining your forearms and the ache in your back are proof of that. 

On your walk around the ED, you see Frank sitting on a gurney with Jake, patting the kid on the back. Jake’s head is tilted down, his shoulders still trembling. You feel shaky on your feet as you watch, figuring Langdon as he gets up. 

“Robby told him?” you ask as you step closer, your voice quieter than you intend, but it still pulls Langdon’s attention immediately. He glances at you, a little surprised that you spoke to him first, then nods once, looking back toward Jake.

 “Yeah. Just now.” His jaw tightens slightly.

“Fuck.” You breathe out, pinching the bridge of your nose in between my fingers. “Robby’s never gonna talk to me again.” 

“That makes two of us.” He mumbles under your breath, making you look up at him. “What did you do?”

”Abbot and I were trying to tell him to stop wasting supplies on a lost cause,” You lowered your voice, “She was gone the moment she came in.”

Langdon’s shoulders shift, something restless in the movement, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands, his thoughts, any of it. “If it were you..” he starts, almost under his breath.

You glance at him, brows pulling together slightly. “What?”

He shakes his head immediately, like he’s about to drop it, like he knows he shouldn’t have said anything at all. “Nothing. I just-”

“No,” you press, quieter now, but firmer. “What?”

He looks at you then. Really look at you, for the first time today. He sees past the scrubs, past the doctor who’s just spent the past few hours saving countless lives. Your hair is a mess, there’s dried blood on your scrub top, and your forearms, but you’ve never looked as beautiful as you do now. 

“If it were you,” he repeats, his voice low, “I would’ve used every machine in this hospital.” There’s no hesitation now, no wavering. “Every unit of blood. I wouldn’t have stopped. Not until I did every single thing to ensure you were really gone.” 

The ED feels smaller, smaller than it has all day. His words make your stomach drop, your heart ache. Because a part of you believes him. A part of you always has, always will, no matter how much you wish it didn’t. The same part that loves him with every fiber of your being. 

You don’t speak, all you do is walk. Leaving him standing there alone. 

As if the chaos of tonight wasn’t enough, you make it back to the hub just in time to see McKay getting put in handcuffs. It only makes your head throb as you yell out, watching Robby stand in between her and the officers, trying to convince them to let her go. 

“What a fucking shit show.” You mumbled under your breath, feeling your chest tighten. The unfortunate, familiar feeling from earlier was climbing up your throat. The next thing you knew, you were stumbling out into the ambulance bay, your legs numb. 

Your hands are trembling as you try to suck in a full breath and can’t quite manage it, your lungs refusing to cooperate as that familiar spiral starts to pull you under.

Not now. Please not now.

You brace your hands against the wall, your head dropping forward as your breathing turns shallow, uneven, your vision tunneling just slightly at the edges.

“Hey, hey.” His voice feels like the light at the end of a dark tunnel, and you’re grabbing onto his forearms blindly. Tunnel vision has taken away your senses, but you’d know it was him through anything. You should’ve known he’d follow you, should’ve known he wasn’t going to leave it at that. 

“Just breathe,” Frank hums, “In, and out.” 

He breathes with you, holding you upright as you slump against the wall. Trying to calm the erratic beating inside of your chest, anything to avoid passing out on the concrete. 

“Again,” he says, closer now, his grip tightening just enough to keep you there. “With me.”

You drag in a breath, shaky, uneven. It takes a few tries. A few broken, desperate attempts. But eventually, the tightness loosens just enough for your lungs to cooperate again, for the world to stop tilting quite so violently.

”There you go,” He whispered, “You got it, honey.” 

The second the pet name rolls off his tongue, it all comes rushing back. Tears fill your eyes, anger boiling beneath your skin. 

You rip your arms out of his grip, suddenly. 

“How fucking dare you?” The words come out sharp, steadier than they should have for someone on the brink of falling out. 

He blinks, caught off guard, his hands dropping slowly like he doesn’t know what to do with them now. “What-”

“Don’t,” you snap immediately, shaking your head hard. “Don’t do that. Don’t stand there and act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Don’t play fucking stupid, not with me.” 

Confusion flickers across his face, or maybe he’s just pretending, maybe he’s that good at it now. It makes your skin crawl. 

“Drugs, Frank?” you push, your voice cracking open. “Are you serious?

You see it register like cold water being dumped on him. 

“I was never high,” he says quickly, too quickly, like he’s been waiting to say it. “I was never once high while working. I’m n-not an addict.” 

