grace pushes himself upright with a groan and reaches for a photo velcroed onto the panels among many others. the corners are worn soft from handling.

when he woke up on the ship, before he remembered the mission to save earth or even his own damn name, it had been his rope to reality:

the nose-burn smell of dry erase markers. standing shoulder to shoulder in fluorescent classroom lighting while thirty kids shouted over each other in the aftermath of a failed experiment. your laugh.

those had been the first memories he got back.

home.

rocky’s voice pokes a hole into his little daydream. “grace holding picture again.”

“yeah,” he swallows.

“human in picture important.”

his thumb brushes over your face. “very.”

the alien’s carapace clicks, not entirely unlike a tut. “human sleep long time. grace sadness increase.”

“wow. real subtle.”

“i learn tact.”

“nope,” grace chuckles despite himself, tucking the photo in his shirt pocket. the corner catches briefly against the fabric before slipping out of sight, right over his heart. “long ways to go, bud.”

the ship hums steadily around him as he limps down the corridor, the pain growing familiar. almost comforting. he winces all the way to the lab.

too many hours awake. too little food. too many hours bent over consoles, too many months in a body never meant to survive this long in deep space alone.

rocky chirps up suddenly.

“♪♫ ♩!”

“hmm?”

an excited trill. “new word for grace!”

“oh, good. terrifying.”

“want thing near,” the alien continues expectantly. “thing not near.” another thoughtful click, “pain because empty where thing should be.”

“grace has this for sleeping human.” rocky adds.

for a second, he can only stare back.

“yeah,” he swallows. “yeah, that’s the one.”

by the time he reaches the laptop, the ache in his leg barely registers. the cursor blinks back at him.

rocky nods his supposed head. “new word?”

“new word,” grace confirms.

his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before typing it into the growing shared dictionary between human and eridian.

Jack Abbot was never one to call you. 

When he does, sure enough it’s almost always about one person. And there wasn’t a time he called bearing good news. 

The phone calls started a month after the Pitt Fest shootings. You’ve seen what terrible thing had happened that day on the news. Kids flying out for the festival with nary a clue they’d never return home.

It came once, then twice, sporadically just as it became a routine. Jack calls minutes before the clock strikes seven in the evening—right when he’d just clocked in for a shift. And sometimes, when it gets bad enough, he calls one more time right before Robby leaves. Always worried, voice nearly frantic.

He’s not well, YN. 

That’s what Abbot had told you the first time you picked up the phone. Since then he’d often begun calls in a way that seemed to send you a clear warning. 

SOS. While you still can. 

You tried reaching out to him, but rare are the times he ever replied with substance. Always okay. Says he’s fine. But never the ugly awful truth that he was worlds away from being one.

Michael, you know you can always call me.

He left that on read. 

You still made your presence known as you check on him whenever you get the chance. On the occasion that you do call and he answers, you know he had only told you what you needed to hear. Something short and vague for you not to worry. Something just enough to keep you at bay. 

I’m okay. It’s me. You’ve got nothing to worry about. 

His words say one thing but the tone of his voice always betrays him. 

Since then, you’ve relied on Jack to keep you in the loop with respect to your brother and his proclivities. 

Robby hasn’t been the same ever since Dr. Adamson’s death. Even if he’d deny it, you know he’d never fully move on from the day he’d lost him. Jack knows that too. But truth be told, this time, there’s a possibility that your brother might fall through the cracks. Highly likely in his own volition. 

Despite Jack keeping an eye on him, he knows he couldn’t do it 24/7. Not when he also has his own demons to fight off. Jack thought that if he isn’t around to stop Robby on the day it ever happens, he needs someone he knows could handle him. Perhaps better than the night shift attending ever could. 

You’re fully aware of how complicated it was to transfer from one hospital to another in the second year of residency. Not to mention how huge of a factor it was that said transfer also required you to move states and uproot your life to start from scratch, almost entirely from square one. You have a lot to consider and little to no time to do so. But alas, in less than a year, you were able to get yourself a decent apartment and a car that’s within your pay grade. Two commitments that’s just enough to solidify the fact that you have turned your back away from the life you had in New York in pursuit of whatever’s left of it in Pittsburgh. 

With Robby’s mother gone and your father’s passing, you’re the only one Robby has left. You were the only person he could truly call his family. He’d long given up on relationships, putting his sole focus on work. Without you around to keep him in check, he felt free to neglect himself. Taking advantage of the fact that you were siblings torn apart by responsibility and quite frankly his emotional unavailability. 

Through the years you’ve spent studying in New York, he’s made it a point to keep his distance. He sends gifts on holidays and calls when he has to, like when you passed the New York Bar, and when you’ve finally graduated from med school. The two of you seemed close despite the two decade-age gap. Sometimes, when you do need it, he’s not so bad as to fill in your father’s shoes. But more importantly, in his own way, Robby did a fairly good job at being your brother. Too bad the only thing that seems to still tie you with him was the very thing that might actually take him. Emergency Medicine.

So, despite holding two licenses in New York, you’ve made the life-altering decision of returning home. Putting the other half of your career on hold so that you could put your sole focus on the other.

You have little to no idea what’s to happen by the time you set foot in the Steel City. Robby’s likely to push you away once he comes to know of your return. He could try. After all, he’s rarely ever bested the better Robinavitch even when he does.  

You stared at two emails glaring at you in bold. 

──────────────────────────── ⌦ Primary ──────────────────────────── ❏ Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center — Welcome to PTMC, Dr. YN Robinavitch! We are pleased to announce that you … Jul 03 ──────────────────────────── ❏ Pennsylvania Bar Attorney Admission — Re: Ineligibility for Reciprocity. Greetings, Ms. YN Robinavitch. We regret … Jul 03 ────────────────────────────

Funtastic. 

What a cruel way to say, Hey, I know you’ve spread yourself thin for the last 10 fucking years, got yourself through med school while working, started internship at the best teaching hospital in NYC, but your brother is unwell. Drop everything. Be a good sister. Or else. 

You understand leaving was what you had to do. You didn’t blame Jack nor resent Robby for it. But does that mean you’re not allowed to grieve? 

Leaving New York was more than just leaving a piece of yourself. It was incomparable. You wanted to leave Pittsburgh because deep down you know the city wasn’t for you. Robby was the one who refused to leave. Pittsburgh was ingrained deep within him as much as New York had been in yourself even before you moved there. 

You love yourself and your ambitions. But the thought of losing your brother at a time you know can still be remedied, surpassed all the aforementioned. 

New York will always be there, waiting. You can even practice law remotely, should you have the time. Although, you highly doubt it. Anyway, it’s not like you’ve practiced law regularly since you got your medical license. That’s a fact you knew would cost you once you moved to Pittsburgh. 

Your familial obligations require you to be here, now. When you still have the time. When your grief is still conveniently caused by some menial aspect of your life and not by the actual loss of a life.

“Let me know when you’re ready.” 

Your eyes were torn away from your phone at the voice of the bartender. He leaves you a laminated menu, implying that you might have been sitting at his bar without a drink longer than he prefers to stay in business. 

You clear your throat as you take said menu in your hands. Wide array of alcohol and beverage on the front, a limited list of foods at the back. 

They had your usual drink, but despite being in a bar you seemed repulsed by the thought of alcohol in your system. If it weren’t for those two dreaded emails, you wouldn’t even be considering going out. But you knew better not to cage yourself in an empty apartment when you’re in a state where you couldn’t think straight. 

Jack was the one who had suggested the speakeasy bar you’ve walked into moments earlier. He said it was a place he used to frequent with Robby and a friend. Quiet and remote. Nothing ever happens except for the obvious reason people find themselves there. With the little familiarity you have left of the city, you listened and took his word for it. 

Said bar was at least a fifteen-minute drive from your place and the thought of drinking your woes away made you decide driving wasn’t ideal. Drinking was not appealing but nonetheless still a possibility. Thankfully, ride hailing options in Pittsburgh were much more convenient than they were in New York. 

Your eyes catch the bartender walking past you and towards the man seated several chairs away from yours. He handed him a drink that looked a lot like white rum and lime. 

Safe. Decent. 

“On the house. You look like you could use a break.” The bartender had said. Casual yet earnest. To the point the man looked at him as though he’d instantly break. 

For a second, you don’t tear your eyes off him and observe. 

Notwithstanding the hesitation written all over his face, he accepts the glass but doesn’t drink. Instead of taking a sip, he stares at it with hands folded together as though a rather pressing decision has yet to be made. 

Attempting to decipher the expression written on his face was quite challenging. 

Was it disappointment? Despair?  Perhaps, grief?

When he sighs upon catching himself fidgeting, the demeanor hits you. It was exactly how an accused sat before the jury. Guilt-ridden and miles away from the courtroom despite being physically restrained. 

“Ready to order?” 

Good lord. This guy is beginning to get on your nerves. Does he think you’re going to sit for an hour without placing an order? Why the rush? 

You take a deep breath to move past such irksome behavior. Your gaze catches the glint of his nameplate and inadvertently—his name. Rob. 

Figures. 

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.” You hand the menu back just as you return your attention onto your phone. 

Out of the corner of your eye you catch the stranger’s head snap towards where you were seated. You don’t react right away. Four years spent practicing law has made you keen on noticing things upon its face. Strangers. Flaws. Character. You know full well he’d look away even before you turn your head in an effort to keep himself from being caught red-handed. 

By the time Rob slides the cold glass on the table, you decide to speak.

“I hope you don’t mind a copy cat.” 

It takes a few seconds for him to realize that you were initiating a conversation. 

“Please, be my guest. Just don’t want any credit if you happen to hate it.” 

You turn to him and ask, “And if I don’t?” 

“Credit goes to Rob.” He said flatly. 

Ah. He’s aloof. Clearly he doesn’t want to be bothered. 

Absent-mindedly, you reach for your phone, scrolling through your socials to burn some time. The life of your colleagues in New York remained the same as you left it. You can’t help but grin at the thought of yourself having the luxury of time alone with your phone, burning minutes on Instagram. Your shift at New York-Presbyterian has always been at its peak at this time of night, it would’ve been a sin—crime for you to be burning Columbia’s precious time tending to your algorithm. 

When your thumb glides down your lock screen, a notification from Jack catches your attention. 

J. Abbot  A heads up won’t hurt for tomorrow. It’s always good to know everyone in advance. 

With it was an attachment, you opened simply out of muscle memory. A bunch of faceless names, their fields and titles. Only one stood out of the rest. So much so, you nearly reached for your drink.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch, MD.  Chief-Attending Physician, Emergency Department 

You type a reply, fingers dancing on the keyboard only to end up sending a single-worded message.

Thanks. 

Your thumb carelessly slid upwards, exiting the file you’ve barely skimmed. Tonight was about escaping. The file will still be there in the morning. And so will  Jack Abbot and the rest of Pittsburgh. 

By the time your phone lands onto the wooden surface, there’s not much left to be done but drink. 

You inspect the glass sitting across from you. Classic mojito, for sure. The mint swimming amidst the ice can attest to that. You’d rather have coffee. Perhaps, you shouldn’t have let a stranger influence what seemed to be the last drink you’ll have worrying about no one else but yourself. 

As you thought of said stranger, you try stealing a glimpse of him at the edge of your vision. He was still staring at his drink as if to be utterly repulsed by its existence. Or rather—of himself. 

You observe him from a distance as he continues to contemplate whether to drink or do anything else but that.

“It can’t be that good.” You blurt out. 

He laughs. Empty and foolishly. 

Still, he doesn’t drink. 

So, you do. 

By the time the flavor hit your tastebuds, you understood where his reluctance was coming from. Virgin Mojito. You’re baffled as to how you could’ve possibly missed it. 

“Sorry. Could’ve been better if it had a kick, no?” 

Turns out the man wasn’t as aloof as one would’ve been to make himself scarce.

“I didn’t think it would be as virgin as a virgin could get.” 

“Hey, you were the copycat.” He puts up his hands in defense coupled with a smirk. The way his face lit up was incomparable to the man you first saw the minute you sat on your corner. 

“Right.” You nod, “No alcohol. Got it.” 

You avoid his gaze before whatever expression you had on your face gives away what’s in your head. You should’ve recognized that kind of reluctance. After all, it was obvious that he’s trying to keep his cool—to appear normal despite the subtle insecurity that’s making him small. 

To your relief, your phone buzzes as if to save you from your own curiosity.

Not quite.

M. Robinavitch is calling. 

You let it go to voicemail. 

Tonight was about yourself.

Tomorrow will be about everything else. 

“Do you want some company?”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

It took all your strength to leave Frank’s apartment. Eight hours spent with him still didn’t seem too long a time for you to want to leave. Despite wanting to stay to watch him sleep, you knew you had to go home eventually. Unlike him, you cannot afford yourself the grace of running away from what you’ve already chosen. 

You were only able to get a hold of your phone by the time you left your apartment for work. Jack had left a message yet again as he frequently has letting you know he’d stick around longer than he’s needed to after his shift. That way he can ensure he’ll be around if he ever needs to diffuse family drama. 

You grinned at that. 

You first met Jack when you visited during the Holidays some time over five years ago. He was at least several years younger than your brother. Even then, he was far more level-headed than Michael (even when he tries). Jack had issues of his own, but he’s never let himself bleed because of it. You figured it must’ve been with help of therapy. 

You wished your brother was able to do the same. Maybe that’s the reason you were thankful Abbot was around, regardless. 

Mere seconds after you tossed your phone over to the passenger seat it rang. 

M. Robinavitch calling…

Your heart starts pounding at the sight of Robby’s caller ID. 

He’d also called last night at the bar. Which is bizarre considering he rarely ever called you. You were the one who always called first. He’s hardly ever reached out to you except when it mattered. When he knew that calling was necessary than a mere familial obligation. 

What could possibly be the reason he’s calling? 

It was an hour and a half before seven in the morning and you couldn’t believe the first person you’d be talking to is Robby. 

“Hello.” You greet him, unsure of how to mask the alarm in your tone at the risk of yours and Abbot’s covert operation brought to light before it’s realized to fruition. “Who’s this?”

You can feel him shaking his head at the other end of the line just as he chuckles. 

“Hey, that’s mean.”

You roll your eyes. 

“After dodging my calls, you deserve it. You’re lucky I still have your number.” 

“I know, I know. I tried calling yesterday; wasn’t able to reach you.” He explains. “Anyway, sorry. I knew it was a bad time. You were probably working.” 

You weren't. 

“Alright.” You look over your rear-view mirror. Some cars have begun to pull out. “To what do I owe this miraculous phone call? Feels like I own your ass for not pressing decline.” 

“Savor this moment, why don’t you?” He beams, voice hollow and distant despite being masked with glee. Even through devices, you can see right through him. “Are you just coming off your shift?”  

“Yes.” You lie through gritted teeth. “Just parked at my complex. Would’ve been at the door if you hadn’t called, I hope you know.” 

“Alright, fine. I won’t hold you for long—just wanted to say I’ll be in New York in a couple of days.” He informs you. “I’m going on a three-month sabbatical.”

“You? This phone call is turning out to be nothing short of a miracle, Michael Robinavitch. You know, you can tell me you got fired, right?” You feign surprise, hoping you were able to pull it off. 

“That I prefer, to be honest.” Robby lets out a fat laugh, apparently amused upon the fast wit of his sister. If only he’d been more honest, he’d probably told you how he missed sharing a banter with you too. He continues on, “—unfortunately, they don’t want to get rid of me just yet. So, I’m leaving. Well, hopefully not for long.”

Good god, why is he laughing so much? 

“And I take that has something to do with you being in New York?” 

“Yes.” He confirms. “I was wondering if we could… spend some time together. Visit The Met, then afterwards—the Mets.” 

You feel an uncomfortable twist and turn in your guts. The man you were talking to doesn’t sound like your brother but at all. This guy was asking you to see the Mets, for crying out loud. He hasn’t seen a baseball game in years since your father’s passing, let alone wander about museums while listening to audio-commentary on the Arts. It was rather enough to make you worry, you nearly hurled your guts out due to the looming anxiety. 

Perhaps, it was a good thing that you were no longer in New York. The thought of having to deal with Robby in less than an hour was now a relief as opposed to it being the task you’ve dreaded the most less than 24 hours ago. This was better. 

Moving back to Pittsburgh was better. 

Had it been the more complicated route—Robby visiting you in Manhattan just to see the city like some tourist who’s likely to never return, you know it’d be too late. By then, you’ve already lost him. 

Robby had to call your name to pull you back to your senses. 

“Sorry.” You quickly utter as you mask your dissociation with the presumption that you might have been just tired. You use it against him. “Today was a long shift. I’m quite lucky I got myself home.” 

“Take care, alright?” He earnestly says, just as he projects, “You have no one but yourself.” 

You sigh. That wasn’t true. 

“I have you.” 

When it takes a while for him to answer, you call him once more. Please. You almost prayed for him to be alright.

“Mike, I do have you, right?” 

“‘Course. Just say when and I’m there.” He says in a flat tone, telling you whatever you needed to hear just like he always did. But like the many times he’s done in the past, he speaks yet again so as to keep you from saying a word contrary to what he had already said. “Listen—I gotta go. I still have a hospital to run. I’ll see you Tuesday next week, how does that sound?” 

You answer with a tight-lipped smile, “Sublime.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Robby had a three-pronged approach for his fourth of July shift. Work. Duke. Leave. He only needed to survive 12 hours of the day courtesy of Gloria. Twelve hours on a fucking holiday—which is arguably just another normal shift for Robby. As soon as he hits Hour Twelve he’ll be out the door, never to return. That was the plan notwithstanding the circumstances that were to unfold over the day. He had places to be and people to see. He cannot afford to stay past 7:30 PM. 

It was all fairly simple until Jack Abbot’s meddling.

Jack fucking Abbot. The last person he wanted to see for each time he set foot at the hospital. But that’s never going to happen—not even if he drops dead an hour before Abbot’s shift ends. 

Hm. That would be interesting. 

Abbot has had the night shift all to himself up until last year when Dr. Shen became his co-attending. Unlike him, Robby hasn’t shared the driver’s seat in years following Dr. Adamson’s death. He couldn’t—wouldn’t. In fact, he doesn’t even want to have somebody else running his ED alongside him. If it comes to Gloria having to point a gun at him to make him decide, there’d be only one person he’d think would be fit for the job. 