Your laugh is hollow, disbelieving, your chest tightening all over again. “Oh, that’s supposed to make it better?”

“I’m just saying-”

“What about when we were together?” you cut him off, the question tearing out of you before you can stop it. 

Your words make him stop in his tracks, his mouth clamping shut. His eyes were glossy in the Pittsburgh light pollution. The air is still hot and humid, making the hair around his ears curl. His mouth opens and then closes, like he’s trying to say something to soften the blow, something that won’t make this worse than it already is. 

Your chest caves in, the floodgates bursting. Something pulls out of your mouth, an inhuman cry between a whimper and a dry heave. 

“Frank…” His name comes out like a warning and a plea all at once. 

He drags his hand through his hair nervously, his eyes leaving yours. At that, you knew. There was no denying it, no matter how hard he tried. 

“I trusted you. You were in my bed, you were-” Your voice breaks completely, the words catching on something sharp in your throat. “Were you high?”

”Y/n….” His voice is broken, which only adds fuel to your anger. How dare he be upset when this is all his fault? “You know me. You know me better than anyone else in the world.” 

The silence stretches too long again, and this time it doesn’t just hurt as much as it infuriates you. He’s still avoiding answering, he’s still choosing what to say, what to admit, what to hide, like you don’t deserve the full truth after everything he’s already taken from you.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you stare at him, your chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You can feel it building again, that pressure behind your ribs, that sharp, suffocating mix of panic and rage and heartbreak that has nowhere to go.

“Frank,” you say, his name coming out low and shaking, a warning wrapped in desperation. “I need you to answer me.”

You clear your throat, “Did you steal my badge to overprescribe medicine to steal from the ED. Yes or no?” 

All the color drains from his face. Suddenly, he looks like he’s going to be sick all over your shoes.

”W-why would-“

“No.” You shake your head hard, stepping closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. “No, don’t you dare do that again. Don’t you half-answer me. It’s a yes or no question.”

He swallows hard. And for a second, just a second, you think he might lie again. But then his shoulders drop, just slightly, like something in him gives out.

“…Yes.”

The word lands like a gunshot, and all you see is red. Your hands are on his chest before you can react, poking his chest hard. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“Yes.” He repeats, “I didn’t have a choice.” he rushes out, stepping toward you, his voice desperate now. “I was trying to manage it, I was treating withdrawal, I-”

Your hand slams into his chest before he can finish. It knocks him back a step, the sound echoing louder than it should, your palm stinging instantly, but you barely feel it over the rush of everything else.

“Didn’t have a choice? You wanna put my license on the line?” you shout, your voice cracking apart as the tears spill faster, hot and relentless. “You wanna ruin my career with you? After everything else you’ve done to me?”

“I would never do that-“

”You did!” you cut him off, shoving him again, harder this time, your hands fisting in his scrub top like you don’t know whether to hit him again or just hold on so you don’t fall apart completely. “You already fucking did, Frank.” 

He doesn’t stop your hands from hitting him, no matter how bruising the pain is. He deserved it, and he was willing to take whatever you gave him. 

“I was trying to fix it,” Tears slipped down his cheeks, “I was trying to stop. I swear on everything.” 

His hands reached up to grab your wrists gently, trying to calm down your frantic hits to his chest. “Y-you were using me, all this time-“ 

He cut you off, shaking his head frantically. “I didn’t use you,” he says immediately, his voice thick. “Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I never used you, not once.” 

The apology hangs uselessly between you two. There were no words that could fix what was shattered here. That realization hit him harder than withdrawal ever did. 

“I love you,” he blurts out, the words tumbling over themselves like they’ve been sitting there waiting for the right moment, like he thinks this is it. Because it is, this is his last chance. His life is crumbling apart around him, and all he has left are his words, and even those no longer hold any weight. 

 “I love you, do you hear me? I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, I just- I didn’t know how to stop any of it, and I-” He leans forward, causing you to recoil back as if he’d hit you. 

Another hollow laugh breaks out of you, your head shaking as tears stream freely down your face, your chest aching so badly it feels like it might cave in completely.

”D-don’t fucking say that, you have no fucking right. Not after this morning, not after today.” You were screaming, but it didn’t feel like you were. Your ears were muffled, your body shaking in Frank’s tight grip. You tried to bash your hands against his chest again, blocked by his arms. “You don’t love me.”

“I love you, Y/n.” He continued, repeating it over and over as if it would put a band-aid over the bullet hole. 

Your head is shaking frantically, speaking over his continued empty declarations of love. “Frank, you are sick, and you’re married. Okay? Y-you’re sick.”

It was easy to forget you were still at work, still in the ambulance bay as the doors slammed open behind you two. 

“What the hell is going on out here?” Robby’s voice cuts through the chaos of it, sharp and authoritative, but it falters almost immediately when he actually sees you.

Tears streak your face, the top of your scrubs soaked through with fallen tears, your hands shaking, your whole body wound so tight it looks like you might snap in half at any second. Then there’s Frank, pinning your arms against his chest, shoulders tense, chest rising hard like he’s bracing for another hit.

”-I love you, I love you,” He hears Frank muttering through your yells, making a flash of confusion cross Robby’s face before he steps closer. 

His eyes flick between the two of you, something clicking into place that he clearly wasn’t prepared for. “Hey, hey,” he yells, making Frank jump. “Break it up, you two.” 

Frank drops your arms, but you’re on the move, only taking the opportunity to push him back once again. 

“Okay, nope, we’re not doing this out here,” he says firmly, stepping more decisively between you and Frank now, putting his body in the space before either of you can close it again. “Whatever this is, it stops. Right now.”

“It doesn’t stop, it never fucking stops,” you choke out, your voice breaking as you try to step around him, your hand coming up to shove at Frank again. “He-”

Robby catches your wrist before you can make contact, “Hey,” he says, softer this time, his tone shifting just for you. “Hey. Look at me. Did he hurt you?” 

Frank goes to speak, only for Robby to send him a nasty glare. 

You’re blubbering, shaking your head. Whatever dignity you once had was long gone, snot trickled down your nose, and tears were burning down your neck. 

“Are you okay?”

”I’m not okay,” you snap immediately, your voice cracking as fresh tears spill over, your free hand coming up to wipe at your face in frustration. “I’m not even a little bit okay.”

”I see that,” Robby’s eyes were wide, turning back to look at Frank, “But you don’t do this here. You can’t go around assaulting people in the ambulance bay.” 

“Robby..” Frank starts. 

“I said not a word.” Robby spits, clearly still holding onto all the unsaid words he had to say with the man. “What the hell is happening?” 

You rip the band-aid off; there’s no point in hiding anything. It’s all spilled out here for god and everyone to hear. “He used my badge to divert drugs. I don’t know how many or how much. He had access to my n-numbers and badge a-a lot.” You hiccuped. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

“Tell me that’s not true,” Robby says, low and controlled in a way that’s far more dangerous than yelling.

Frank’s silence is deafening; only your barely controlled sobs can be heard. He doesn’t deny it, because he can’t. There’s not even a point to it anymore. 

Robby takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He can no longer report Frank, because it would implicate you. He can’t think of any of this now; all he can do is turn around to look at you again. 

“Go inside, get Samira to take you home.” 

“B-but-“ 

“That’s an order.” He says firmly, grabbing your shoulder softly. 

You rub at your eyes, taking one last look at Frank. He looked pathetic, his scrub top crumpled, with tear stains on his cheek. A horrible, deep part of you wants to reach out and touch him, for the last time.  Your gaze lingers just long enough to imprint him in your memory before you turn on your feet and force yourself to walk away. Something you wish you had the strength to do all those months ago. 

You feel hollow, raw, like the world is too big and you are too small, and that everything that made sense before has been stripped away. Blindly, you walk back into the ED. All it takes is one glance for Samira to rush towards you. Her arms wrap around you, her own tear stains on her cheeks. It’s been a rough night for everyone; it’s not unusual for doctors to crash. 

You won’t tell her the truth until later, after you’ve kicked Abbot to the spare room, as she pulls you under the covers, holding you as you sob until your body runs out of tears. Telling her every horrible truth that you’ve kept from her. She doesn’t judge you; she holds you and smooths down your hair with each gut-wrenching sob you let out. And there, finally, you let yourself fall apart.

 You sob until your lungs ache, until your body feels drained and raw, until every horrible truth you’ve been holding back spills out in a torrent of shame and grief. You tell her about everything: the affair, the lies, the stolen drugs, the badge, the heartbreak, the betrayal. Every secret you thought you could carry alone, every piece of yourself you tried to protect, all poured out into the safety of her arms. Each gut-wrenching sob is met with patience, with understanding, with the kind of love that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand anything in return. 