At least Robby thought he’d be.

Turns out, time and fate had other plans. 

Gloria had mentioned that he was to have a replacement. She couldn’t let Robby off the hook that easily considering his heir-apparent and “would-be” proxy had been, for lack of a better term, compromised. In fact, so compromised he had to repeat an entire year of residency with the added privilege of getting to pee in cups before and after shifts. 

So for Gloria’s peace of mind, she’d sought to have an attending to stand in Robby’s shoes while he’s out somewhere in Mt. I-Wanna-Smash-My-Head-In. She’d told her it was someone from the VA. Female. Around the same age as him. 

Robby couldn’t be more thrilled—sarcasm, implied. He’d gladly take a bullet for Gloria (or anyone at this point) if that’s what it takes for her to let him leave. Of course, he would say yes. But as far as his ED is concerned and despite the knowledge of his “replacement” coming in, he’s not about to share his ship with anyone else anytime soon.

So perhaps, if Robby had wanted to see things with just a tad of optimism, Jack Abbot first thing in the morning wouldn’t be as bad as he’d make it out to be.

He had just taken off his helmet by the time he saw the night shift attending. Abbot was waiting for him by the Ambulance Bay, already with two cups of coffee held in each hand. 

Jack has never brought him coffee, at least one that he hadn’t paid for out of protest. 

Red flag. 

“In charge of coffee runs now? Isn’t that below your pay grade?” Robby kids the second he accepts the warm cup Abbot had handed him. 

“Come on, you’re leaving.” He shrugs, a smug smile coming loose. “I’m playing nice.” 

Robby prefaces, “Tell me, how bad is it in there?” 

The two attending physicians quickly fall in sync with the preliminaries. Jack began filling in Robby with the few major cases he’d be passing on to the day shift. Most of them are just waiting to be sent up to the OR; awaiting concurrence from Garcia. The rest of central was running on cruise control. Abbot hopes they’ve made it somehow manageable given that it would be Robby's last day before his much awaited sabbatical. 

Abbot’s shift hasn’t been as bad as the night prior to the PittFest shootings. Nothing as tragic as that day in September has stricken the hospital since. Jack was glad he’s not about to end his shift contemplating his entire existence at the rooftop. But had he been asked which was better between then and having to break Robby the news of his sister’s return, Jack would’ve opted the idea of falling head first onto the pavement than having to deal with two bickering Robbies so close to the end of his shift. 

“I have to tell you one other thing.” 

Robby nods as he takes a sip, “Ok, shoot.”

“You have an R2 coming in, transferring from Presby.” Abbot eases his way in, intentionally dropping which Presby was concerned as if to test the waters.

“Why? I thought Presby’s the one poaching our residents?” Robby sneers, answering with sarcasm. Abbot only looks at him exasperatedly, refraining himself from further elaborating. 

An extra set of hands on the team wouldn’t be so bad of an idea. After all, the department was still undeniably understaffed if Robby were to consider his own standards. 

“Should I be worried about you handing them over to my shift? Are they not good enough for you?” 

Abbot grins at that, “Oh, they’re exceptional so I’ve been told.” 

Robby raises a brow. Jack wasn’t the type to snatch residents without his concurrence. Samira could attest to that. She’d been on Abbot’s list since last year yet she still hasn’t left. Surely, Abbot would have told him if he’d wanted this resident for himself. 

He shakes his head, slightly irked that Abbot is being purposely vague. He doesn’t need to decipher a riddle first thing in the morning.

“Okay,” Robby cedes, “Tell me about your R2.”

Jack clears his throat before he begins laying the predicate. 

“JD-MD. PGY-2, EM. Coming in from NYC. Columbia. Top of her class—”

Abbot can tell by the look on Robby’s face how, when, and what word it took for the gears inside Robby’s head to stop turning. There’s a look of astonishment beaming off his face for a moment, fleeting away just as fast as Robby’s piercing brown eyes land back on Abbot’s. He’s grinning, incredulously. Still, the night shift attending manages to finish.

“—had to transfer for personal reasons. Family care.”

Abbot’s recitation was met with derision. Robby scoffs, his hand running its way through what’s left of his hair. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking with me right now.” 

“I’m not.”

“You told her?” 

“Not on purpose. She called, wanting to see if things were okay ‘round here—said you haven’t been answering any of her messages. So, I might have mentioned it in passing.” Abbot shrugs, he squints as he speaks; a tell-tale sign that he’s lying. 

Robby had no qualms about his sister finding out about the sabbatical. Knowing the fact was one thing. Knowing why was another. By the tone of Abbot’s voice, Robby could easily decipher he’d tacitly told her more than what his own brother did with their own phone calls. 

He couldn’t believe it. He was just talking to her this morning. Could she have been in Pittsburgh by then? Worse, had she been home since last night? 

Insofar as family were concerned, Robby knew he still had the weekend to mull over what he’s supposed to tell her. Framing whatever statement he’d tell her carefully so as to leave her with knowledge limited to what’s on the surface. The chances of his success were slim, but at least he had a shot at winning. 

Now, Abbot had stolen that from him. 

She’s going to be here in a few minutes before the clock strikes seven. Not only that she’d be here as his resident. Robby would be forced to deal with her not only as his sister but as his student as well. It’d be like tempting Robby with one foot out the door only to lure him back in and prevent him from running away forever.  

Jesus Christ, it turns out his three-pronged approach had melted long before he got the chance to clock in.

“Oh, brother, am I glad you’re almost off the clock.” Robby scorns. “—I won’t accept her.” 

Abbot doesn’t take it to heart. Instead, he counters, holding his ground. “Are you even authorized to do that?”

“I don’t care. I’ll throw her off to your shift.” After all, you’ve been told she was exceptional. Robby willed enough strength to bite his tongue. 

“Too late. Gloria’s ok-ed it. HR concurred. Papers already went through.” 

Abbot wasn’t wasting any more of their respective precious time. 

Robby wanted to leave. Abbot wanted him alive. 

Robby didn’t leave him much of a choice. 

“Of course, she did.” Apparently, Gloria was never on his side. Robby laughs, mocking his misery. “This is ridiculous. I don’t need a babysitter, goddamn it.” 

Abbot’s gaze softens, understanding where the frustration was coming from. But ten months have gone since the PittFest Shootings. He’d only gotten worse ever since Adamson’s death. He did what he had to do. 

“I’m just looking out for you.”

Robby lashes out, “Well, I didn’t ask you to!” 

Abbot sighs, just as he catches a familiar figure walking towards where they stood.

He cocks his head over Robby’s shoulder, “Tell that to her.” 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Just as Jack had instructed, you found him and Robby in what seemed like a heated conversation in the Ambulance Bay. The tense air dissipated the second you came in, bag slung over your shoulders quite effortlessly. 

“Hello, brother.” 

Robby still had his back against you when you announced yourself. Abbot nodded in acknowledgement. It doesn’t take long for Robby’s shoulders to drop. He sighs out loud, turning to face the inevitable. You. 

As you meet the resigned look on Robby’s face, a brilliant grin breaks. “Miss me?”

“You’re such a pain.” Robby grunts but doesn’t take a beat to pull you in an embrace. 

You hug him back, sparing Jack a warm smile as he stands a foot behind. 

“I learned from the best.”

“God, you still suck at lying.” Robby gives you a tight squeeze just before he lets you go. “I thought we already had a plan? Tuesday? The Met?”

A mischievous smirk is hung on the corner of your lips. 

“Well, what can I say? I’ve made plans of my own.” 

It takes several seconds for him to acquiesce. 

“Fine—Fine.” He surrenders, pouring his attention to you and the night shift attending. “Jack will show you the ropes. In the meantime, I have some Chief-Attending matters to tend to. I’ll find you for the hand-over.”

Robby retreats at a pace that seemed like he was eager to leave you rather than tend to whatever excuse he’d spared for his own benefit. You sigh. At least, the hard part’s over. 

“That went well, don’t you think?” Jack expressed the second Robby’s out of earshot. 

“If he’s still leaving at the end of this shift, I’d say not well enough.”

You met with Jack as soon as you finished changing into your scrubs. 

There have been a few notable differences PTMC had with NYP. The abysmal patient-doctor ratio easily claimed the number one spot. The lack of a proper locker room for the staff was a close second. The hallways were cramped and it was bizarre to be seeing beds placed alongside literal walls. Despite its stellar reputation, PTMC’s ED was nothing compared to Presby’s. 

To say the least, seeing the frustrating state of the Emergency Department, you understand why Robby couldn’t bear to ever leave such place.

“What do you think?” Jack inquires as he watches you take in the coming and goings of the night shift. “A bit much?” 

You turn his way, shaking your head despite thinking the contrary. “—Enough.”

Something in Abbot eases. It was as if hearing you say “enough” had alleviated some of the guilt he felt for bringing you back to the city.

He hands you your hospital badge so as to make the transfer official, “Fresh off the oven.” 

With Jack’s help and having Gloria on board with your transfer, getting your license to continue your residency in Pittsburgh came with privileges you’re beyond grateful for. Not that you went to the extent of avoiding the entire process, but at the very least—you were able to expedite it. 

You stared at your badge, thumb hovering over the hospital’s logo. There it was, your name printed in bold just above the huge block print of the word Doctor. Nothing could be more official than that. 

“Thank you.” You look at Jack with an earnest smile. 

He smiles in turn, “Come on, let’s find Robby.”

True enough, you found Robby at Central nearly swallowed by people circling around him in the nurse’s station. He notices you and Jack by the time you’ve joined the group standing by his right side. 

Jack stood awfully close to a girl you assume to be just about your age. She had her badge attached to her chest pocket. 

Dr. Samira Mohan, M.D. 

Goodness gracious, Abbot. 

She could certainly do better.

“Come,” Robby calls your name, motioning for you to come forward and stand beside him. 

Robby doesn’t say anything else, not even as to brief you of what’s about to happen. Nevertheless, you maintain a good distance from him just as you scan the small crowd. 

There’s a subtle wave of chatter flowing in and out of Robby’s bubble. You’ve noticed people stifling a yawn, some slurping their morning coffee like there’s no tomorrow. Of course, you weren’t spared from the brief and unassuming glances most people you’ve yet to formally meet had managed to make. 

Handovers at Presby looked a lot like PTMC’s so it didn’t come as a surprise. Night shift and day shift walked rounds in micro-groups whilst assigning cases like it was auction night in Sotheby’s. 

“Nervous?” Whispered a woman inside the Nurse’s Station. She had short ghostly blonde hair that was pulled back into a low bun with some strands hanging loose, framing her face. You guess she’s at least three years older than Robby. And quite frankly, someone that could give your poor brother’s stubborn stubborn head a pretty good shake. 

“A little.” You find yourself admitting. 

You see what seemed like a proud grin breaking from her lips when she said, “You’ll be great. I know it.” 

You manage to covertly extend your hand towards her so as to introduce yourself, just by your first name. She’s about to know who you were anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to have somebody who knew you as you even just for a little while. 

“Dana Evans.” She takes your hand, “Welcome to the Pitt.”

The Pitt. That has Michael Robinavitch written all over.

“Everyone, gather around—make some room, take space. We’re about to have our briefing.” Heads turn towards Robby the second his voice enveloped the place. Words flowing out of him with ease. Commanding. Efficient. Effective—“Langdon, get your ass over here. No one’s gonna wait any longer.”

You try peeking through the select few rushing in to get into the circle. Most of them were nurses. Women. You make a mental note to introduce yourself to them properly once you have the time. 

You wonder whose name it was that Robby had just called with spite. After all, you can recognize that tone from a mile away. You’re sure he wasn’t even trying to hide it. 

Robby makes the mistake of moving, and that’s when you see him. 

Perhaps you didn’t have to wonder for long. 

Frank. It can’t be. 

He stood several feet away from where you were standing, completely and utterly unaware of your existence. The very same existence you’re now desperately trying to conceal as you shrink yourself oh-so miserably behind your own brother. 

Your eyes dart straight at him, using most of the time you have left to take him in. It’d only be mere seconds before Robby has to inevitably albeit unknowingly brand you as the boss’ sister.

He had that certain look on his face. The kind that silently announces his presence in the room so effortlessly. The very one that he’s clueless as to having. He’d parted his hair off-center just as a lone strand came loose to fashion his forehead. Frank Langdon just stood there—amidst all the others that were about to know who you were. 

God. He’s about to know who you were. 

The second you sensed that he was going to look your way you turned your gaze elsewhere. Please don’t hate me. You wished onto the void, hoping he’d somehow hear your plea.

Robby speaks just as said hope dissipates.

“First of all, I’d like you to meet Dr. YN Robinavitch, she’d be joining our ship for the rest of her residency.” 

You stood beside Robby, sparing a smile to whomever finds your eyes. You knew the prejudice that might come considering who your brother was in this hospital, but there’s not much left to do other than swallow the guilt of nepotism and forget about everything else. 

You are Robby’s sister. You can’t afford to lose sight of the exact reason for your return. 

“Yes, as in Robby—Robinavitch. No, she’s not his wife nor is she his daughter.” You look over your shoulder to catch Abbot’s teasing grin at your brother. 

You might as well have let the floor swallow you whole. 

“Dr. Abbot’s correct. She is neither my wife nor my daughter, god forbid. But yes, she is family.” Michael reiterates, this time letting the inconvertible fact come directly from him. 

“It’s nice to know Javadi isn’t the only one inclined to join the family business ‘round here.” The resident standing nearby Dr. Mohan chimed in with a mischievous grin sitting on her lips. Her eyes that seemed to calculate your every move the second Robby had called for you to stand by his side had been long gone. Instead, it’s now been replaced by some other kind of glint that makes you—somehow, wary. 

“So… she’s your?” Another resident had asked. A blonde that had her hair fashioned in a neat and practical braid.

Robby simply answers, “Sister.”

“—Fuck me.” 

You already did. 

All heads shot his way. Yours as well as Robby’s included. 

Robby’s gaze danced between you and Frank, waiting for either of you to come forward and say something. 

“You two know each other?” 

“No, we just met.”

With a straight face you categorically deny, eyes darting at Robby just before it lands onto the man whose bed you just slept in. By now, one would think Frank Langdon has learned his lesson. 

“Isn’t that right,” You hope he still thinks you’re a bad liar. “—Dr. Langdon?” 

The stern expression on his face remained. Neither the way he looked at you nor the way he carried himself wavered. His facade was intact, but his eyes say otherwise. He’s looking at you indifferently—in a brand new way that makes your heart sink. 

He reaches for your hand as you try to discern what that meant, but Frank seemed far away even when he was painfully within your reach. 

He concurs, voice flat and cold as if to play the part he didn’t choose. 

“Yeah, no—just today.”  

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Langdon hated throwing up. 

The few memories he had of himself nearly head-deep into the toilet was back in college. Alternating Fridays and every waking day of Spring Break. He remembered throwing up in rehab when his withdrawals were at its peak, when his body refused to take in the good kind of drug that’s supposed to get him cleaned. He rarely had enough time to get to the toilet. A nurse simply had a pot ready each time, conveniently. The feeling, the smell, and the mess that came with it. He hated everything about it. 

The second he felt the familiar and uncomfortable twist in his gut, the very kind that announces the imminent forceful expulsion that ought to follow, Langdon sped off to the nearest restroom as soon as hand-off was over. 

This particular time however, he gagged, hurled and felt as though his eyes were about to pop-off his head but nothing came out of his system. It was as if his insides had decided to abandon him when it was the only thing that seemed to will his entire body. The only thing he felt like he had control over was to puke. He can’t even manage to do that. 

He cannot believe it. 

She’s Robby’s sister. 

Worse, he just fucked Robby’s sister. 

He might as well drown himself in said toilet. It’d be highly unsanitary, sure. But at least, he wouldn’t have to deal with everything outside the comforting walls of the restroom. 

Sister. The fact screams inside his head as though it had been put there against its consent.

Christ, Frank. What were you thinking?

Very clearly, he wasn’t. At least not in the way she did the second she caught sight of his hospital badge. No, we just met. She was quick on her feet when she said it. Frank didn’t even have the chance to think it over or what his response could’ve been when Robby had asked if they knew each other. 

He remembers how her face looked when she said it. She looked as though she’d never seen him at all. In fact, he wasn’t even close to a ghost enough to haunt her. She just stared blankly at Langdon with indifferent eyes—the very same eyes that made him want more. 

The thought alone makes him want to vomit.

He opens the faucet to splash water on his face—and hopefully, knock some sense into himself.

“Dr. Langdon.” Frank mocked the way she’d said his name as he looked at his reflection. It was as if she hadn’t been moaning Frank’s name in his very own bed the night prior. 

He shakes the thought away. 

He’s skeptical as to why she pretended not to know him. Considering the events of last night, why would she do such a thing? Did she think he’d complicate things? Maybe she’d thought how bad it would be for her to be associated with him. 

Or was it even about him? 

Robby would’ve been a good enough reason for her to lie—an obvious one at best. And knowing where he currently stood with Robby, Langdon should be thanking her for inadvertently giving him an out considering the stakes involved and the high probability of an outcome against his favor. 

Could that be what she wanted him to do? Does she want him to forget about everything that happened less than 12 hours ago? Was last night merely casual for her? 

It hadn't even occurred to him that he didn’t know her full name—much less, how he didn’t ask for it. Even then, he wasn’t entirely at fault. She didn’t bother to ask for his name either. How can such a trivial aspect of every logical thing from last night slip both of their minds? If last night hadn’t been about Langdon escaping, then how could he have missed something of such significance?  

He skims through the events of last night like he was charting. He learned this method a counselor had suggested. She’d been sober for 12 years, still holding her license to practice medicine. She’d suggested for Langdon to recall events for the purpose of record-keeping. Not to relive the past but to help forgive himself and hopefully move forward. 

She’d mentioned that she had a brother and that she was the youngest. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh but hadn’t been in the city for quite some time she didn’t felt like revealing. When he asked her as to why she was at the bar, she’d answered—“I went there to distract myself.”