You have nightmares of his hollowed-out, distant, eyes in a way that makes your stomach turn, like you missed something you should have seen, like the version of him you loved was always slipping through your fingers while you were still holding on. The dreams tangle together, dirty needles, quiet lies, things he never told you, and things you’re not sure you even want to know, and you wake up with your heart racing, your chest tight, like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

You’re afraid you’ll never see him again, even more afraid that you will. Even as you stare out of the window, being under the same moon as him no longer feels comforting. Your pulse thrums under your skin, and you’re awake until dawn. 

The morning comes, as it always will. The world doesn’t stand still with your grief; it keeps spinning despite it all, and so will you. Abbot will make breakfast. Samira will sit behind you and braid your hair, her fingers gentle, like she’s trying to hold you together in the only way she knows how. They’ll take care of you in small, quiet ways, and you’ll let them, because you’ve done the same for them. 

1 Unauthorized Draping in a High-Risk Zone

Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. It’s not a conscious thing you do, but you move anyway. You figure it’s your nervous system trying to siphon off all the anxious energy that perpetually resides within you.

This is just how your body chooses to cope, with tiny, repetitive motion, as if it can shake the dread loose before it calcifies into tears or sweat or both.

You make an effort to stop. To try and plant your feet, tell yourself to be good and normal and someone who belongs in this intimidating world.

But your brain pipes up with its favorite playlist: don’t touch anything blue, don’t lean on anything that costs more than your rent, don’t talk unless someone with a PhD says your name first, don’t be weird, don’t be you.

Not you-you. Not the klutzy, apology-powered wind-up doll who says “sorry” when someone else steps on your foot and once high-fived a paper towel dispenser by accident (don’t ask).

“Wrong hallway. Wrong badge.”

Shit.

Every neuron in your body slams on the brakes at once, and when you turn, it’s with the same slow, dawning horror of someone realizing they’ve just wandered into the morgue by mistake, except instead of toe tags and chillers, you’re greeted by six feet of brutal posture and eyes that look like they haven’t seen joy since the inventions of pagers.

You look down at his own badge and frown. Dr. Langdon. The senior resident with the god complex and the too-loud temper and the rehab stint. 

He’s severe. That’s your first thought. Gaze that makes your mouth dry up and hate how immediately attractive you find him in that hyper-competent, morally disapproving kind of way.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, hi, sorry, I swear this was an accident, maybe even please don’t kill me but you don’t get the chance, because he’s already moving.

Coming close enough that you can see the indent on his chin, flexing with every angry breath he takes.

His hand then moves to your shoulder while the other catches the tie at your gown and tugs it with quick efficient impatient.

What is happening?

Your ears burn, heart going loud, obnoxiously so, like it’s trying to escape your ribcage and run laps around the hallway.

This is the part where you do something. Step back maybe? Speak? React? Anything that might come across to the effect of: hey stranger danger why are you touching me like that?

Instead, you freeze completely, letting him reposition you like an object with poor spatial awareness, standing there like the world’s most pathetic statue. 

“I — wait, I thought —” you squeak, and it’s not a strong performance, not even close, just a frantic jumble of syllables strung together with the blind optimism that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you explain yourself.

He doesn’t. He talks right over you, his words slicing through your sentence. 

“You’re not cleared,” he says, cool and direct, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it ends it. Then, as if the knife needed twisting: “No one told you to suit up.”

He undoes the final knot, as if he’s unwrapping an inconvenience instead of peeling the last bit of your dignity off your shoulders, and when you don’t drop the gown fast enough he just takes it from you, tossing it in the linen bin.

He shoves a chart into your hands.

“Triage notes need updating,” he says. “Do that.”

You’re still rooted to the spot, stunned into inaction, gripping the clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you upright. 

You manage one step backward. Then another. It feels like learning to walk again.

Behind you, he adds, “And drink some water. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

2 Manual Dexterity: Failed Check

You’re staring at your hands. More specifically, the gloves that reside there. They feel weird on your skin, too loose at the fingertips, too bunchy on the palms.

There’s this awful puff of air trapped between your fingertips and the latex, and you keep flexing your hands like that’ll make it better, but it only makes the squish-snap worse. 

You could take them off and grab a better-fitting pair, but that would involve drawing attention, and you’re already pushing the acceptable intern limit for “visible fumbling.”

Especially not with Dr. Langdon standing nearby. Dark hair, cutting eyes, that carved-from-contempt expression that already seems to say you’re wasting his time just by existing. His whole aura screams, I have better things to do than acknowledge your carbon footprint, and it works, you’re been trying to stay out of his way since the Gown Incident (capital G, capital I), but he has this unnerving talent for appearing exactly where you don’t want him to be. 

And you could maybe cope with that, if your body didn’t decide to implode every time he got close. Five feet is the threshold, apparently. Any closer and all the blood rushes to your cheeks.

You’re so focused on pretending to be normal (chin up, shoulders back) that you don’t even realize he’s moved until it’s already happening.

A common theme, apparently.

His hand is around yours, lifting up your own like it’s some sort of misfiled lab result and brings it up under the light. He turns it over once. Then again.

You think for a second he might have forgotten it’s attached to a living, breathing person.

His brows furrow in what you assume is either concentration or deep disappointment. Probably the later.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, because that’s all your vocal cords will give you right now and you’re deeply afraid of drawing more attention than he already has.

He doesn’t answer, but rather just releases you hand. The loss of contact leaves a strange chill behind.

He stalks off toward a shadowy corner of the room that apparently hides a second supply cart.

A cart you’ve walked past, what, twenty times? He crouches, grabs a glove box from the bottom shelf, glances at the size like he’s memorized your hands from the quick thirty second glance over he gave them, and straightens in one fluid motion.

He’s back in front of you before you can fix your face, reaching for your hand to unpeel the glove in a way that makes your knees whisper things like maybe buckle now?.

The material slides away with a snap, leaving your hand bare and tingling in the open air. 

“I can do it,” you hiss, “I knew they looked weird. I mean, not my hands, the gloves obviously, my hands are normal, at least I think they’re normal, unless you — no, sorry, what I meant was — I just didn’t know there were any smaller ones and I didn’t want to slow anyone down and —”

He positions the new, correct-sized, glove and slides it onto you, smoothing it down with expert hands. 

He has really nice hands you realize. You mourn the second the go out of view.

“Wrong size compromises dexterity.”

“Oh,” you say, and then immediately regret it, because oh is not a real response to anything, so you tack on a breathless, “Thank you. I mean — for noticing. And fixing it. Sorry again.”

You’re smiling now. Why are you smiling?

“Don’t thank me.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “No, yeah. I didn’t. I mean, I did, but… un-thank you. Consider the gratitude rescinded. Retracted. Gone.”

What a loser.

You wish the floor would do you a solid and just open up, suck you in, maybe relocate you to a dimension where you’re not inventing new ways to embarrass yourself in front of the grumpiest man alive. Preferably somewhere tropical and remote. With no gloves.

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response.

Then: “You done?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, “Done. Done talking. So done.”

He lifts his chin, gestures down the hall toward curtain three, and starts walking.

You follow like a kicked puppy. A very polite, professionally dressed, medically licensed kicked puppy.

3 Redirecting a Human GPS Malfunction

“She’s hyponatremic but still alert, which makes me think it’s chronic rather than acute, and the reflexes were intact except for a slight delay on patellar, so I’m leaning away from neuro, but if her cortisol’s low again I think we need to rule out secondary adrenal insufficiency, especially since her ACTH levels haven’t come back yet and nobody seems concerned about the mild orthostasis.”

Dr. Langdon hums low in his throat. It’s not disapproval. But it’s not agreement either. It’s a sound that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of try again, but smarter.  

“And if the ACTH comes back low?”

“Then I’d want a CRH stimulation test to see if the pituitary’s response because if both ACTH and cortisol are low, we could be looking at hypothalamic suppression instead of adrenal failure, and at that point, imaging the pituitary would be the next step. Unless she’s been on chronic steroids, but I didn’t see anything in her med list to suggest that.”

“Good. But keep an eye on the sodium trend, if it spikes with fluids, you might be chasing the wrong diagnosis.”

Good.

It’s one word. One syllable. Not even said warmly, more of a clinical stamp of temporary adequacy. But your brain grabs onto it like a starved plant seeing sun for the first time in weeks.

You want to keep your face still. You really try. You train every muscle into neutrality, schooling your expression like a child behind glass. But inside… inside it’s glowing. Confetti. Champagne. Tiny internal high-fives.

You got a good. From him. From Dr. Langdon, who looks at most people like they’re bad test results. Who’s allergic to praise. Who speaks in critiques and glares and weaponized silence.

“Yep. Sodium. Absolutely,” you nod eagerly. “You know, I read this case study once where a woman presented with severe hyponatremia after a hot yoga retreat and it turned out she’d been drinking like three gallons of water a day because she thought it was detoxing her live, and her sodium dropped to 118, which is horrifying, but she was totally asymptomatic until she passed out in her car.”

He looks at you. “You ever do that?”

You blink. “Sorry, do what?”