Frank went to the bar in order to escape. She went there as a distraction. It must’ve been sheer dumb luck that they’d found each other. 

Frank steps away from the sink. It can’t be. 

God can’t keep fucking with him like this. Otherwise, it’s just too cruel. 

Why tempt him with a life filled with options? Why make him feel as though he had more? He was content with having to live with himself and the consequences of the years that preceded the last ten months of his awful little life. Jesus. He’d been better off alone. Why would fate make him believe he’d actually be allowed more? 

Frank woke up today thinking he’d found someone that would be of significance. 

Life-altering kind of significant. 

Turns out, he’d only been a mere distraction for her. If that were the truth, he wishes—badly hopes everything she’d told him wasn’t just an attempt for her to pass the time. For her to burn through the hours because she dreaded what awaits her as soon as the sun was up. He wishes that she meant every word, every touch, and every kiss she’d given Frank. 

Hour One hasn’t begun for Langdon, how come he feels as though he’d already lost?

He stares at his reflection one last time. He still looked like he’d just been shot. He has to pull his shit together by the time he’s out the door. 

Today is about being back. All he has to do is focus. Do the work exactly how he’d envisioned the second he got out of the rehabilitation center. Everything else is background noise, for as long as he stays with himself—for himself. 

She’d only met him today. 

He will act like it. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Frank has been avoiding you since the hand-off. 

Worse, so does your brother. 

Robby had shunned Frank away to triage together with a nurse practitioner named Donnie. Donnie Donahue who was kind enough to show you where the breakroom was as he helped himself to the bagel spread brought by another attending physician. Highly likely Robby’s proxy, considering the character of those you’ve already known. 

As for the better Robinavitch, it’s safe to say that you’ve been shunned to the sidelines by your very own brother. Robby had thrown the responsibility of your integration off to the man he thinks is actually responsible for everything that concerned you. 

“Jack—Dr. Abbot, where do you need me?” 

You inquire, matching the pace of his strides. He’d just gone out of a room from South when you caught sight of him. Fortunately, it’s easier to find people who are not actively doing their best at avoiding you.

“Uh—, where’s Robby?” He looks around, trying to see the day shift attending for himself. 

“Everywhere except anywhere I am. Apparently.” 

He tutted, “Expected. No worries. You’re in luck, Replacement-Robby just came in.”

“Replacement-what?” 

Abbot leads the way towards the station, where a couple of MS were being handed out unnecessary huge patient passports whilst Whitaker had a dummy in a wheelchair towed behind them. 

“Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, I’d like to introduce Dr. Robinavitch, one of your R2s, starting today.” Jack’s voice cuts through the huddle, managing to acknowledge Whitaker and the medical students with undeniable ease. 

There’s a subtle knowing-expression on her face at the mention of your name.  

“Robinavitch?” 

“Sister.” 

Her brow quirks as the fact lands to confirm what she must’ve already been thinking. 

“Ah. Pleased to meet you, Dr.—?”

“Dr. YN Robinavitch.”

Once formalities were out of the way, Abbot eases on his exit. 

“I’ll let you two get acquainted. I can’t wait to get out of this place.” He lets his exhaustion bleed out of his mind. He turns to you, suddenly aware he’d willingly taken on a liability for the sake of his best friend. “You don’t mind, do you?” 

You decline profusely, “No—not at all. You’ve done enough. Thank you.” 

Al-Hashimi wasted no time pulling you onto Trauma 1. 

“Alright. Ready for your first case?” 

“Starving.” 

In fact, so starving you were in a gown before your attending. 

The second the doors to Trauma 1 swung open, you find one of the two people who’ve been avoiding you all morning. He’s stunned as though the mere sight of you rendered him incapable of escaping.

“Dr. Garcia, I’d like you to meet Dr. Robinavitch. She’ll be joining you today.”  

Garcia cocks her head your way, “And here I am thinking having one Robby’s too much before 10AM.”

“‘Could always use one more to get on your nerves.” He finally spoke, still avoiding your gaze. He then proceeds to provide a run-down of the guy lying on the table with an open chest cavity. Mostly for your benefit than anyone already present as soon as the patient got in. “Penetrating trauma to the chest, massive hemothorax, couldn’t locate the source.” 

“Bad morning.” You comment as you take the space beside Dr. Garcia. 

By the look discernible on her face, Robbie knows there’s a smirk lying underneath her mask. Too bad you couldn’t see it for yourself. 

“Proximal hilum is under the sternum.” You say as soon as you get your hands into the patient. “—along with most of the right ventricle.”

The two attendings stood side by side as they watched their residents get to work. There has to be better exposure. You know it, Robby knows it. You just need his word. 

Al-Hashimi beats him to it. “Convert to a clamshell.”

Do as you’re told, so they say. 

Immediately, you ask Perlah for the trauma shears in order to make room for Whitaker who’s about to squeeze on the patient’s heart. 

“Right ventricle looks good.” Robby comments.  

The numbers on the EKG pulsate as soon as your hands come in contact with the hilum. There’s a rapid flow of blood pooling around your hands, Whitaker panics. 

“Massive hemorrhage from the hilum.” You announce. “Hilar injury looks very proximal—could be pulmonary artery and vein.” 

“Clamps.” Baran orders. 

Robby forces his hand. “Dr. Robinavitch knows what she’s doing.”

“No good.” 

“Four units in.”

Garcia’s lack of enthusiasm prompts Al-Hashimi to override Robby’s orders. “I’m stepping in. Gloves—”

He doesn’t let her. “Dr. Garcia is a stellar surgeon and Dr. Robinavitch is a promising resident. I’m sure they can manage.” 

The bickering hovers in your ears as if it was happening beyond the doors of the trauma room. Your hands are still submerged in the pool of warm blood. You’re lucky the patient isn’t going to shock at such a point. 

Something has to be done. But none of the adults in the room seemed to have a clue as to how to deal with what you have in your hands. Quite literally, so to speak. You rummage through your brain, skimming through memories of thousands of medical journals you’ve read and what seemed like a hundred of procedures you’ve observed your fellow doctors in Columbia performed within seconds. 

Finally, it clicks—“Hilar flip.”

All heads shot up at you, varying from looks of amusement, skepticism, and pure disbelief.

“A what?” Al-Hashimi’s voice cuts through the air like a knife. 

Risky. Bold. A total gamble. 

At least not for anyone in the room, but for a resident like yourself. Al-Hashimi’s almost impressed you had the nerve to suggest it. 

“I watched an attending do it at the NYP.”

You find Robby’s eyes on you as you said it. It must’ve been the first time he looked at you ever since the handover. He wouldn’t deny it. He was at a loss for words. He was seeing your work first hand and he’s in awe of it.

When it takes them another second to concur, you give them a nudge. “I just need to rotate the lung 180 degrees and it’ll stop the bleeding. Guaranteed.”

“That could possibly work.”

Al-Hashimi looks at both Robbies incredulously as she dissents, “Or he’ll die when she rips the entire lung off the hilum.” 

You assert, “Not if we do it gently.” 

“That’s too much of a risk to take.” 

“Got any ideas?” Robby counters, “—Dr. Robinavitch, proceed.”

As soon as you hear an attending’s concurrence, you and Garcia get to work. The room stays still as you dig your hands further into the cavity. 

Robby utters a series of “Gentle—gently. Slow and steady—very slowly,” but he’s miles away from where you were standing. At least, it felt that way as you embraced the lung with both palms on one side whilst Garcia met you through the other. You feel the weight of the lung in your hands that it has made your decision feel so real you’re beginning to think the idea was ridiculous. You scan for a leak as soon as the twist has been done. Garcia let go of her hold on the lung mere seconds before you followed.

Whitaker glanced at the monitor over everyone’s heads. “Blood loss is going down.”

“Dry as the dessert ‘round here.” Garcia sighs with relief. 

Robby gives her a nod. “That’s a good sign.” 

The flip worked.

Unfortunately, you know the job is far from being done. 

“How’s the heart, Dr. Whitaker?” Your look at Dennis whose demeanor answered in the negative.

“Dull. Empty.” He manages to say as he continues to squeeze onto the aorta.

“Continue with the transfusions—and cardiac massage, Whitaker.” Robby orders from one end of the room to the other, speaking to his residents and the assisting nurses simultaneously. “—Talk to me. How’s the heart now?”

“Better than we started. Blood is filling in now.” Whitaker breathes, and so does everyone else beside him. Including yourself.

“Hold compressions.” 

Whitaker lets go of the heart and you see it. V-fib.

“Resume compressions.” Perlah gathers the paddles from the rack. “Paddles ready.”

“Charge to—?”

“Fifty.” Robby and Al-Hashimi says in unison. 

The paddles are handed onto Whitaker just as fast as he got them into the heart. 

“Charge—”

“—Clear.”

You waste no time and peek into the cavity. Normal sinus.

You breathe. Finally.  

“Strong carotid.” You tell both of the attendings. One immediately takes off her gloves, and the other admires you for a second longer than he needed to. Almost as if he wasn’t looking at a resident but his little sister. 

“Good call.” He says over his shoulder just as he pushes his weight to the door to disappear from your sight, hopefully until noon. 

“Saline lap pads, OR’s ready for us.” Garcia takes command as everyone scatters into different parts of the room prepping the patient for transfer. 

“Hell of a save, Robinavitch.” She tells you, taking off her mask for you to finally see that smirk. “I knew I’d like you better than your brother.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Dana Evans is a life saver. Both of patients and of lost residents—well, resident. Seeing as you’re the only one who’s yet to find her place amidst the chaos of the Pitt. 

“Did Abbot leave you alone to fend off this pack of wolves?” was the first question Dana asked when she saw you wandering about South trying to find yourself a group you could possibly join for hand-offs. 

Unfortunately, Al-Hashimi had formed a group led by Whitaker, taking with him two out of three MS in the ED and most of the night shift had gone home by the time you got out of T1, so maybe Dana’s right. Abbot has left you completely and utterly alone to fend off your brother’s attack dogs.

You haven’t had this much trouble getting yourself acquainted with new people. But it seemed as though today wouldn’t go as smoothly as you'd planned. It hasn’t occurred to you why that is. Yet.

“It’s your name tag, kid.” 

“My what?”

“Robinavitch.” 

“What about it?”

Dana stops in her track, “You really want me to spell it out for ya?”

Your shoulders dropped as you met her gaze. Of course, that was the problem. Robby had announced to everyone who you were. Purposefully at that considering how you know he really didn’t have to. But even if you were related in some other way besides being siblings, the name Robinavitch has already marked you so long as you roam the halls of Robby’s ED. 

How you could have missed that, you’ll never know. 

“I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

“Oh, it’s not. At least not in the way you’re thinking.” She reassured you. “They just don’t wanna mess with Robby is all.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at such a notion. 

“Michael wouldn’t even want to mess with me.”

She grins upon hearing Robby’s first name. She hasn’t heard that name since Dr. Adamson had passed. He’d been the only one to call him Michael. Refusing to call him Robby and insisting that he’d only be Michael insofar as he was concerned. Dr. Adamson simply saw your brother outside of the ‘Robby’ everyone in the ED came to know. Now that he’s gone, it was as if he’d taken Michael along with him. With you around, Dana felt like Michael was coming back.

Almost.

“So I’ve heard.” She jests, ”I haven’t seen much of him today because of you—so, thank you.” 

You chuckle. “My brother is that bad, huh?” 

Dana doesn’t say a thing but zip her mouth, feigning ignorance. 

“I’m going to leave you with your fellow R2, that okay?” 

“There’s another R2?” There’s a brilliant smile on your face instantly. “Oh, please do! That’d be great.”

“Thought you’d like the idea. Come on, she’s over here.” Dana proceeds to walk a step ahead of you, making her way towards the charting area with such sole purpose. 

You see two residents whose eyes were peeled as they looked onto their respective monitors. The blonde one from earlier was directly at your line of sight. Mel was it? You remember Abbot had called her when he was hoping to have a word with Samira alone.

Mel seemed nice—or is in fact, nice. You get a good feeling from her. You tend to lean towards your better judgment. More often than not, you’re right about these things anyway.

That is until Dana speaks again. 

“Dr. Santos, I’d like you to meet Dr.—”

“Robinavitch.” She said as soon as she saw you. A smug smirk is pronounced on her lips as though she’d been looking forward to meeting the other Robinavitch formally. “I already know.”

Formal, that is, if she had only let Dana finish that sentence. 

“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Santos.” You give her a tight-lipped smile. Not exactly true, but nonetheless polite.

You remember her shooting daggers at you as you stood by Robby’s side during the handover and the immediate switch of said eyes the moment she learned you were her mentor’s sister. It was rather enough for you to know she wouldn’t be someone you’d grow fond of. 

You’d like for her to prove you wrong. It’s still early to make a sweeping conclusion. Besides, other than your stubborn boss, you’re here to work not to make friends—and certainly not to make liking co-workers your ultimate purpose.

“I’m quite pleased to meet you as well, Robbie.” She says in an unnatural tone—almost as if it was a subtle way to mock you. The same green eyes that seemed like they were about to skin you alive are now looking at you as though they’ve known you all their life. 

Intense. A bit odd. But certainly nothing you can’t handle on your own. 

What was it she just called you? Robby? 

You’re beginning to lose hope that your fourth of July would be as fun as Abbot had advertised. 

After two successful cases with you, Mel, and Javadi, Santos had run off to the nine year old patient up North with Dr. Mckay. Thereby leaving you with Al-Hashimi who’s been breathing down everyone’s necks upon the use of Generative A. I. in the workplace. 

“How are you guys handling this A. I. thingy?” Victoria inquires exasperatedly amidst the pains of proof-reading. 

“A. I. thingy?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“I think it saves time. Quite efficient.” You keep your eyes on the screen as you continue working on the chart of your T1 patient. You answered on impulse but with precision, exactly how cold-calls in law school have trained their Columbia-borne lawyers. Simply out of muscle memory. “But I also think it’s highly unreliable. A risk. A potential malpractice lawsuit for Al-Hashimi.”

“What?” 

It hadn’t even occurred to you that you’d just belittled and practically called your attending’s program a liability waiting to blow up everyone's faces, not until both Mel and Victoria had reacted. You catch yourself. You hate not being able to turn off that side of your brain.

“You think Dr. Al’s gonna get sued for this?” Victoria leans in closer, almost whispering. 

“I— I didn’t say that.” 

Mel agrees with you, “She only said a ‘potential’ malpractice lawsuit.”

“How is that any different? If it’s failing now, sure enough some vindictive patient will sue, right?” 

You notice Mel’s eyes begin to wander in deep thought as she pieced an acceptable answer. 

“If… I— I don’t know. I’m not sure.” For some reason she couldn’t. She turns to you with expectant eyes, “Dr. Robbie?”

Oh, you want to hate Santos for making that one stuck.

“She’s not going to get sued.” You clarify. 

You need to leave it at that, Robinavitch. 

“But at the rate this ‘two-percentage window for errors' is going, I’d say she’s got a lot of fate for a program that’s designed to inevitably fail.”

Jesus. You hate yourself so much.

Javadi returns to her chart with a snicker. “I think Mel has found a lawyer.” 

Panic rises to your throat in an instant. You haven’t told anyone about that.

“A what?” 

Mel doesn’t hear another word besides the one Javadi had said last. 

“Are you also a lawyer?” 

Shit. You don’t want to lie to her. You’ve already managed to screw up two relationships in the first hour of your shift, you couldn’t manage to lose a potential friendship with Mel King. 

“No, no. No, I’m not a lawyer.” 

At least not in Pennsylvania. 

There’s some truth in what you’d just told her.

Mel’s shoulders drop. She didn't say a word after that and resumed to work on her own charts. 

“Did I say something wrong?” You can’t help but ask Javadi.

She repudiated. 

“You didn’t. She’s just… It’s not my place to tell.” Her voice softens into one that’s enough to stay between your own conversation—away from Mel’s ears. “I think it’s best for you to ask her about it.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Langdon has failed to accomplish two things on his first day back to work. 

Win back Robby’s affection. 

And ignore Robby’s sister.

Two mutually exclusive relationships that would fuck with his head, ten months into his sobriety. Relationships? How delusional can he be?

Thankfully, Robby’s cruelty against him had turned out to be profitable. For his time and for his peace of mind. If it hadn’t been for Robby putting him in exile, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour at ignoring her. Being in Central with everyone else was already taxing to think about for the last ten months, let alone actually live it. It’s safe to say Frank surviving the ED with her in the mix would be an unprecedented feat. 

“Robby finally found his match.”

Langdon’s self-loathing was put to a halt by the musings of a newly minted NP. 

“Jesse said they were bumping heads in T1 so hard, he’s thankful Robby’s sister was in there with them.” Donnie narrates the events of the first trauma patient of the day. 

“His sister?” Langdon feigns ignorance—but certainly not his interest. 

Donnie hums. “Apparently she’d suggested a Hilar flip. Did it in front of both attendings and Garcia. Al-Hashimi would’ve reprimanded her if it hadn't been the technique that actually worked.”

A sly smirk forms, one that he immediately quashes as soon as he’d realized it was there.

“Reprimand? For what—saving the patient’s life?” 

“She’s still an R2.” Donnie reminds him. 

“Wouldn’t make much of a difference to me.” 

“Huh. And this is coming from the chief-resident who rode an intern so hard for not presenting a case to her senior?” Donnie grins. “You’ve changed, man.” 

“Going to be pretty bland now, I’m afraid.” 

“Still. Sucks, we didn't see it ourselves. Jesse was having the time of his life.” Donnie adds, “What’d you think of her anyway?”

“Who? Al-Hashimi?” 

“No. Robby’s sister. What was her name again?”

Frank tells Donnie her name a little too fast for somebody who should’ve been ignorant.

“That’s the one.” 

Thankfully, Donnie didn’t catch that. 

What would he say to him anyway? The events of last night or how she managed to single-handedly turn Langdon’s world upside down in a matter of a simple lie? Donnie would be having a better morning than Jesse if he’d come to know that. 

So instead, he tells him, “Too soon to tell. Haven’t been around Central, as you can see.”

“I’m not sure you’re going to like her.” Donnie presumed. 

Quite disputable. 