“Hot yoga.”

“I have! Um, I went through this whole phase junior year where I was like, trying to become one of those ‘balanced’ people who wake up early and do gratitude journaling and drink matcha and just like, glow all the time? So I signed up for a free week at this studio that was supposed to be ‘soul-transforming,’ which in hindsight should’ve been a red flag, but I was optimistic, and kind of desperate — anyway, I made it halfway through the first class before I realized I’d accidentally worn fleece-lined leggings, and then I couldn’t leave because the instructor locked the door for ‘heat-integrity,’ and —”

His fingers close over your collar, tugging you just enough to redirect you a few steps to the left before you cheek meets drywall.

“— and I was already sweating like crazy but trying to act normal because everyone else looked so serene, and then —”

He stops walking. You stumble to a halt just behind him, trying to get a handle on your breathing and your mouth, which have both been sprinting ahead without a permit.

“Watch where you’re going,” he says, flat and unbothered. “I’m not doing that again.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, but apologize anyway, “Right. Sorry.”

He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. “And stop apologizing.”

“Mhm. Got it.” You give him a weird little salute. Loser strike two.

“Go check on your patient.”

“Going!”

You make it three steps before his fingers wrap around your elbow. He spins you back around with minimal effort. “Wrong way.”

You glance sideways. “Thought you weren’t doing that again.”

He doesn’t let go yet. Just raises one eyebrow. “Don’t be a smartass.”

His mouth twitches. A small, tiny flicker of amusement. It feels like a secret you weren’t supposed to see, so you pretend not to.

4 Medical Intervention (Sandwich Required)

You’re not even sure when you stopped standing and started leaning, all you know is the supply cart is cool and metal and solid under your palm, which is more than you can say for your knees.

Sixteen hours in, eight traumas logged, and your internal organs are currently operating on a diet consisting of two cups of hospital coffee (burnt and betrayal flavored) and a single saltine you found crumpled in your pocket.

You blink against the sudden fuzz crawling at the edges of your vision, but it’s no use, the black spots are doing synchronized jumping jacks now. Little warning flares that you’re probably pushing your luck. Again.

Dana steps into your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “You okay, kid?”

You slap on a smile like a band-aid over a bullet wound. Your special-sauce if you ever had one.

“Yup! All good. Just needed a minute. Long day. A lot of… exciting cases. You know how it is.” You do a vague jazz-hands motion. “Crushing it.”

Your vision pulses again. You do not, in fact, appear to be crushing it, you’re very sure of that. Maybe in the way a soda can gets crushed under a steel-toed boot. 

“And I’m the Queen of England.” She takes one long look at your pale face and glassy eyes. “Sit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Gloria why we lost one to stubborn optimism.”

“I promise I’m fine! I just — stood up too fast.”

“Bullshit.” 

His hand appears at the same time as his voice, both faster than your excuses.

One moment you’re vertical and the next you’re yanked with just enough force, like he knows how much pressure you can take without crumbling.

His grip is all calloused heat, palm pressing into your arm as he pulls you into the chair.

The world tilts once, then slams back into place. Cold metal bites into your thighs. His hand lingers a second too long, fingers flexing like he’s still gauging whether you’ll tip over again. 

“I could’ve sat on my own, you know,” you grumble half-heartedly.

You glance toward Dana, hoping for backup, or at the very least a supportive eyebrow raise. She meets your gaze, chews her gum, and shrugs one shoulder in a perfect display of girl, please. Entirely unsympathetic. Possibly amused.

“Nope,” she says. “You were about one sway away from eating tile. Survival of the smartest, sweetheart. ”

“Don’t care if you could’ve,” he says as he crouches. “I’m not scraping you off the floor because you’re too much of a hard head to sit when you’re clearly crashing.”

Then, without asking (because when does he ever ask), he takes your wrist in his hand, thumb pressing gently into the inside. You try not to squirm.

“There’s a difference between committed and careless.” His brow furrows as he counts the beats under his thumb. “Right now, you’re leaning toward the wrong one.”

“I wasn’t trying to be careless, I swear. I just lost track of time, which is funny because I’m usually really good at that, like I even set alarms for hydration, but I ignored all of them because I didn’t want to miss rounds and then one trauma turned into five —”

You stop when you realize he’s still holding your wrist. And staring.

He exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.

“You’ve got ten minutes here with food,” he says. He jerks his chin at Dana, who nods and heads for the cart without needing more. “Then fluids. Then, and only then, you can check on the lac in bay four.” His eyes cut back to you. “And if I see you wobble even once, you’re off the board for the night.”