“Really? How can you tell?” 

Donnie shrugs as he pushes the door to triage, “Garcia does.”

“And that matters because?” 

“Come on, man. You and Robby have consistently butt heads with her over the years. Now, she has her very own Robinavitch on her corner.”

Oh, Frank would beg to disagree.

“Long time no see, Mr. Cloverfield.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

You have gotten a hang of things by Hour Four. 

You were in South when Mel had scurried off to central alongside Javadi for Robby’s trauma patient. You weren’t paged, not that it was ever a surprise after all, the only attending who’s been giving you a fair shot was Al-Hashimi. 

To say the least, even with Robby’s prejudice towards his poor sister, you’ve managed to keep your hands full and yourself quite useful. 

You were on your way to the restroom when Princess had called, saying there wasn’t a resident around in triage. Robby would be livid if he ever comes close as to hearing about the 20-patient pile up still waiting to be seen as per Lupe’s latest directive.

You looked at the Patient Passport placed unassumingly by the medicine rack. 

Louie Cloverfield. His present record concerned primarily of a tooth-ache, nothing more nothing less. A bit odd for somebody who looked as though he’s been having a hard time breathing. 

“Good morning, Mr. Cloverfield. I’m Dr. YN Robinavitch. How may I care for you today?” 

You brace for inevitable, “Are you related to Dr. Robby?” but it doesn’t come. Good for you. 

“Oh—Hello, Doctor. Got a bit of a bad tooth-ache here.” He smiles amidst the discernible grimace that came with it. “Other than that, I’m peachy.”

“You mind if I take a look?” You asked politely. 

You watch him ease into opening his mouth, waiting for your gloved-hands to do most of the heavy-lifting. The infection budding from the root of his tooth is apparent from the moment you manage to lift his lip down, hoping for better sight-access. There was already a pus build-up. It’s safe to say Louie has been living through the pain for quite some time.

“How long have you been dealing with this sucker, Mr. Cloverfield?” 

“A while.” He dismisses the way you referred to him so formally. “Please, Doc—just call me Louie.” 

You sigh. “Then it got bad last night. Am I right, Louie?” 

He breathes, “Right on the money.”

“Well, there’s an infection on the root I think we can manage draining before we can refer you to one of our in-house dentists.” 

It takes a beat for him to nod. You figured it was probably due to his breathing. 

“Ever have a hard time breathing these days?” 

He nods. “Been walking more than I used to. Trying to get in shape.”

“That’s good. I’ve been catching up on my steps too.” You say with a smile. “But I think we need to check just to be sure. Who knows? Maybe we can work you up for the next marathon.”

Louie laughs, letting you do the job. 

You did the standard procedure and checked more than his breathing. The immediate results were abnormal—most of which indicating that the tooth-ache wasn’t the only thing bothering your patient. 

“Can you lift up your shirt for me?” 

Louie obliges without much hesitation. 

You gently prod onto his stomach, finding the same as hard as a rock. 

“Your belly’s stiff. Has it always been this hard?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. I was thinking I can wait another week.” 

“Before coming back?” 

“I come when it becomes bothersome.” 

“Louie.” You sigh. “Okay, I’ll look at your chart.”

You pull down his shirt and walk towards the monitor. There’s a comprehensive medical history under Louie Cloverfield’s record. Most of which were librium prescriptions you assumed to have been given for his alcohol withdrawal, helping his liver recover. You were right for checking what he’s been hiding beneath his shirt. 

Turns out, he’s among the Pitt’s frequent flyers. 

“I’ve been here many times before—I never saw you, Doctor.”

You continue reading his past assessments as you answered, “Oh, it’s my first day actually. Moved here from New York.” 

“Mind if I ask why?” 

You answered simply, “I thought somebody could use some of my help.”

“Patients?” 

In a way. 

“For sure.” 

He empathized, “I bet it was hard. Leaving.”

“A little. But it doesn’t matter. I only have myself. I didn’t have much to leave behind that city anyway.”

You lie. Always a good good liar. 

“Hm. I know that.” He says with a knowing look on his face. “Don’t have anyone but myself, either.” 

You turn the tables, “Mind if I ask how come?”

“Once had a wife, Rhonda” Louie inhales, just as he speaks through his laboured breathing. “We got a baby too.” 

“Yeah?” You look at him, sparing an earnest smile.

“Uh-huh. They left some time ago.” 

“Do you think they’ll ever come back?” 

“I don’t think so." He takes another breath. “But I’ll find them… Soon enough.”

He’s quiet for a beat. It has been a while since he felt like talking. 

“I love that for you, Louie.” You say with candor, “You deserve to be with your family.” 

“And you deserve to be with yours, too. Dr. Robinavitch.”

You could only manage to give him a tight-lipped smile. It was like you took the softest yet cruelest punch to the gut anyone has ever managed to pull all your life.

Louie grins, “Hah. Thought I missed that, didn't you?”

You fail to stifle a laugh. “Guess, I’m not as slick as I thought I’d be by now.”

“Daughter?” 

“Sister, actually.” You clarify, “But thank you for not thinking I was his wife.” 

Louie Cloverfield puts up his left hand, wiggling his ring finger. “No ring.”

“Man, you’ve got fast eyes.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Hour Four for Langdon has taken a turn for the worse. Expected but nonetheless dreadful. Definitely not the kind of worse he used to look forward to back when he could barely keep his hands still with the help of his pills. 

Lupe had pulled him and Donnie out of triage, dragging them into the waiting area because someone had just left a fucking baby in a hospital restroom. 

“Who would leave a perfectly good baby?” Dana had said the moment she was made aware of the situation. The word spread around quickly—almost as fast as Robby came to know Langdon was lurking around his ER. 

“You’re supposed to be in triage.” He’d snarked the second Langdon attempted to talk to him. Robby’s reception to his return was abysmal, he might as well have turned in his resignation letter. Frank thinkd Robby would’ve probably preferred that. 

It’s been quite a revelation to see that most of his co-workers weren’t a fan of the idea that an actual infant was temporarily housed in the ED’s pediatrics room. It’s always been a dark place not often used for its actual purpose. Frank’s glad he had ten minutes to spare to look after Baby Jane Doe. And perhaps, at least five more trying to look for you. 

With sweat undeniably forming on his temple, he returned to triage catching his breath. 

“Hey, man. I’m sorry. Somebody left a baby—”

“Baby?”

The sound of your voice ought to make him stop. 

“Dr. Robinvitch.” 

He wanted to say your name.

“Dr. Langdon.” 

You wanted to say Frank.

“They left a baby?” 

Louie brings the two of you back to the ER. 

“Yeah. About a month old… I think.” He says pulling out a chair for himself in front of his patient.

He’s got half a mind to process what just happened. He thought you were somewhere in Central overseeing Whitaker and his team. He wasn’t expecting you to be out here alone with him. 

Your mind, however, was elsewhere—on the poor child left alone in Pedes. You probe, “How old exactly?”

If the baby had exceeded the period for Safe-Haven drop-off, it’s child abandonment. Unmistakable.

It was as if Frank had read your mind. “Looks like she’s well over 28 days.” 

“Poor thing.” Louie manages to speak through the pain. 

“Who’s with the baby now?” 

“Al-Hashimi, Samira and—Robby. You can see if they need a hand over there.” 

You quickly caught on with his tone. It was the same one Robby had unknowingly used each time he succeeded in evading you. You get it. You wouldn’t want to work with someone you slept with last night and had the nerve to deny your entire existence the morning after either. 

“I can stay.” 

You notice his shoulders tense. Good. 

He’s had a fair amount of time choosing to avoid you. He can soldier through this one too.

“Picking up where we left off, you’ve been having a hard time breathing?”

Louie nods. “Dr. Robinavitch and I had that bit covered.” 

“Louie has visited the ED three times in the last six months.” You inform him. “I didn’t think it was possible, until I saw his record.”

Langdon nods, evidently conflicted as to how he’d work a case with you. 

“Louie here has a bit of a habit.” He speaks to Louie, hoping you got the hint that it was more for your benefit.  

“It’s your fault.” Louie chided, alternating glances between his two doctors, this time to talk to you, “He wasn't around to set me straight.”

You only smile in turn, refraining from saying anything, finding the need to observe and listen rather than getting a word in their conversation. 

“Well, I bet they fixed you right up with a goodie bag filled with six of your friends?” Frank jests. 

“No… Robby would never let that happen.” Louie tells him, “But they did fix me so I can get my own, know what I mean?”

You see a familiar twitch on Frank’s lips. Enough to make you loathe yourself for causing him to never look your way. 

“With you man, I always know what you mean.”

“I’d have a room ready for you, Louie.” You tell him softly. 

“Oh, I’d love that.” He agrees, “Will you still be my doctor in there?” 

You assure him, “Of course, I will be.”

Frank acknowledges his patient one last time just as he stands to move onto the next patient lying two beds ahead. He neither looked your way nor talked you through the standard procedure of Louie’s transfer. He didn’t wait for you to say a word. He just left and got back to work. He wasn’t just acting as if you hadn’t just slept in his house—as if you hadn’t just slept with him before coming in to work. He was acting as though he didn’t know you at all. 

It wasn’t that Frank was being purposely unkind. It was him honoring a decision you’ve made for him. 

Something inside you sinks as you feel your chest tighten. 

You never meant for one lie to get this far. 

“Frank.” You try reaching out. “Could we—talk… about hand-offs?”

He pulls out a seat just as he greets his new patient. 

“I’ll be wheeling in Louie after this.” He tells you, voice flat and disengaged. “Will that be all, Dr. Robinavitch?” 

He doesn’t give you the chance to avoid his gaze nor to explain.

You have only met him today. 

He’s acting exactly like it.

Sleep, his only companion for the last ten months, has eluded him. 

It was the eve of the fourth of July, the night before Frank Langdon is set to return to work. Yet here he was, wide awake and barely half a shell of the man he used to be when he left for rehab. 

He’d hoped to be fast asleep two hours ago, thinking he’d get at least eight hours to himself before he has to face the inevitable. But, just like how the events of the past ten months have unfolded, he should’ve known he’s likely lost even the most mundane of privileges life has to offer.

He laid on his bed nearly drowning in perspiration, completely devoid of sleep just because his back decided to be against it. He’d tried soothing circles on the middle of his back, tried home remedies his therapist had suggested, hell he’s trying to sleep the pain away for god’s sake. To no avail, lying on his back felt as if he was being lit on fire. 

Langdon stares at the ceiling for a good minute once he’s able to control his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He continues to do the mind numbing cycle of inhaling and exhaling just to keep himself out of the dangers of his mind. 

He does his usual calculation in his head. It had been ten months since he’s gotten help, since he’s gotten sober, since he’s gotten cleaned. Ten months of hard work since he was forced to get his shit together at the risk of losing the only thing he still had to hold on to: Emergency Medicine.

Benzodiazepines have already cost Langdon his life, his marriage and his wife. If he hadn’t gotten cleaned the minute he got into rehab, Langdon knows he’d likely have lost his children, too. 

Over the first two months being out of rehab, Langdon felt as if he’d been allowed to finally breathe. He was doing great—better than anyone had expected. Like pretty much everything else he’d accomplished, Langdon aced flushing the drugs out of his system. He’s certain he’d graduate top of the class had valedictorians been a thing at the rehabilitation center. 

Robby had told him he only needed thirty days. The same having been corroborated by Gloria and the Medical Board. Somehow, he still had an ounce of arrogance left coursing his veins that’s why he did six whole months. Six months of feeling like a prisoner surviving off of whatever bland food was scheduled for the day. Six months of practicing his 12 steps, studying every material than he ever did in med school. Six whole months of just being alone with himself, he thought he’d never get through it.  

Much to his surprise, (and Santos’ if only she’d known) Langdon had every love and support a recovering addict would need both in and out of that rehab facility. Family. Friends. He had little to no reason to be thinking what he’s thinking right now. 

When the surge of pain hits the lower oblique of his back, Langdon forces himself to picture Abby’s face telling him to come home despite being divorced. You don’t have to leave, Frank. That’s what she had told him when he decided to move out, luggages and a few boxes towed with him in his car. 

Considering his lack of a job at the time and his savings taking the brunt of not having a steady income, logic dictates for Langdon to stay and abuse more of the kindness of his ex-wife. After all, therapy and his remaining rehab commitments came at a pretty hefty price; his insurance would be laying paper thin flat if Gloria hadn’t let him return to work. Regardless, it’s safe to say Langdon has had enough of the word abuse. He knows full well not to subject Abby to any more of it. 

So, despite the ex-spouses signing their divorce papers away on amicable terms over a month after Langdon had returned home, he finally decided it was time for him to give Abby the space she ultimately deserved. 

The ache is like lightning jolting down his spine as soon as he sits up. 

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

He curses under his breath. Beads of sweat fashion his temple just as he feels the familiar sting in the corner of his eyes caused by his own bodily fluid. Now this would’ve been a good time to swallow some pills. 

Frank Langdon is in pain and alone in a low-lit bedroom with nothing but his darkest thoughts to accompany him. He needs to get his mind on something—anything that will keep him from wanting to seek what he knows he cannot have even if it means the pain he’s feeling goes away. 

Why? 

He also happens to know that that is simply not the truth. He has long accepted the fact that he’d turned to stealing drugs from his patients just to provide for the need Dr. Hagan had long denied him. Yes, doing the unimaginable could alleviate the pain for mere hours but it would also simultaneously make things much worse for Langdon than it already was. It won’t do him any good. He knows it.

He’s been ten months sober, ten months clean. Sure enough he could think of some harmless alternative. 

Once he’s gotten himself into some of the last decent clothing he still had before he has to do laundry, Langdon is out the door and into the cold Pittsburgh Friday night, walking with purpose. 

Purpose, that is, some speakeasy five blocks from his place. The very one he used to frequent before his abstinence to alcohol and quite literally all other things he could substitute his addiction with. So tonight, he’ll help himself to the liberalities he once enjoyed without having to fall through the cracks. After all, it’s the eve of Independence Day. He deserves to extend himself some grace without the added expense of actively choosing to lose his medical license and go to jail. 

“What can I do you for?” asked a bartender he wasn’t familiar with. It’s been a while since he set foot inside this place; it wouldn't be unusual to see a new face.  

Langdon catches the name on his nameplate by the time he sat down one of the barstools. Rob. 

Great. Just what he needed. 

He chooses the remote area of the bar, the one that’s least noticeable, where he feels he could be alone amidst the familiar noise of the select few who’s with him on this fateful Friday night.  

Across from him sat several bottles of what used to be Langdon’s roster for his drink of choice. Tequila back when he was in med school, malt whisky on nights Robby and Jack tagged along, and the ice cold beer that always went together with pills running down his throat. 

Oh, what he’d give to feel that burn again; the good kind of burn that makes him forget the one that’s actually making him suffer. He finds the need to caress his back momentarily just before he sits down. Still, Frank Langdon knew better. Stubbornly so. 

That’s why instead of naming alcohol brands that once took comfort swirling on his tongue, he says, “I’m in recovery. Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”

It doesn’t take a beat for Rob to nod in acknowledgement, seemingly trained exactly for this kind of situation. Perhaps, Langdon isn’t the first recovering addict who stumbled upon the very last place one should be ordering a non-alcoholic beverage. 

Rob gives him a thin list of options. Soda, juice, and Pittsburgh’s finest drink of choice—water. 

“I can make you a mocktail, if you’d like.” He suggests. 

“So long as it doesn’t have a single drop of alcohol in it, absolutely. Whatever’s easiest to make will do.” I just need to quench my thirst, he doesn’t say. 

Langdon doesn’t realize he’s staring at the ghost of where his wedding band used to rest in between his fingers by the time Rob had returned for his much awaited drink. 

“On the house. You look like you could use a break.” Rob tells him earnestly with a tight-lipped smile, and Langdon swears he almost wanted a hug. 

He isn’t used to this kind of treatment; being on the receiving end of everyone’s pity. God, he used to be the Frank Langdon, valedictorian of Yale MD class of 2021, heir apparent to his mentor as an Attending Physician at PTMC, and a stellar candidate for the ED Medical Education Fellowship. But no, the ugly truth is that he stopped being all those things long before Robby found out about the drugs, long before Abby got a whiff of his addiction. 

Because now? Now his identity—his entire being—is subsumed to nothing else but his addiction. It didn’t matter how good he was in med school, didn’t matter that he’d been a good husband and a father. It didn’t matter that he was a doctor and that he was fucking good at his job; at saving lives. That’s something that irked him for quite some time now. It was as if he’d gotten a giant tattoo on his forehead that associated him with benzodiazepines and addiction for the rest of his life. 

All the years it took him to build a name for himself were rendered moot and inconsequential just because he happened to have helped himself to a measly type of drug he could’ve easily gotten with a prescription in hand. 

Langdon doesn’t do anything about it because whose fault was it? He had no one to blame but himself. So maybe, had Rob known of the truth, he should’ve made Langdon pay because it’s sure as hell he doesn’t deserve that break. 

“I’ll have whatever he’s having.” 

That sentence seemed to have brought Langdon back to reality. 

Rob nods as he pays one look at Langdon whose interest had been piqued amidst his stoic disguise. He’s never one to be a trendsetter, that’s for sure. Who could’ve possibly wanted the same thing he did?

It doesn’t take a while for her drink to arrive. Virgin Mojito. Exactly like Langdon’s.

“I hope you don’t mind a copy cat.” She tells him, voice disinterested just like Langdon’s has been for the entire time he’d spent sitting by the bar. 

“Please, be my guest.” Langdon shakes his head in his sheer attempt at cordiality. “Just… don’t want any credit if you happen to hate it.”

“And if I don’t?” 

“Credit goes to Rob.”

She mouths a discernible “Ah.” and returns to her phone. 

He notices her scroll briefly just before she ends up typing for a beat. Maybe a long and well-thought message to a boyfriend? Or maybe to an ex-boyfriend still hung up on the breakup? Langdon speculates, finally having something remotely more fun to do than tend to his own wounds. Boyfriend? Why should that be the first thing to come to mind? He reprimands himself for being so dense. 

He sees her put the phone down the table with what seemed like a sigh of retreat. Langdon tears his eyes off her before he gets caught. He copes with the silence and seeks comfort in running his thumb on the rim of the glass. The mocktail was indeed a mockery of what Langdon actually had his eyes on. But to say the least, it was enough. He may have been playing make believe but it still did its job. 

“It can’t be that good.” She takes Langdon’s eyes away from nearly boring holes through the glass he was holding. It was only then that he’d realized what she meant. Skepticism coupled with the veil of sarcasm. 

Langdon’s gaze was piercing through the glass as if mere sight alone could turn water into wine. Great, now he wants to be Jesus Christ.

That gets a laugh out of him. The very first one he knows he didn’t make just to fill awkward silences that has always sneaked its way in the conversation whenever someone asks, Are you okay? How are you holding up? 

This was usually the time he’d come up with something smug to say. Something like don’t deny what you haven’t tried or something else entirely obnoxious and arrogant that carries with it the same effect of some other nice thing he could’ve said instead. He knows how to play his hand. That’s how he got Abby to marry him in the first place. 

Although now, he doesn’t think of any. He couldn’t even muster a smug smirk. Langdon was close to being beaten to a pulp by punches no man ever threw his way. Jesus, this is depressing. 

A grimace is discernible on her face by the time she takes her first sip. 

“Sorry.” Langdon finds the need to apologize. “Could’ve been better if it had a kick, no?” 

“I didn’t think it would be as virgin as a virgin could get.”  She remarks at the thought of being in a bar drinking a beverage that seemed to contain the least alcohol percentage in it. Worse, none at all.

“Hey, you were the copycat.” Langdon puts up his hands feigning defense, smiling genuinely for the first time in the last few hours of the third of July. 

“Right. No alcohol. Got it.” 

The quiet shared between two strangers at the bar goes in sync with the noise of tonight’s crowd, caging them in a bubble growing all the more pronounced as they get shunned away in the corner; the very one that only existed the minute they sat in their respective seats. 

Her phone buzzed, tearing her attention away from the man sitting several seats adjacent from hers. He sees her take one glance at the caller ID before letting it go to voicemail. She doesn’t want to talk to whoever’s been bothering her through that phone. At least that’s what it seemed. 

Despite her obvious woes, Langdon doesn’t pry. He’s always hated gossip even though he adored Princess and Perlah at work. He knows he’d be the talk of the town the second he enters the emergency doors. That was just one of the many things he didn’t look forward to about tomorrow. He returns his attention to his drink. Beads of condensation have long descended to the coaster as if to tell him that it’d been dying to be noticed; dying for him to drink.

He takes what was only his third sip of it.  

She pulls Langdon’s attention back to her when she asks, “Do you want some company?” 

It wasn’t that Langdon hadn’t thought about asking her if she wanted his company. He just happened to know better not to add another layer to his night. He was out because he wanted a pseudo-drug that could potentially trick his (still very aware) brain into thinking he’s getting the substance it thinks he needs.  

He should probably decline. 

I’m sorry. I’m just about to head out. Maybe next time. 

I’m sorry. I’m going through a divorce, I don’t think that would be a good idea. 

I’m sorry. I’m married. I have a wife, my kids are at home, and I still have a very stable job I need to get to first thing in the morning. 

With the many things weighing over his head, it couldn’t possibly be the best thing to allow this stranger to pick up more than his unusual drink of choice. 

Tonight was about liberalities; grace. Take it with both hands, Frank. 

Langdon exhales. 

“Sure.” 

He nods his head, motioning for her to transfer to the seat next to him. He sees her wide smile beaming from ear to ear the minute he concedes. 

The two of them share a shy chuckle the second she takes the seat, placing her drink right next to Langdon’s that was barely half empty. 

She extends her hand for a cordial hand shake, all smiles as she tells Langdon her name. 

Huh. Pretty. It suits her. He thinks to himself, shying away from noticing she didn’t just have a pretty name but that she’s beautiful up close, too. 

Stop. 

It doesn’t take a beat for him to accept, hands enveloping one another’s as if it wasn’t the first time. He tells her his name in turn, “Frank.”

“It really isn’t that bad, Frank.” She comments, taking the glass close to her mouth for another sip. She cringes as the sweet liquid overpowers her tastebuds, but nonetheless lies through gritted teeth, “See?” 

Frank absent mindedly mirrors her as he takes a sip off his own glass, soda and lime tasting better than it did last.

“You’re a bad liar. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

She counters with a hung smirk, “Oh, my brother would beg to disagree.” 

“Really? How many?” He finds the need to inquire. 

“Just the one.” She gives him an answer with nary a second guess. “Wouldn’t want another, to be honest. He’s already quite the handful.” 

That prompts the image of his daughter, Penny, saying the same thing about Tanner to come to Langdon’s mind. Once the same settles, he’s sure to feel that familiar warmth graze his chest for a short while. 

She glances at him as she stirs her drink. “What about you? Got any siblings? Or is your being an only child the reason you’re all alone on the eve of the fourth of July?” 

“Got a sister, just the one.” He borrows her words and that causes her to roll her eyes. 

“She a bad liar too?” She inquires. 

“No, she lies for a living.” He tells her, shining light on the fact that the better Langdon was kicking ass somewhere on the West Coast practicing California law. 

“Oh, she’s a lawyer then?” 

He nods approvingly, “You catch on quick, I like that.” 

Somewhere around mocktail no. 3, Langdon had completely forgotten about the pain in his back. What started as an excruciating pain that nearly caused him to reach for the next best thing he could substitute for a drug, mellowed to the kind that’s bearable for someone who’s been sober for ten months. 

Somewhere around mocktail no. 3, the drink Rob makes became more palatable. It wasn’t as sweet as the virgin mojito nor as bland as the virgin cuba libre that followed. This third drink just happened to taste better and it definitely made Langdon forget he still had to go home. 

Somewhere around mocktail no. 3 and the stories shared between strangers who’ve become a little less foreign to one another, Langdon realizes that perhaps it was a good idea he’d also been divorced. 

Over the course of three drinks Langdon had learned more about her. Her family, how she’s the youngest but her older brother has always regarded her to have the most wisdom in the family. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh but hasn’t been in the city in so long until she had to come back for some reason Langdon didn’t want to pry on. She doesn’t talk about it anyway, stopping mid-sentence when her monologue became a bit more personal for a stranger’s ear. She doesn’t tell him what she does for a living, so he doesn’t ask. He made it a point to never ask, completely content with learning whatever she allows. 

Langdon does make it known that he was divorced—that he was a father of two and once had a wife. He wasn’t planning to, originally, but somehow the truth just came out of him. “I’d just gotten divorced.” He’d told her, just as he follows up with the fact that, “I’m also a recovering drug-addict.”

His words should’ve landed on the table like a death sentence. Langdon had expected it to be so. He’d expected the kind of silence he’s gotten used to receiving for each time he reveals he’s someone ill, someone who needed help, someone whose mind was too weak he had to lean on fucking pills just to function in society. He expected her to leave, maybe thank him for her new-found aversion to virgin mojito just before she slid away her seat and headed for the door; gone and out of Langdon’s sight in under a minute. 

Only it’s 10:00 PM, and she’s still here. 

He couldn’t believe it. 

“You sure you want to stick around?”

He sees her raise a brow, “What made you ask that?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe the company of a known-addict has suddenly made things uncomfortable—a bit much for Friday night.” 

“Recovering addict.” She corrects him. She pushes past what he’d just told her, making it known whatever insecurities he’s holding out on his sleeves weren’t something out of the ordinary. 

“Would you take offense if I told you I kinda got the feeling you were in recovery the second I took my first sip?” 

Langdon doesn’t. “No, I’m pretty text-book. The signs would’ve been obvious after one drink, let alone three.”

She nods, acknowledging the notion but not necessarily agreeing with it. 

“Can I ask you something personal?” 

Langdon takes a sip, “Shoot.”

“If you’re in recovery, wouldn’t this be the last place you’d want to be in?” 

He doesn’t deny that, so he answers with a shrug. 

“I was having a hard time alone, at home. This was the next best thing.” 

“What? Alcohol?” 

He shakes his head profusely. 

“God, no. I did think of it for a hot minute, but I always knew I shouldn’t—wouldn't. Just needed to be somewhere familiar. Guess I wanted to see if something did change after six months of rehab.” He sighs, “I figured if I don’t, despite being in a place you’re allowed to, then maybe I changed.”

Her gaze softens, but Langdon misses it.

“That’s a big test to give yourself, don’t you think?” 

He scoffs a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess. Could use a challenge once in a while.”

If only Langdon had told her about med school and the Pitt, maybe she’d understand where this side of him was coming from. He’s always been a competitive man. Competitive to a fault that he finds joy in beating his own records just to see if he was really worth the sweat.

She checks in on him, “You sure you’re okay with us being here?”

Absent-mindedly, devoid of any reason as to why, Langdon nudges his glass away from him. 

He gives her a tight-lipped smile. 

It’s late, he should probably head home. 

“I could use a little walk.” 

It doesn’t take long for Langdon to take care of the bill. After all, he’s been meaning to thank Rob for his generosity and for making the exact same drink he asked him for the lady who’s now walking out of the bar alongside him. 

“Where’d you want to go?” She asks once they’re out the door. 

Langdon thinks for a moment. He still doesn’t want to go home. So instead, he asks, “Where are you parked?” mindful of her convenience above all else, because unlike him, Langdon kind of got the feeling she was ready to end the night here. 

He misses that bit though. She wasn’t. 

He sees her nose scrunch just before she shyly admits, “By the street in front of my apartment.”

Langdon had to bite the insides of his cheek to refrain himself from smiling. He knows it was bad. He hasn’t smiled this much in over ten months post-rehab. 

She turns the tables, “You?” 

“I walked.” He reveals, pointing south. “I’m that way. My place is about five blocks from here.”

With relief beaming from her face, she grins. 

“Good. I’m that way too.”

“Really?” 

“Really.” She discloses, “You know PTMC?” 

Langdon was sure his heart almost fell out of his chest. 

He wishes she hadn’t picked up on the sudden change in his demeanor, so he masks it with a nod. It’d be too bizarre for him to deny such an obvious landmark. Besides, the Pitt was the sole reason why he chose to live at his complex in the first place. He just hopes she didn’t live that close to the north side of the city for them to cross paths at a time he’s wearing his scrubs.

They begin walking towards home. At least, that’s what they’re headed insofar as Langdon’s version of things were concerned. 

Their conversations come in bursts, faltering into a comfortable quietude just so anecdotes and trivias could shock it back to life; to one that’s warm—familiar. Langdon doesn’t find the need to keep up because she matches his pace for some reason. He tries not to make any jokes, at least the ones that used to make him sound like an asshole, but she laughs still even when he wasn’t trying. 

When another wave of silence settles in between them, she breaks it with something with a little more weight. 

“Truth is, I was more surprised to learn about your divorce. I wouldn’t have pegged you to be a divorcé.” She comments, “No offense.” 

“At 34? None taken,” Langdon breathes out a chuckle as he thinks of the fact that his marriage with Abby spiked American divorce rates to a whole other percent. Maybe he should’ve taken offense, but hey, some couples call it quits one week into marriage. At the very least, he’s thankful he got to have two wonderful kids out of his. 

He briefly paused as if to make a silent decision. Should he let her in? Or should he keep up with this facade he couldn’t understand how it came into being? He is being truthful. But why doesn’t it feel like it? 

Once his mouth falls agape to continue, he opens the metaphorical doors wide, hoping she’d walk in. 

“I thought the divorce would break me—that it’d be the one that sends me to the other side.” 

She does. 

“It wasn’t?”

What did? Langdon hopes she’d never ask otherwise he would have a hard time explaining that part of the story. He didn’t think he’d have it in him to tell her the awful truth. That he wasn’t just a drug-addict. He was a doctor that stole drugs from the people he was supposed to cure. That’s just glossing over the fact that he’d committed a fucking felony at the risk of losing innocent lives. That alone made him sick to his stomach, his old-buddy Benzos wouldn’t even compensate for the gut wrenching pain he’s feeling. 

Fuck, maybe he isn’t being truthful. 

When silence is the only thing that follows, Langdon sees the green light. 

He shakes his head, just as he spills some truth he was ready to confess.

“The divorce was the best thing I gave Abby.” Apart from the kids. But he likes to give his ex-wife the sole credit for that.

She hums, signalling for him to continue. 

“I tried to keep the drugs under control. I always took ‘em in my car, never at home. Not when she’s around, especially not around the kids. But the amazing and clever woman that she is, she picked up on the new habits and routine I apparently exhibited three months into my addiction. She didn’t say anything at first, said she wanted me to come clean on my terms, but I never did.” He pauses, reflecting on the past. “A lot of women would’ve taken the kids and left, but Abby stayed. She never missed a day visiting me at rehab. Letting me know all is well with the kids and at home. She never let me go in blind as opposed to how I did her over the last years of our marriage.” 

“You’ve mentioned she didn’t say anything at first?” 

She’s listening intently. 

Langdon confirms, “Yeah, at first. I was actually the one who figured out she knew. The day I went home to start my sabbatical I found a stash of rehab pamphlets in Pennsylvania. She even had a few from California, tucked deep in her closet. I figured she told my sister, I don’t know. I still don’t have the courage to ask either of them. Seeing the pamphlets didn’t just strike a nerve. It broke something in me I still couldn’t place—still couldn’t name,” He sighs upon recollection, “I realized I got the better end of the deal with our marriage. She, on the other hand, got all the worse of it. Once I saw my addiction consumed her in ways I never thought it would, it hit me; finally knocked some sense into me. The gun to our five-year marriage has been loaded for quite a while even before everything took a turn for the worse. I knew she wouldn’t have the heart to pull the trigger, that’s why I did. I was a dead weight she’s stubbornly held on to for as long as she could. I may have abused pills, but I will never abuse her.”

It was only after she’d let the silence sit longer for more than a beat that Langdon had realized he must’ve shared too much. He doesn’t say another word after that in spite of him wanting to defend himself. 

I promise I’m not all that bad. He wanted to tell her, but he knew he’d be lying. Perhaps, it’s better this way. It’d be better to scare her off—for Langdon to deal all his cards for her to decide if she wants to call his bluff. 

They walk a few more steps in silence, their pace falling in sync with one another’s. That’s when Langdon decides to reroute, turning away from home to buy himself more time. 

Liberalities and grace. 

He’s reaching for it with one hand. 

Finally, she speaks. 

“Is it weird that I feel proud of you?” 

That stops Langdon in his tracks. 

“What?” His voice comes out incredulous, that perhaps she was the one who’s actually lost her mind. 

“I just think you rob yourself of the credit you deserve.” She follows, shrugging as she adds, “I’ve been around people who didn’t deal with their stuff. People who pretended it wasn’t there. Believe me, it’s worse than your mocktails.” 

Langdon finds himself nodding slowly. Unsure if she meant to say it, thinking it must’ve come from a personal place—a slip of the tongue she didn’t realize she’d made.

“I hope you’re not reading into my reactions too much.”

“Am I that obvious?” He breathes out a cautious laugh. 

She hums in agreement. 

“You look like the gears in your head are spinning like crazy and you’re having a hard time keeping up with it.”

He’d been caught. 

“Alright then,” He prefaces, “What do you think of me now?” 

“Jury’s still out.” She shrugs with a grin, but tells him nothing but the truth. “Although, I do know it’s nothing short of the good impression you’ve made three mocktails ago.”

Langdon doesn’t say that he’s thankful. This reaction to him feels new despite it being so normal—so humane. He’d gotten used to looks of sympathy that more often than not seemed empty, like it was just a knee-jerk response people tend to make when they actually feel uncomfortable having to hear about the fact that he was struggling. 

Nevertheless, he does nod; acknowledging the sentiment. 

He candidly said, “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.” 

“What? Drink mocktails?” She’s fast to catch what he meant. 

Langdon hums, “Thank you, though. Appreciate it.” 

“I didn’t drink mocktails because of you—well yes, a little you, but it’s more than that, just so you know.” She tells him, letting Langdon breathe. He felt guilty thinking she stuck herself managing a recovering drug-addict when she could’ve had the fun she wanted for the night. 

“I was never a big drinker anyway. On occasion, yes.” She admits, “But between you and tonight, I didn’t think liquor would be a good idea.” 

Me? What about me and tonight? 

“If that’s the case, why were you at the bar?” 

“Unlike you brave soldier, I went there to distract myself.” She begins, “I… kinda have a big day tomorrow. Not that big anyway, but it’s significant.” She gestured with her hands as she talked as if to not make a big deal out of it, tucking more of her personal stuff beyond Langdon’s reach. 

Needless to say, he still makes a point to ask, “Life-altering kind of significant?” 

“Maybe? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m gonna find out tomorrow,” She shrugs, “Also… I was already contemplating getting out the door the minute I sat by the bar, then, I saw you looking like me—not necessarily lost, but stuck in a place you didn’t really want to be in.  That’s why I decided to stay.”

Oh. 

Langdon didn’t know what to say after that. 

Liberalities, grace, and his back pain. Those were the things that made Langdon step out of his apartment when he knew he should’ve been in bed resting for what awaits him tomorrow. He’d been hoping to find something—anything he could put his mind to so long as it meant not having to hold more of its weight. 

The pain, the guilt, the misery. Langdon has never had the time to be here in the now, because back then, the drugs were just in his car. He knew he could be elsewhere just after a few pills. The pain, the guilt, the misery. All of it, all of him—just gone. 

So, how is he supposed to deal with finding someone?

He remembers the first of his many tri-weekly NA meetings, courtesy of Robby’s “Second Chance.” Dating and Relationships in Recovery. That was the topic of discussion at the time. Someone, (whose name he’s had trouble remembering) had shared their experience in dating not too long after rehab. It’s not prohibited, but I can tell you from experience that it’s not a good idea. 

At the time, Langdon was still admittedly 20% in denial of having—needing to go to such meetings that he didn’t bother to ask why. He knows why. He’s a medically-trained professional, for pete’s sake. The obvious cross-addiction tagline dating and sex post-rehab no longer needed to be captioned for him to get what that meant. Still, he didn’t think much of it because he knew he wouldn’t have to. With his marriage being over, getting involved with someone new wasn’t even on the table, so much so that it barely made it there. 