“Yes. Yes sir – uh, not sir, just — yes. I’m staying.”

Dr. Langdon nods once, brushes his fingers briefly over your shoulder in what might be the lamest pat in human history (the universal ‘don’t make me come back’ signal), and walks off without another word.

Dana returns with a sandwich and a raised brow.

You unwrap it slowly. “Is he always so — uh — intense?”

She barks a laugh. “That was him being gentle.”

5 Objects in Motion (You) Meets Immovable Force (Also You, Apparently)

“—I’m telling you, he’s been on my ass before the sun even showed up,” Santos grumbles, tapping her pen against the desk. “I said good morning, and he looked at me like I suggested we kick a puppy together. Someone pissed in his Cheerios, and now I’m the one getting crucified for it.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe he just needs a snack. Or like… a hug.”

She snorts without looking at you. “I was thinking more along the lines of a double whiskey and a week locked in solitary with nothing but his own guilt complex, but sure. Hugs. Why not.”

“That’s so mean! Dr. Robby is not that bad. He just… glares at people like they personally ruined his life on occasion. He’s usually very kind.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me he’s just misunderstood and has a good heart underneath it all.”

“I mean… yeah. I kind of believe that about everyone. Doesn’t mean I’m right, but like… I’m not not hoping.”

Santo swivels in her chair, stares. “Even Langdon?”

You falter there. Step back. Physically, even, as if that’ll help distance you from the question, from the thought, because now it’s in there. 

Dr. Langdon. Frank Langdon. The man who speaks in flat tones and judgmental silences. Who glares like it’s a sport and you’re always losing. 

And now you’re thinking about him with… layers. Like, not just as a terrifying force of workplace intensity, but as someone who maybe carries all that stormy energy because he doesn’t know what to do with the softer parts.

Someone who maybe, just maybe, has a good heart buried underneath a mile of barbed wire

You chew on the thought like it’s an overcooked piece of gum — rubbery, bitter, sticking to the inside of your skull even as you try to spit it out — and you’re not even sure what part is more disturbing: the possibility that Langdon has hidden depths, or the fact that your brain insists on exploring them like a museum exhibit you weren’t emotionally prepared for. 

But before you can get to the part where he maybe owns houseplants or secretly feeds stray cats behind the loading bay, the thought shatters, violently, like someone dropped a wine glass in the middle of your mental dinner party.

Noise. Sudden. Loud. A voice shouting something urgent, boots hammering the floor, movement that feels too fast for the space.

You flinch instinctively, start to pivot toward the commotion, but before your body can even decide what direction to go, a hand snaps around your waist and then you’re moving, pulled into something broad and unyielding and extremely human-shaped.

Specifically, Dr. Langdon-shaped.

Your cheek brushes the starchy edge of his scrub top. His arm curls in front of you, protective like a steel beam, while a crash cart screams past, inches from where you were just standing, the air it kicks up biting against your skin.

You realize, distantly, that you would’ve been directly in its path if not for him.

You can feel his heartbeat through the wall of muscle between you and everything else.

You can smell him, too. Clean, masculine soap invading your senses.

You shift, just slightly, enough to tilt your face upward.

He’s looking down at you like you’re a particularly complicated equation he’s trying not to solve out loud. And for a second, you don’t breathe. Not really. Because his grip tightens and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“Jesus,” Santos mutters, breaking the spell as she peers after the cart. “You good? That thing was flying.”

You blink, realizing a second too late that Santos was talking to you.

“Huh?” You clear your throat, a sound that comes out way too dry. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

At the same moment, Langdon steps away. Lets go. And the absence is bizarrely loud, like someone hit mute on the part of your body that had been braced against him.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of not being touched. Of gravity reasserting itself. Of how your arms feel too light and your chest feels too tight and none of it makes any damn sense.

“You could’ve gotten flattened,” he mutters, jaw tight. It sounds like criticism, but there’s something else under it. Concern, maybe. Or frustration aimed more at the situation than at you.

You rub at your forearm, pretending it itches instead of tingles. “Yeah, well. I’m thinking of investing in high-vis tape and a ‘please don’t run me over’ sign.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with that signature flat, heavy-lidded expression like even he can’t believe how often he has to save your life from your own proximity to disaster.

You can’t really believe it either.

“I won’t say thanks,” you say. “I know you hate that. And apologizing. But uh… I didn’t die. That’s… cool. For both of us. I mean, mostly me. But also you, probably, because paperwork would’ve sucked. I’m gonna leave before I say something dumber than that, which is a very low bar, so —”

“Do you really believe that?” he says behind you.