Until now. 

He’d been sober for ten months, two months short of the minimum period recommended before recovering drug addicts could be romantically involved. He knew of the risks he’d inadvertently taken the second he got out of his apartment. If he’s about to deal with its consequences, then so be it. 

Does that mean he has to drag her down along with him?

He wouldn’t. Langdon has got to get a hold of himself. 

Pull away, Frank. 

The noise polluting his head makes him want to walk aimlessly, anchoring his feet to the ground as the pain of walking begins to graze through the soles of his shoes, boring into his skin and into the most vulnerable part of his body. 

His silence has become deafening that it took him to make four more turns before he realized a focal point in this exceptional eve of their nation’s birthday. 

You’re a bad liar. Has anyone ever told you that?

Langdon hadn’t met her brother, but perhaps he should’ve taken his (almost) word for it. He’d have to thank him some time, he knows it. 

My brother would beg to disagree. 

The image of her hung smirk was vivid in Langdon’s mind when she said it.  Hell, it was clearer than the Pittsburgh night sky, even he wouldn’t deny. The amount of walking he just did was at least twice as much as he'd made on his way to the bar, his back would’ve been killing him by now, but it’s not. (He thinks that it’s not.) 

That was all it took for him to finally catch on to what actually might be happening all throughout the stretch of their five-block walk. Talk about being counterproductive all you want, but he’d actually choose another detour than walk up his apartment alone. 

Shut it down. Put a stop to this. 

Pull away. Pull away. 

“You sure we’re close? I feel like we’ve been going in circles.” He inquires, feigning ignorance despite the fact that he’s made this turn thrice without her noticing. 

“Yeah, I’m this way.” She answers quite confidently, perhaps way too easy, just as she leads the way turning on a street Langdon knew like the back of his hand. His street. 

He sees the stop sign that was repaired just last week, the convenience store out on the corner he frequented for when he buys the kids snacks and candies for weekend visits. Langdon briefly checks his phone just to see if he’d missed anything since he did last. Bedtime reminder. It had been an hour since they left the bar. 

There’s a subtle frown building in between his brows, so he lets her walk a step ahead of him, just to see where her feet will take the both of them. His curiosity grows and grows with every step she makes, this time leading—no longer being guided by Langdon for the past hundred blocks. 

How long could she keep this up? 

When such steps do lead him to his apartment building, Langdon stops in his tracks, causing her to look over her shoulders, realizing that he was falling behind. 

“What?” With brows quirked and suspicious eyes, she inspects. “The night isn’t getting any younger, Frank.” 

Langdon looks up to his window, black-out curtains drawn just like how he left it. His movement causes her to do the same. 

He spills it, “This is me,” cocking his head towards the sliding doors of his apartment building. 

The intonation in his voice must’ve sent her the message Langdon had unknowingly given. 

“You said you were ‘round here?” He asks, not that there was still a point in prolonging this prelude. 

She’s been caught. 

She doesn’t back down. She wasn’t used to being caught in a lie. 

With a straight face, she answers in the affirmative. 

“Yes.” 

Lie.

Langdon comments, “You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.” 

The heel of her boot scrapes on the cold pavement as she takes a few steps towards Frank. The night is silent and they’re the only people standing on the sidewalk lit by a row of street lights. He still doesn’t realize, given that this wasn’t how he’d pictured spending his last night on pseudo-sabbatical, but Friday night had just taken a huge turn in his favor. 

“Fine,” She sighs, surrendering. “You got me.”

A grin tears at the corner of his lips once she retreats. 

Oh, this is wrong. 

“You could’ve just told me.” 

“Tell you what exactly?” 

Langdon shrugs, “That you didn’t want to leave the bar yet.” 

“Oh, I was ready to leave after the virgin cuba libre.” She says candidly, taking yet another step to close the gap in between them, “I just wasn’t ready to go home. Didn’t really want to.”

“Hence, the detour.” He meant to ask but the statement lands with finality, like it was definite.

“Uh-huh.” She nods, “Exactly.” 

Langdon makes the mistake of gazing upon her once she’s up close that he had to rest his hands on his hips to steady himself, placing them there as the circumstance suddenly became too real. 

He couldn’t fathom where to begin. His mind has already come up with the worst scenarios. Plural, yes. The closer he gets to the door of his apartment, the more reckless he thinks he’s being. If there was one thing ten months alone with himself has taught him, it’s the cruel truth that anything that’s got to do with him could easily mean a lot worse than what meets the eye. This night was no exception to that. 

For a second there, he struggles to find his words. 

So he reiterates, “You still could’ve told me.”

“If I did, would you have said yes?” 

Now that’s a tricky one. 

He answers with the truth, driving her point home. 

“Probably not.”

Langdon sees her mind slip through her expression as if to tell on her. It seemed as though what he’d just said was the exact response she’d been expecting. 

“I knew you wouldn't.” She said with confidence.

What does she want from him anyway? Could it be the same thing Langdon is refusing to acknowledge he’s thinking? If it was, Langdon isn’t quite sure he’s prepared to hear it. 

“I’m not sure what’s happening here.” Langdon confesses just as he lets out a sigh, “Even if I was, I don’t think I should be doing anything about it.” 

It’s true. He definitely shouldn’t. 

“I’m enjoying your company, Frank. That doesn’t require you to do anything.” She calmly states, tutting as she adds, “But hey, if you’d rather I left—” 

Langdon cuts her mid-sentence, answering a little too fast.

“No, please. I’m having a good time, too. With you.”

Uh-oh. 

He has to pull away. Still. 

She calls him out, “You’re overthinking this.”

“I…” He remains conflicted. “I don’t want to make a mistake. I feel like I’m not allowed—”

“To what? Be a normal person that needs other people and social interaction?” 

She has a point. 

Langdon avoids it. 

“That doesn’t matter. You know what I am.”

He earns a scoff from her just as she steps back. 

“A what? Drug-addict?” She says it as if she was the one supposed to take offense by what had been implied. “You are in recovery, Frank. Why do you say it like you’re some social pariah who deserves to be shunned away? To be allowed what?—nothing else besides therapy and rehab?” 

Langdon understands where she’s coming from, but he’s still finding it hard to believe he could be allowed the liberality of choosing. 

So, instead he says, “I’m just being careful.”

She nods in acknowledgement, but nonetheless reminds him, “You are more than your illness, Frank. You are more than your addiction.” She takes a step closer. “Life happens because you are it. Don’t make your addiction dictate how you’re supposed to live. Don’t treat it like it’s punishment for something that’s beyond your control.”

He disagrees with her, because it is a punishment. 

“I can control it.” Just like I controlled the substance I’d taken, the patients I’d stolen it from, the time, the place, and the drink I’d have it with. 

She doesn’t know how deep this pain goes for Langdon. He doesn’t want her to. Not when it’s beginning to make him believe he could really be allowed something more. 

“That’s because you choose to do better. And you’ve continued to do so for ten months.” She unknowingly pulls him out of the pit—his own pit. “You are responsible for your own sobriety. Yes, the support system should be accounted for, but all of your progress still happened because you made it so. You’ve got to allow yourself to live, Frank.” 

Langdon pauses and chooses to reflect. Was she right all along?

He’d been told by his therapist that it’s better to sit with the pain than seek some alternative to escape it. And tonight has been about him escaping. The decision of him leaving his apartment caused everything that followed to transpire. He could’ve chosen to sleep the pain away or busied himself with some other kind of remedy. But no, ten months post-rehab and here he was, thinking he’d gotten a lot better at sitting with his pain when he’s just been avoiding it one method at a time. 

He couldn’t think of a word to utter. The guilt has caught up with him. The very kind that creeps into his mind mere seconds before he downs a few pills of Benzodiazepines. Could it be true? Could she just be another method used to substitute the pain he so badly wants to escape? 

Langdon hopes he’s wrong. 

So, he begins to catalogue the entire night in his head. 

Backpain. Mocktails. Her. 

Has he been in pain the entire time he was with her? To an extent, yes. The pain was there, but it’s become bearable with her around. Is that a bad thing? Had Langdon been alone the entire night, would he be able to sit with such pain? Would he be able to ride it out like he’s used to? 

The relief he’d felt the second she sat beside him should’ve been enough for him to have gone home. Instead, he chose to bask in it—lean more of his weight towards it. Not to keep him distracted, but to be in the moment—to stay connected. With her or with himself? 

The walk shouldn’t have been much help either. Walking should’ve made his pain go all the way to the nines; up to the point where he could no longer stand. Instead, he chose to reroute four more times just to be with her longer than he needed to—longer for him to realize she was doing the same thing too. 

Frank, are you still in pain? 

God, this was not a good time to hate himself for dissociating at that NA meeting. He could’ve learned a thing or two on Dating and Sex in Recovery. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel like shit for being so incapable of choosing. 

When it takes another beat for Langdon to speak his mind, she lets him in on hers. 

“I wanted to spend more time with you, Frank. I didn’t want to go home.” She declares, “Isn’t that beyond your control?”

Now she’s actively choosing this. 

She’s choosing Frank. 

Pull me in.

“How…” Langdon tries to piece out a coherent thought, “Why do you have so much faith in me?” 

She shrugs, “I just do.” 

He finds it incredible. 

“But we barely know each other.” 

“I’m trying not to give up on people as fast as I used to.” She tells him with candor, perhaps had she been more honest, she’d tell Frank why she’s back in Pittsburgh too.

“You do that a lot with strangers?” 

“Not really,” she refutes, “you’re an outlier.” 

Oh, Langdon wants to think he got lucky. 

“You can tell me what’s on your mind.” She isn’t asking nor is she commanding him to. She’s merely offering a hand to help him hold some of the weight of his indecision.  

“I don’t want to start this the wrong way.“ 

He finally says it. 

“And the wrong way being?” 

“Using tonight as an escape—for me not to feel.” He worries. “I don’t want this to be just another distraction.”

She nods, finding the notion fair and called for. 

“Do you think I’ve only been a distraction?” 

“I hope not.” He answers despite the obvious uncertainty. 

“Do you think I will be?” 

“I’m not sure.” Langdon clarifies, “But I’m ill. No longer on edge, but still ill. Who’s to say I won’t treat this as an alternative?”

He said it again. This. 

She knows he meant her.

This time, he sees her pull back. She’s weighing things now. The liability—the gravity of the situation involving the stranger she just met several hours ago. 

Langdon is prepared for her to want to leave. He’d been prepared long before they left the bar. In fact, a part of him wants her to leave; to keep her safe—away from all of this. That way he wouldn’t have to deal with the feeling as though he was in two places at once. Torn between self-reliance and self-control; incapacitated by his mind while it simultaneously keeps him afloat. 

Maybe I should go. Langdon knows it’s what she’s about to say next. 

He couldn’t be more wrong.

“Has there been a time tonight where you weren’t being truthful?” 

“No… no, of course not.” Langdon answers immediately, despite keeping the uglier ones beneath the surface. “I’ve only ever told you the truth about myself.”

Well, some of it.

He catches himself. He remembers the day Robby caught the drugs stashed in his locker. Robby had asked him if he’d been helping himself to some meds from the ED. He neither answered with a definitive yes nor a resounding no. He deflected as soon as he’d been caught red handed, choosing his flight response because he wasn’t in his own head. 

Now, he’s confronted by a question with the same tenor and he chooses to answer with the truth, regardless of how little. He hasn’t been this present in years. He no longer recognizes this pattern.

She doesn’t say a thing but nods, as if to make do with whatever Frank allows. 

“Alright,” She gives him a tight-lipped smile, “Why don’t I make you a deal?”

Langdon hums, letting her continue. 

“Anything that happens from here on out, you’ll be in control.”

“What?” Langdon thinks he misheard her. Anything. Is she being serious?

“Well, except for first degree felonies, of course. I’d want some hand on that.”

He calls her name. Unlike her, he’s being serious about this.

She exhales, easing on the jokes. “What I’m saying is, if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you let me stay, I’ll stay. I’ll do whichever way you’re comfortable with.”

“I’m not really comfortable making your decisions for you.” Langdon remains cautious. 

“Let’s just say, this is me allowing you to choose, Frank.” 

The way she says his name causes his guts to turn quite unexplainably, Langdon had to contain his own breathing. 

“What’s it gonna be?” 

A beat passes before he lands on an answer. 

“It’s getting late.” He says, seeing her shoulders drop instantly, just as he says, “We should probably head inside.”

Liberalities and grace. 

Langdon is beginning to think he’s allowed the same.

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Quiet settles the moment Langdon closes the door to his apartment. 

It wasn’t much, given the fact that it had only been three months since he moved in. He knew that. But seeing her take in the four corners of the world he so badly wanted to escape hours ago, makes him realize how bare it actually must have looked for someone—well, someone other than him, to say the least. 

There were no longer boxes lying around because he’d gotten through it all in just a month. He didn’t really have a lot to unpack. The things he brought with him were just the few things he could really call his own. Things that were neither Abby’s nor the children’s. He left home with only the stuff he still had from med school, boxes from his childhood that his ex-wife somehow saved from their annual christmas donations, and of course, a few Penguins and Steelers merch he knows Abby would get rid of the second he gets out the door. 

Langdon didn’t have much to himself other than a few plates, cutlery, and a bed he can call his own. The apartment may not have felt exactly like how his previous home did back when he had Abby to do all the decorating, but it was a start. A reminder that he had structure in his little life. Somehow.

“Drink? I have—” He cut himself mid-sentence as the realization hit him. He doesn’t have anything much to offer her as well so he settles with the next best thing. “—water.”

“Water works.” A tight-lipped smile grows thin across her lips; polite and unassuming. 

He wishes she didn’t expect him to have anything else other than what he’s allowed. After all, she was in a recovering addict’s home. It wouldn’t bode well for Langdon to have her see a beverage far remote than the one that’s been distilled and filtered. 

Langdon headed towards the kitchen, hyperaware of the fact that he wasn’t alone in his apartment. It took all his might to restrain himself from looking over his shoulder just to see what she’s up to. Observing, nosing around, or just standing still. Maybe she sneaked out and left, changed her mind at the last minute. Which, arguably, also works in Langdon’s favor now that he thinks about it. 

Only she’s still there when he does look back. 

He buys himself more time to think things through. What’s to happen now that they’re much more alone than they were a few hours ago? 

He wonders if she’s doubting everything that's been said out on the street. He wonders if it was still a good idea to get on with it. He hasn’t really been with anyone since the divorce. It just wasn’t something he had his mind on. But alas, fate has an odd way of taking a spin at things. And he knows he tempted it the minute he headed out the door for the first time on the eve of Independence day. 

The time it took to fill up the glass didn’t help Langdon to land on a sensible conclusion. The only thing he knows now is that she’s still standing exactly where he left her last. 

“Why don’t you take a seat?” He motions for her to follow. 

Before she does, she points onto one of the few picture frames he had on display by the accent table. “Your family?” 

It was a family photo taken on the Holiday of 2024 at the new house his parents bought for their retirement. Tanner was three and Penny had only turned a year old. Abby had just gotten promoted which came in handy for Langdon who was only in his third year of residency, still paying off student loans, tightening his belt up to the point of hurting himself. Let’s just say we know what happened after that. 

He hums, affirming the question with nary a word. 

He hands her the glass, which she takes with both hands. One hand just below Frank’s while the other brush atop his finger the moment she takes said glass away from his grasp. 

Langdon feels a familiar pull in his guts. It was only then that he realized it was the first time that they’d actually touched. It’s different from how he felt when their hands were just hovering around the air sitting in between them on their walk. 

He remembers feeling this way the first time he liked a girl back in middle school, when he felt it on his third date with Abby, and when she told him she was pregnant with their first child, Tanner. He tries to make sense of the feeling, folding metaphorical dog-ears in his mind to make sure he’s not searching for some kind of high he’d end up chasing. 

“Thanks.” She takes a sip the second she has it, not because she was that thirsty but because she just had to find something else to do other than stand so foreign in Frank’s home. 

Finally, she took a seat on his couch, while he backed into the kitchen counter. For a minute, Langdon just stood there, several feet away from her, waiting—wracking his brain of what’s supposed to come next. 

“You’re doing it again.” She blurts out. 

Langdon straightens his back. 

“Doing what?” 

“Thinking too much.” 

“Sorry.” He shyly apologized, “Can’t help it.” 

A beat passes before she speaks again. 

“I meant what I said earlier, I hope you know.” 

Langdon tilts his head, urging her to continue. 

“That you’re allowed to choose, and that you’re in control of tonight.”

The statement just floats and doesn’t land definitively. It was more of an invitation than a command. A hand reaching out rather than one pulling with control. This time, for Frank, it did feel like he had a choice. 

“Remember what I told you as to why I went to the bar?” 

She hums. 

“You said you were having a hard time.” 

The quiet is steady, different from the silence he’s used to when he knows he’s doing things for the sole purpose of taking. It wasn’t the kind of silence that sits with him seconds before he takes his pills. But, nevertheless this quiet was familiar. It wasn’t entirely new in the sense that Langdon felt as though he was rediscovering it. He’d recognized the stillness because it was the quiet that enveloped his brain minutes before his final Pathology exam. It was the quiet that rested within him as he watched Abby walk down the aisle. The kind of quiet that allows him to sit with himself. To feel. To be with his mind. Reminding him that there was once a time when quiet felt like this—before chaos and noise were the only things his mind could crave.

Langdon folds his arms to his chest, feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever been the entire night. 

“I don’t want you to be the next best thing.”

You. Her shoulders tense up as she heard it. It was brief and subtle, but just enough for Langdon to catch it. 

“I’m not going to be the next best thing.” 

She doesn’t say it as though it was some kind of assurance, like it was an attempt for her to convince him. She said it with clarity as if it wasn’t just a statement but a fact. Not a substitute, but just Frank’s reality. 

Langdon has to make a decision. Everything he’d told her should’ve already caused her to leave. But after three mocktails and what seemed like the longest walk he’d made in his life, she’s still here. 

She reaches out. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

He sighs, surrendering. 

“I’m thinking… how it’d be like to kiss you.”

Everything moved at a pace much slower than the kind he was accustomed to. He’d been so used to jumping from one end to another. Always moving, always away. But now, as she stood an inch before him, Langdon felt like staying. 

Her touch feels electric as her hand brushes against his skin. 

“You’re allowed to have me, Frank.” She affirms beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Whatever you decide, I’m here.”

Frank nods, with his eyes shut. She doesn’t say another word, merely content with using the warmth of her body to help ground him, stabilize him. This feeling isn’t new to Langdon, but it has been a while since he’d allowed himself to be within such a short (and almost inexistent) distance of something more than just what requires his survival. 

With a dragged tone in his voice, he speaks at a lower register. 

“I’m going to kiss you.”

A subtle grin spreads along her lips, but Langdon finds it inadequate. 

“I need to hear you say yes.” He declares, just as the heat of his breath lingers in the thin space parting their lips from one another’s. 

She takes a moment to say yes, pulling Frank closer by his forearms; the movement neither fueled by urgency nor rush. 

“You may kiss me.”

Langdon feared he’d be overwhelmed by the time he kissed her. He was afraid of encountering the chase; the moment that usually takes him out of himself. Had it been that way by the time his lips met hers, Frank knew it’d only be a matter of time for him to make her the next best thing. 

But, when he did kiss her, it was nothing like he expected. 

Her lips were soft and tasted like flavored-chapstick. He liked how her shoulders tensed up by the time his lips touched hers despite her awareness of what’s about to happen. It’s quite flattering for Frank to know he had that effect on her, no matter how little. 

The kiss didn’t feel rushed, nor did it feel inauthentic. Frank’s feet seemed anchored to the ground not by some force he couldn’t place because it was greater than his being. No, it wasn’t like that at all. He didn’t feel himself soar off his apartment floor, not even by an inch. 

All that he knew was that he’s anchored to the ground, here with her, because he simply chooses to be. No escaping, just complete and absolute surrender to what awaits him.

Once he pulls away, he checks in on her. 

“You okay?”

She nods fervently, as she gasps for air, forgetting that Langdon preferred expressed rather than implied consent. 

“Never better.” She bites her lip to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. “You?”

“Okay, too.” 

For the first time, Langdon didn’t want to feel better. For the first time, he was okay at being completely content with the normalcy of living life the way he’s supposed to. This time, he isn’t just aware—he knows he wasn’t aiming for better. For him, it was enough to be able to stand in this moment and meet her exactly where she was. 

Langdon leans in again, this time pulling her closer as humanly possible that the only thing parting them from one another were the fabric of their own clothes. 

By the time their tangling feet manage to get them on the bed, Langdon was sure he could kiss her all night even if that’s the only thing she’d allow him. He finds himself planting kisses on the side of her lips, down to her jaw, just as he tends to the skin exposed between her neck and clavicle. 

She gasps, the sensation beginning to cloud her better judgment. Before it turns into a blur, she pulls away, this time to check on Frank. 

Liberalities and grace. 

“You sure about this?”

Surrender, Frank Langdon.

“I am.”

Frank’s hands found comfort beneath the fabric of her shirt, enjoying the confirmation of what his touch seemed to do to her. She shifts towards wherever they travel, aching to have more of him all whilst he tries to keep up with her. 

Pride causes warmth to spread along his chest as he takes in how she looked beneath him. 

“We’ve got time, sweetheart.” He manages to say amidst their teeth clashing in between kisses. 

He feels her break a smirk. 

“I know.”

Langdon snakes an arm underneath her to pull her closer to the headboard, away from the edge of the bed. He’s more than aware of the risk he’d taken just by how sheer force could trigger the pain he’d been trying to get away from all night. When he feels it, he lets it stay there, putting a pin on his aching obliques if that meant sharing tonight with her. 

He coaxes out a giggle from her when he catches her off-guard with such fluid motion. Frank’s hand travels to her nape, secured in place, while the other supports the small of her back. He lays her on the bed with gentle ease, considering the actual effort it took for him to make it. He pulls away, pulling his shirt above his head whilst she does the same. 

Frank hovers on top of her as he dives in for yet another kiss. He gently cages her face with a hand large enough to cover her jaw and jugular. He presses on the vein with just enough pressure while he tends on the sensitive skin near her earlobe, earning a moan from her. 

He’d never wanted anyone this much. 

Langdon hasn’t been with a woman other than his ex-wife for more than a decade. He’d never even thought, let alone dreamt of it. He was so sure Abby was the love of his life. But this—her, he knows it isn’t something primal. It isn’t something he’d seek just to get through the night. Which seems so confusing as the fact that they were mere strangers who’ve only met per chance stands as an undisputed fact. How could he feel such an unexplainable connection with someone he knew for less than a day? If only he had a second to spare and ponder, maybe he can think of an answer as to why.

It doesn’t take long before they’re all over each other once more. This time, skin to skin against Frank’s cold white sheets with nary a sense of urgency nor necessity to rush things. 

For Frank, it felt as though he was falling into something more than just a structure he’s yet to fully comprehend. For her, there was nothing else she’d rather put her mind to but the guy whose last name she was yet to know. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

“Hey… wake up, Frank.” she calls him softly, earning a tiresome groan off him. “Listen, I need to get to work but I hope to see you some other time, maybe?” 

Langdon opens his eyes at that. 

“It’s barely five in the morning. You can stay, I can take you.”

She chuckles, “You do realize the only thing I’m wearing is the last of your good shirts?” 

He murmurs, throwing a hand over her middle in an effort to stop her from leaving. 

“Come on… I left my number on the pad. Call me later?” 

Langdon reaches for her hand, their fingers instantly melting in an intertwine. Despite his obvious opposition to her leaving, he nods. “Dinner. Tonight. After work.” 

He knows she’s smiling despite his eyes being shut.

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?” 

“Telling.” Langdon declares with finality, causing a familiar warmth spread across her cheeks. She fails to stifle a beaming grin when he follows up and says, “I’ll call.”

She finds herself caressing Langdon’s arm with her free hand, drawing idle circles on his skin as if to soothe an answer out of him in her favor.  

“Only if you promise to let me go.” 

That makes him chuckle. He finally opens his eyes to gaze upon her, hair still disheveled from the events of last night. 

He no longer protests. 

“Alright, come on.” 

Before Langdon could pull himself off bed, she stops him with a hand resting firmly on his biceps, “No need to walk me out. Just sleep some more, mkay?” 

Just because he still feels the weight of sleep in his eyes, Langdon acquiesces, “Okay.”

Well, not quite.

“Frank, let go already!” She laughs the minute Langdon pulls her back to bed with his hand that seemed to have been glued shut with hers. 

“You haven’t answered.” He coos, hoping she’d agree to what he has sort of asked her seconds ago. 

He sees her grinning, “Yes. Dinner, tonight, after work.”

That confirmation finally made Langdon let go, tucking his hand instead underneath the pillow to get at least half an hour of sleep before he inevitably had to wake up for today’s shift. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Langdon only had her to thank for the extra two hours of sleep he was able to get before he inevitably had to leave his bed for work. He’s grateful because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be able to endure the mind-numbing and tedious HR clearance procedure waiting for him the second he steps through the PTMC doors. 

He wasn’t worried about all the administrative matters he was subjected to in compliance with Gloria’s direct orders, nor about having to pee in a cup for the first time at his place of work. Hell, he wasn’t even worried about the pungent smell that covered the entire waiting area by the time Lupe had told him to sit down and wait for his clearance and recommendation letter. 

The tedious standard procedure for returning drug-addict employees in recovery wasn’t the one that caused the gnawing pressure bubbling in his guts. Rather, it was the man entering through the same doors he did just short of an hour ago, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, walking right past him despite the knowledge of his much awaited return. 

Lupe’s voice cuts through the all-too familiar chaos of the ER. 

“Frank?” 

He’s been called to return. It doesn’t matter if it’s temporary or that he’s been called as a substitute to some other physician away from work. He’s here now. The possibility of him coming back was a shot in the dark he’d only dream of back in rehab, back when his mind allows him to think of anything else other than needing to soldier through the pains of withdrawal. He did that without much assurance as to whether he’d ever be allowed back. Ten months, he’d spent days enduring physical and mental torture. Ten months clouded with doubt and uncertainty. Ten months, he’s here now. 

“Langdon?” 

Inhale. 

“Frank?”

Exhale. 

The third time Lupe calls his name, Langdon finally musters enough courage to walk up to the reception. 

With a nod, she slips an envelope towards Langdon, “You should be good to go now, hon.”

“Thanks, Lupe.” 

“Of course.”

He cowers beneath the shade of his Pittsburgh Penguins cap as he glances on to the envelope he’s now holding. It was the clearance letter from HR and the Physician’s Health Program. 

───────────────────────────

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL — ADDRESSEE ONLY

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Relations, Head Office TO: Dr. Frank Langdon, MD

IMPORTANT HEALTH CARE INFORMATION ENCLOSED

───────────────────────────

There must’ve been a look that sneaked on his face prompting Lupe to say, “Hey, go get ‘em.”

Langdon doesn’t need to read too much into that. Whatever his exterior might’ve looked, it couldn’t be any worse than what he's been dealing with inside. Regardless, he gives her a tight-lipped smile, grateful to know he wasn’t alienated by the first co-worker he met since, well… you know.

His hand was already pushing the door ajar when an all too familiar labored voice caught his attention. 

“Hey, Doc.”

Louie Cloverfield aka the patient whose prescription Langdon had successfully tampered with several times before the day Robby finally caught him red-handed. 

Despite his guilt, Frank manages to look at him.

“It’s been a while.”

Like he always does for the other times he’d been in and out of the ER, Louie grins, chuckling in spite of the pain he’s feeling. 

“I got a bad toothache today.” He informs Langdon.

A warm grin breaks, welcoming. “We’ll take care of that, Louie.”

Langdon’s first walk into the bull-pen was supposed to be just like the hundred times that came before it: the golden boy strutting into Central still tying the laces of his scrubs, already asking Dana for a cool case despite the clock barely ticking past 7:00 AM. 

Only, it wasn’t. 

He’s used to arriving at work feeling like he was coming home. The out flow of patients left by the night shift, the chaos of the morning in central juxtaposed to the morning outside of the building, never still—never quiet. Langdon is used to feeling as though he was being embraced as he charged into the belly of the beast, into the jungle he was free to be wild in; where he got to move, jump, fly, and think about nothing else but himself. 

He isn’t used to coming home to this. Seeing people old and new, running in different directions with purpose. Some towards the staff lounge to make coffee, some to stop and gossip. These were just some of the things he missed when he came to work high even before noon. It doesn’t look like a jungle. It doesn’t feel exciting. 

For the first time, Langdon sees the Pitt in a different light. Sober light.    

He still doesn’t know if that is a good thing. Maybe he’ll figure it out today. 

Robby’s voice is all that he could hear by the time he’s done changing into his scrubs. 

“Everyone, gather around—make some room, take space. We’re about to have our briefing.” He announces, voice commanding as he remembers. “Langdon, get your ass over here. No one’s gonna wait any longer.”

That ought to make him move. 

Robby’s eyes didn’t land on him when he managed to stand alongside Whitaker and some tall kid he figured to be someone new. 

MS? Intern? Could be either. 

He sees Jack Abbot standing unusually close to Mohan, who in turn had Mel stuck beside her like a magnet. Out by the corner was Santos, side-eyeing his existence. Javadi comes up to Whitaker, who’s an MD now by the way, still with a white mocha latte in hand she wasn’t able to finish. 

Langdon takes one last sweep over the huddle, just before his eyes land onto Robby. 

Onto her. 

What—“First of all, I’d like you to meet Dr. YN Robinavitch, she’d be joining our ship for the rest of her residency.” Robby begins, motioning towards her as she stands tall beside him despite their obvious height difference. 

Audible gasps followed such a declaration. Heads snapping on the side, murmuring, sizing the new kid in town. Probably thinking, Nice. Another nepo hire. 

Frank thinks he’s about to pass out. 

It doesn’t take a beat for Abbot to chime in. With a smirk he reveals, “Yes, as in Robby—Robinavitch. No, she’s not his wife nor is she his daughter.”

Langdon could only decipher what seemed like Robby throwing daggers at the night-shift attendant by the time he finishes the statement. 

Robby clears his throat, taking control. 

“Dr. Abbot’s correct. She is neither my wife nor my daughter, god forbid. But yes, she is family.”

Family. 

Oh my fucking god.

“It’s nice to know Javadi isn’t the only one inclined to join the family business ‘round here.” Santos managed to slide a snide comment but the ringing in Langdon’s ear had already grown louder for him to register anything else other than his own heart beating its way out of his chest, he thinks he’s about to have a STEMI. 

Mel hits the final nail on Langdon’s coffin once she asks a follow up question. 

“So… she’s your?” 

Robby seals Langdon’s fate with just a word.

“Sister.” 

“Fuck me.” 

Langdon hisses under his breath, unaware that his mouth moved faster than his brain could process new waves of information. 

Robby exchanges glances between her and Langdon, his tone laced with curiosity but doesn’t seem to suspect a thing. 

“You two know each other?” 

“No, we just met. Isn’t that right,” she pauses to look at Frank’s hospital badge, “Dr. Langdon?” 

She was rather quick to decline, dismissing the notion before it sat too long in the air. Had there been the slightest hint of panic rising in her throat, her brother Robby would be the last person to catch it. 

Fuck me. Langdon successfully thinks to himself. 

“Yeah, no—just today.” He concurred as he aimed for a handshake.  

She kept up with his gaze that’s long been pinned on her, bearing with it what seemed like hundreds of questions piled on Frank’s magnificent brain. She watched his throat move just as her eyes fell captive for his mouth, the very same mouth that he’s proven to be just as capable as the hand she was about to hold.

The warmth of Langdon’s hand wraps around hers as she accepts what was merely a formality being offered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Robinavitch.” 

A smug smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, just as she says—“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Langdon.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended to think about the answer for a second. “I was in med school and needed someone to fuck so I could release the rest of my energy?” you joked and he rolled his eyes with a scoff. “What?” you looked back, smiling. “You should take it as a compliment, you’re so sexually talented, I’ve stayed with you all this time!” you sent him a bright smile and kissed his cheek as he rolled his eyes and removed himself from you. He walked off to his patient, mumbling something about ‘drive me crazy’, as Princess laughed at him. 

“He’s hovering today,” she shook her head. “You’re not concussed again or something, right?” she questioned, referencing the time you got a concussion on shift and he wouldn’t leave you alone. It was the day everyone found out that you and Langdon didn’t actually hate each other, and that you actually shared the last name. You’d gone by your maiden name in your first year, mostly because you hadn’t bothered to legally change your name after the wedding for a long time (med school kept you busy), and also to avoid the awkward explanation. 

You laughed. “No concussion yet, but the day is still young,” you smiled before walking off to your first case. 

Princess shook her head. Something was up. 

Mateo stared at Frank as he stared out the window. “You good?” he questioned. Everyone had been a bit nicer to Frank since he joined back to the Pitt after his rehab stint and sabbatical, so he didn’t go straight to teasing. Everyone knew it was difficult for him, and they understood that sometimes he might be a bit more snappy, or a bit dazed. They did their best to accommodate because, even if he was an asshole, he was an integral part of the Pitt, and people loved how happy he made you. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, biting his lip and he didn’t take his eyes off whatever he was staring at. Mateo sucked in a breath. 

“Dude,” he cleared his throat. Frank finally pulled his eyes away from whatever he was so entranced by. He faced Mateo. “You good?” He asked again, a hand on his shoulder. 

He nodded slowly, then quicker. “Yeah, yeah,” he shook his head, like he was shaking off whatever was in his head. “Yeah I’m good. Just tired. Forget how hard these shifts are sometimes.” He chuckled semi-convincingly. Mateo just nodded, filling it into the back of his mind if Robby ever asks him about Langdon and how he thinks he's doing. 

Frank left the room, pulling his stethoscope around his neck as he left. “He’s being weird,” Mateo shook his head. “Makes me nervous.” 

Trinity let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. “Right? Super weird, he didn’t even chew me out for making a joke about his hair today.” She stared at the spot he’d last been like he’d just disappeared into thin air. Mel looked between the two of them, it being an unnaturally slow (she knew she was jinxing herself by even thinking it) day, meaning both her and Santos were on a case together. 

“I think he’s being normal,” she shrugged, confused by their reactions to him. “He’s just… getting his bearings. It’s his first week back and his first day was the 4th, and that was terrible. He’ll be back to normal in a few days.” She offered them her signature smile, and got nothing but shaking heads in return. She frowned. 

“He’s being strange,” Mateo repeated. He walked up to the window, searching for him. “I mean, look, he’s filling up Y/n’s bottle for her. That’s weird.” 

“Why would that be weird?” Trinity and Mel asked at the same time. 

Mateo’s jaw dropped. “You haven’t heard of the bottle incident of 2022?” he scoffed. They both shook their heads. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, so back then, none of us knew they were together, and all they used to do was bicker, which we all now know is their foreplay, which is gross,” he made a face, then continued on. “And one day, it got so bad, Y/n spilled Frank’s bottle all over him when he’d asked her to refill it, in front of Gloria and a patient. Ever since they’ve literally been banned from touching each other’s bottles. It always ends badly,” he looked out the window again to see him hand you the freshly refilled bottle, with a quick kiss to the cheek. 

Mateo knew he had to consult Princess’s sheet. 

Trinity stared at Frank in the breakroom. He was looking at something on his phone, but he was covering it with his other hand, like he didn’t want people to see. She raised an eyebrow, and kicked him in the leg (softly). “Watching porn at work?” she joked, Frank quickly turning off his phone and sending her his signature glare. “Come on, I’m kidding,” She smiled. “It’s good to have you back.” 

He nodded, rolling his eyes. “Weirdly, it’s good to be back,” he agreed. He looked down. “Look, I was a dick to you before-” “aw thanks-” “Not finished. You can still be a pain in the ass, but you’re a good doctor. You’re talented. I was… well I was fucked up before, and I’m sorry I treated you the way I did. It wasn’t cool.” He finally met her eyes, an awkward sense of accountability filling the air. She blinked at him. 