You stop. 

“What?”

“What you said earlier. About everyone?”

It takes a second. He’d heard that?

You scratch your cheek, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “I really do.”

+1 Please Just Stay

The stairwell is freezing, cement bones and rebar spine, and you’re crumpled against the wall like a misfiled piece of paper. It’s quiet here, except for the stupid way your breathing bounces off the walls and makes it sound like someone else is crying too. 

But it’s just you. It’s always just you. The tears keep coming, hot and salty and mortifying. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, again and again, but they just keep returning, stubborn as guilt.

Everyone said it wasn’t your fault. In serious tones people use when they want to sound very sure. As if it makes a difference. It really doesn’t. 

It was your first patient death.

He was somebody’s father. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s son. And in the end, you were the last person to touch him. You watched the monitors go still. You felt his hand lose its warmth. 

Footsteps echo up the stairwell. 

Your body reacts accordingly, jolting upright like you’ve been caught doing something illegal (crying isn’t illegal, you remind yourself, but it sure feels like it), and your hands fly to your face.

Both of them. Too rough, too fast, trying to erase the emotions by brute force.

Your shoulders curl in, chin tucking down so far it could hit your collarbone. Hide, hide, hide. You try to stop the sniffling, will it down your throat, but it stutters out of you anyway, weak, wet, pathetic. Perfect.

“Oh — shit. Sorry.” It takes you half a second to recognize the voice. A half second too long, because by the time it clicks, it’s already too late. Dr. Langdon. 

Your stomach flips so intensely it feels like it’s trying to escape through your throat, a sudden swoop of nausea and disbelief tangled together. Of all people. 

You hear the shift, his footsteps faltering, uneven now, breath snagging mid-step before everything goes still. The stairwell swallows the sound. 

Then: “You’re crying.”

You let out a exhale that stumbles out halfway between a laugh and a cough.

It sounds pathetic, honestly, but you don’t have the energy to care. “That obvious, huh?”

Silence stretches long enough to get awkward, and you start to hope maybe he took the hint. Maybe he backed away, quietly, like a decent person who knows how to pretend they didn’t just catch someone crying their face off in a desolate place. Maybe you get to keep your breakdown private.

However, you aren’t so lucky.

“First time I lost a patient, I threw up in the supply closet.” He doesn’t sound embarrassed by it, just matter-of-fact, like he’s naming a side effect. “I told the attending that it was food poisoning. It wasn’t.”

You twist toward him, shoulders still hunched, face hot and raw. You’re sure you look like hell, and he sees all of it, but he doesn’t react. No flicker of discomfort. No awkward glance away.

“Does it… ever get easier?”

It sounds fragile on your tongue. Like you’re scared of the answer, but more scared not to ask.

He looks past you for a second. 

“No,” he says. Then, almost like an afterthought, “If it did, that’d be worse.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He nods and you see the look on his face that suggests maybe he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

“Take a minute. If you need anything…” He hesitates. “Come get me.”

He turns, just slightly, like he’s giving you privacy. Respect. Distance. 

And maybe that was what you needed. What you thought you wanted not even two seconds ago. But not anymore.

Because the second he turns, the second his body shifts and his presence starts to pull away even by the smallest degree, panic claws its way up your chest like a reflex, like a toddler reaching out in the dark, and your hands shoot forward without asking permission from the rest of you, both of them closing tight around the soft fabric of his scrubs. Clumsy and fast and maybe too hard. 

You don’t even know what you're holding onto exactly, not really, except it’s him, and he’s warm and real and not going anywhere, not unless you let him, and for a second you just stand there like that, fists full of fabric, heart full of please don’t leave.

“Don’t —” you choke, the word cracking like it’s too big for your throat, and you bite it down fast, try again, quieter this time, like whispering might make it less desperate. “Can you just… stay. Just a minute. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a terrifying, breath-holding moment, you think maybe you misread it, maybe he’s about to step back, untangle himself from your grip, do the polite thing and leave you to cry in peace like people do when they don’t want to deal with someone else’s damage. 

His eyes drop to where your fists are bunched in his scrubs

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”

His arms come around you. Not expertly either. It’s real and maybe a little uneven, a little unsure, like he’s not totally certain where his hands are supposed to go.

But he does it anyway, one hand finding the back of your head, fussing with the tag on the back of your shirt, the other curling around your back.

And for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re falling.