“Thank you for apologising,” she said tentatively. “That’s really… adult of you, I guess.” She chuckled to try and diffuse the awkwardness of the moment. Maybe Dr.Abbot was right about her needing to switch to nights? Day shift was too personal for her. 

“Yeah well, I have to become one at some point,” he huffed before walking out, and she stared as he left, her jaw dropped to the floor. Had Frank Langdon just made a self-depricating joke? ER Ken, ‘the chin’, handsome squidward (okay maybe she came up with two of those), had actually admitted to having flaws. She watched as he swung by your workstation, a granola bar in hand, pressing it into your palm as he kissed the top of your head. 

She was adding it to Princess’s list.

Jesse hated it when Langdon interfered with your work, because you always let him. Langdon wasn’t the most openly affectionate husband, hell, no one had known you two were together for about a year. Neither of you had anything to prove, no PDA would change the fact that you two loved each other, and everyone knowing really just made things more complicated. 

So why the fuck was Langdon taking all the good cases and Jesse was stuck with him for half of them? It was no secret that you were Jesse’s favourite doctor, you were cool-headed, always kind to nurses, and always in a good mood somehow. He’d seen you lose it once, and it was the day Langdon’s drug problem was uncovered by Robby, and then the mass casualty after it. You’d sobbed in the breakroom with Jesse and Yolanda at your side, emotionally exhausted from the toll of the day. As the months rolled on and Langdon started his rehab journey, you still stayed positive. You were still smiling, still updating everyone and telling them he was doing well, telling them he missed them, even though they knew he didn’t. He missed you, missed being at work with you. Everyone else was just a side-character to him, you were everything. 

“What the fuck is going on? You’re taking all the good cases and leaving Y/n with the shit,” Jesse asked as he threw his gloves in the bin. “I mean, come on, she’s getting all the easy ones! I did CPR in there for 4 rotations before someone else came to help!” He scoffed as Langdon turned to him. 

“She’s tired,” Frank shrugged, dropping his own gloves into the bin as he passed Jesse. “She asked me to take ‘em, I took ‘em.”

Okay, Jesse knew that was bullshit. You always thought about yourself last, it was always the patients first. You also wouldn’t let Frank have all the fun with the difficult cases. 

Jesse stared at the sheet as he stood at the nurses station. He added it, just to be safe. 

Perlah was appalled by the sight in front of her. She had half a mind to write you both up. Frank had his hand around your waist in the breakroom, a hand sprawled over almost your entire stomach, with his head leaning on yours, just listening to whatever story Jack was recounting. She watched him. Chewing slowly against you, a thumb running back and forth over your scrubs. 

You noticed her staring and sent her a mouthed sorry and a shrug, like you had no idea what had gotten into him. Perlah decided to blame it on first week back-jitters. She just averted her eyes when he leant down and stole a quick kiss, shocking the both of you in the process. 

It was the next line on the list by noon. 

Dennis Whittaker took no pleasure in making the right call when it meant he would face the wrath of Frank Langdon. He’d made a quick save, realised something before him, and he’d ordered the correct meds before he could consult. He didn’t want to explain. He didn’t want to fight. He just wanted to calmly explain that technically, Frank had made the wrong call. 

“You alright Whitty?” You called out, Frank at your side. Whitty was something you’d started to call him a few months ago after he’d made a witty joke out of nowhere, making you laugh so hard, you’d cried. “What’s up?” You questioned. Frank’s eyes snapped to him and he took a very sharp breath. 

“Y’know Mr. Gregor?” he asked, you shook your head and turned your attention to Frank. He nodded. “Well I was going over his CT scan and I notice how close his bleed was getting to causing a seizure and I know you told me not to push Atorvastatin unless he was actually seizing, but I tried it anyway, and his BP went way down and he’s stable enough to go to theatre,” he blurted out. “Sorry, I know I should’ve told you, o-or gotten you, or-”

A smile bloomed on Frank’s face. “Good save, kid,” he smiled, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Go check on Mrs. Taylor, yeah?” 

Whittaker walked away genuinely concerned that Frank had been replaced with a different person. He added it to the list after he told Trinity about it.

It took a lot for Mel to notice something. She usually just assumed everyone was alright, and if they weren’t, they could speak up and say something about it. She knew that Frank had been a bit… antsy since coming back. He constantly looked for you once he left a patient's room. He stared all the time. He kissed you whenever you got close enough to him. You just laughed it off. Called him clingy, or a big baby. He didn’t bite back. He just smiled. He didn’t argue, just tried to kiss you again before you pushed him off, warning him about being written up. You acted like this total 180 personality change was normal. She swallowed back her surprise when Frank had started rattling off facts about pregnant women, to the pregnant woman in front of him. Obviously, every doctor and nurse here had knowledge on pregnancies, but this was overkill. Random facts about fetal anatomy and positioning. Those ‘lovey-dovey’ (as Santos had so elegantly branded it) things about mothers and babies that he would’ve called bullshit a year ago. 

She blinked when she started talking about various tracking apps he wouldn’t have known the name of a year ago. 

The patient was discharged with a smile, and Mel turned to him. “Trying to get patient satisfaction up?” She asked incredulously, completely at a loss for words.

He shrugged. “No, why?” 

She stared, mouth open and helpless, like she thought he should know what she was talking about. He just stared back. “But, you knew all that?” She chuckled, more surprised than laughing. 

“You don’t?” he asked before leaving the room, probably off to find you. 

She added it to the list after a talk with Dana.

Dana had been keeping an eye on the both of you all day. Princess had shared her strange findings on a small chart at the nurse’s station. Frank had gone to find you 18 times in 7 hours, when he could usually go the entire shift without looking for you. Dana looked it over, confused, what the fuck was he doing? 

“How’s your resident doing?” Dana asked as Robby came up beside her. Her eyes stayed on the piece of paper. It had add-ons from Mateo, Santos, Jesse, Perlah, Whittaker, even Mel was in on it. He stared at Frank from across the room, talking animately to a patient. 

He sighed. “I don’t know yet. Still wondering if we brought him back too early,” He shook his head and noticed the sheet of paper. Robby stared at the sheet for a moment, then ripped his glasses off his face. He huffed. “Fuck’s sake.” he breathed out, and she turned to him expectantly, then it dawned on her. 

“We’re going to be losing two of our best Senior residents in about 8 or 9 months for paternity leave,” She shook her head with a smile, and Robby couldn’t exactly hide his own.

Of course. 

He’d had his hands on you all day. He kept looking for you to make sure you were alright. He refilled your water without having to be asked. He gave you his protein bar. Come to think of it, he’d been taking the strenuous cases and leaving you with the easy ones. He even took Trinity off your hands so that you could take Mel and have an easier day. Robby chuckled, grabbing Frank as he passed by, his eyes set on one thing, you. 

He didn’t notice the hand reaching out and grabbing the collar of his scrubs, so he kind of tripped into stopping. “Woah!” he scoffed, his hands up in air as he balanced himself, Robby’s hand retracting. “What the fuck was that for?” 

Robby smirked as Frank turned his attention back to you, those tiny glances everyone had seen all day. “Y/n’s still going to be there in 4 seconds,” he shook his head. Frank looked at him, faking confusion. “What’s going on? How far along is she?” 

Frank’s face went blank. Dana laughed, gaining the attention of Princess and half the nursing staff. Frank cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shook his head. Frank Langdon was many things. Blunt, rude, annoying. One thing he was not, was a good liar. Dana laughed into Robby’s shoulder as a chuckle left his own lips. 

“Sure kid, just let me know so I can book off your paternity leave,” he clapped a hand on Frank’s shoulder, who quickly brushed it off, irritation surging through his body. Robby stayed smiling. “I’m happy for you two, congratulations.” 

Frank gritted his teeth, stepping in closer, his voice cutting and final. “She is not pregnant. We are not pregnant!” He practically shouted, gaining the attention of nearly the whole ER. Everyone stared, he went bright red, he cleared his throat, and he walked. 

Straight to you, of course. You laughed at him as he pushed some of his hair out of his face, following you around like a puppy. You hadn’t heard his outburst, but no doubt you’d hear about it.

“Nice catch Robby,” Dana smiled. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.” She shook her head. 

He shrugged. “He’s such a worrier the second she gets sick, we’re going to have to deal with this for months now.” 

The small group that had gathered all realised they’d have to deal with Dr. Worrywart for a whole 9 months. They quickly went back to work. 

“I think everyone’s onto us,” You chuckled as Frank came up to you for the 24th time that day. He shook his head. 

“No, I think we’re good. No one knows-”

“Everyone knows!” Both Robby and Dana cheered from behind you. Dana hugged you from behind as you laughed, Frank’s blank expression breaking into an annoyed squint. “Congratualtions,” she smiled. “You’re going to be the coolest parents.”

“I think you already fill that role,” you chuckled, taking her hand. “But thank you.” 

“Congratualtions.” Robby smiled, shaking Frank’s hand and then pulling you into a hug as Dana pulled Frank into a reluctant hug. 

They left you after a few more congratulations and you turned to Frank. “You’re totally right, no one knows,” you teased.  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” he couldn’t fight the bright smile on his lips.

the pitt masterlist

The emergency room of PTMC was exactly how you remembered it - too bright, too busy and full of people who all seemed to be having worse days than you.

You stayed close to Amy, guiding her to a waiting chair and helping her fill out her admittance forms as her pain worsened.

“There's so much work to do, you shouldn’t be wasting your time here with me.” She muttered guiltily.

“You’re being ridiculous.” You reprimanded, although your tone was gentle. “I’ve got it sorted.”

You tried to ignore the constant buzzing of your phone in your pocket.

“Although, I think you’re banned from stilettos for a little bit.”

“But they’re Jimmy Choo.” She pouted.

You huffed a laugh despite yourself.

“Amy Saint-Clair?” A nurse called.

You glanced down at her ankle. It had nearly doubled in size since you first walked in.

“We might need a wheelchair.”

-

You followed closely as the nurse wheeled Amy through the swinging doors.

If you thought the waiting room was chaotic, the actual ER was something else entirely.

A hive of activity that somehow seemed to function as one organism - a single stream of consciousness, doctors and nurses weaving through the chaos with practiced fluidity.

“What have we got here-“ Another nurse stops, eyes dropping to Amy’s ankle.

You didn’t miss the way the nurse’s eyes widened ever so slightly as they looked up at their colleague.

“Dana, is there a room open?” The nurse called out as a blonde woman swept past them.

“Room 8’s free.” She replied without looking back.

“Great.”

In one fluid motion, the first nurse handed the wheelchair over, disappearing back to the admittance area before you could blink.

Finally, the nurse turned to you both.

“Sorry about that, today has been chaotic. I’m Perlah.”

“That’s ok, I’m Amy.”

You introduced yourself when Perlah turned to you before tacking on "concerned co-worker."

Perlah smiled. “Alright Amy let’s see what we can do for your ankle.”

Your heels hit the polished floor loudly as you hurried to keep up with Perlah, who was moving the wheelchair at an impressive pace given her size.

The sound carried.

Unbeknownst to you, heads turned. Subtle at first, then less so.

Santos let out a low whistle.

Whitaker cut her a look out of his peripheral. “Nice. Very professional.”

“What? She's hot...in my professional opinion.”

He shook his head, forcing himself to stare back at his computer.

“Who’s the hottie in room 8?” They both glanced up to see Javadi peering around her monitor.

“Who the hell says hottie?”

"What's this about a hottie?" McKay's ears piqued, causing her to divert from her route immediately.

"Pretty friend of a patient in Room 8." Jesse piped up from his desk.

"You lot are worse than teenagers." Dana roused, looking at them over the rims of her glasses.

She glanced up at the electronic board.

"We do actually need someone to go check-"

"-I'll go." Santos volunteered, already moving to jump up from her stool.

"Sit back down missy." Dana snapped. "You're way too behind on your charting."

Dana's gaze swept over the pitt, then paused.

She did a double take when she saw a flash of dark hair accompanied by a familiar slouch and forlorn expression.

"Doctor Langdon."

Frank looked up, mildly startled at the sound of his name being called.

"Just the person I wanted to see." Dana smiled as she inclining her head. "Patient for you in Room 8, looks like a nasty ankle trauma."

Frank swallowed a very obvious sigh. He'd been hoping for even just a ten minute respite from what had been an incredibly shitty shift so far.

"On it."

Everyone watched him leave. Then almost in unison, their attention snapped back to Dana.

"Dana, what the hell-" Santos began to protest.

"Save it." Dana continued typing, sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

"He's moody today." She added as she glanced over her shoulder to Room 8 as Frank pulled the curtain aside.

"So?"

A small smirk twitched up onto her lips as she shrugged innocently.

"Thought it might cheer him up a bit."

-

"A doctor should be with you shortly." Perlah reassured Amy as she helped settle her onto the hospital bed.

You thanked her, your hand coming up to pat Amy's shoulder, thumb brushing absentmindedly in a soothing rhythm when you caught her grimace.

"Jake's still coming, right?" You asked, trying to pull her focus somewhere other than the pain.

"Yeah." Amy nodded, exhaling shakily. "Said he'll get here as soon as he can but traffic's a nightmare. Said something about a six car pile up on the motorway."

You both looked up as the curtain slid open.

He was tall.

That was your first thought.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. A stethoscope hung loose around his neck, like it belonged there rather than being placed there. And his eyes - a striking shade of blue.

Those piercing eyes flicked from you to Amy and then back to you again.

"Hopefully none of them need a trip to the ER."

His voice was warm. Grounded and steady in a way that immediately made you feel like everything was a little more under control.

"No I don’t think so, my boyfriend said it didn't look too serious." Amy chuckled awkwardly.

“Well that’s a relief. I’m Doctor Langdon by the way.” He introduced himself as he squeezed a pump of sanitizer into his hands.

“Amy.”

“Nice to meet you Amy.”

His eyes met yours again, this time holding your gaze just a touch longer.

You offered your name, hoping it sounded more casual than you felt, as you resisted the urge to stare longer than was appropriate.

Then he smiled, just slightly.

Ok, he was hot.

He took the tablet from Perlah, glancing through the intake notes.

“Now, I’ve heard we had a nasty fall on your ankle, is that right?”

“I wouldn’t say it was nasty-“

You shot her a silencing glare. “It was nasty. Her shoe got caught in a grid at a crosswalk and she practically faceplanted."

Frank nodded, attention sharpening on Amy’s ankle.

“That sounds painful.”

“Very.” Amy admitted.

“Alright, let’s take a look Amy.” He slid on a pair of gloves and crouched beside the bed.

He had barely even brushed a finger over the area when Amy let out a hiss of pain.

Frank glanced over his shoulder to Perlah.

“Push four of morphine.”

You didn’t mean to watch him so closely.

The way he moved - careful, deliberate. The way his brow pulled together just slightly as he focused. The quiet, almost automatic gentleness in the way he handled her ankle.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket again.

You ignored it.

You told yourself it was because Amy needed you, and definitely not because you were suddenly, acutely aware of the attractive doctor in front of you.

"Does this hurt?"

His voice softened as he gently rolled her ankle forward.

Amy flinched, "yeah that really hurts."

“Alright. That’s helpful. Not fun, but helpful.”

There was something about the way he said it - dry, but kind - that made Amy visibly relax despite herself.

After a moment he stood, unfolding back to his full height.

"Well Amy, we're going to need to do a CT of your ankle to see if there are any fractures."

"Do you think it's broken?" She asked anxiously.

"Unfortunately it's hard to say right now given the amount of swelling. It might just be a really bad sprain."

He turned slightly, murmuring something to Perlah, pointing at the tablet.

You watched the folds of Amy's face crease into an anxious frown. You crossed your arms as an unexpected bubble of irritation burst in you.

"You know, it’s ridiculous that there’s even a grid there. That’s where you’re supposed to walk.” You huffed to Amy. “And it’s right in the middle of the city where thousands of women in high heels walk every single day.”

Frank’s mouth twitched faintly.

He and Perlah exchanged a look.

“It is kind of silly.” Amy agreed half heartedly.

“It’s not just silly, it’s negligent." You insisted, the familiar rhythm of advocacy settling within you. “I should write to the council you know. Threaten to sue or something, because otherwise nothing will actually get done about it like usual because they're-“

You stopped yourself abruptly when you remembered where you were.

You were not at your desk angrily typing out a letter to an opposing party, you were in a hospital.

You cleared your throat.

"Sorry." You glanced sheepishly between Doctor Langdon and Perlah. "I can get...worked up sometimes."

"More like highly strung." Amy grumbled, causing you to shoot her a glare.

"What are you, a lawyer or something?" Frank asked as he slid his gloves off, a quiet thread of amusement in his voice.

You winced.

"Just a little bit, yeah."

He looked up at you again, his eyes wide. "Wait seriously?"

"She's not just a lawyer, she's a great lawyer." Amy boasted proudly.

Langdon glanced between the two of you.

"So you're-"

"-a concerned colleague." You jumped in.

"She's my boss." Amy corrected. "I'm her paralegal."

"Ok firstly, you're not my paralegal, you're a paralegal at the firm I work at. And secondly, I am not your boss - you're making me sound old."

Frank huffed a laugh at that. It slipped out of him easier than it had all day - maybe even all week.

Amy rolled her eyes fondly at you in a way that only someone in a great working relationship could.

"We were coming back from court when I tripped." She explained.

Frank nodded, but his eyes still hadn't quite left you.

"Well...boss or not, it's very nice of you to come and wait here with her. Not a lot of coworkers would do that."

"Oh." You glanced at Amy and then back at him. "Well... she always uses the correct font type and size, so I'm a little attached."

Amy snorted. "And who says romance is dead?"

That loosened another quiet chuckle out of Frank, and for a second his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than necessary.

You felt it. That small shift, like the air had changed pressure. A flicker of something as your heart skipped a beat.

Perlah smirked as she slipped out of the room.

"Ok well-" Then Frank's attention was on Amy again, as if that moment had never happened, like flipping a well worn switch. "it might take a while before your CT, so just try to relax and if your pain gets worse let a nurse know and we can increase your morphine dose."

“What’s a while mean in doctor speak?”

“Could be half an hour, could be a couple of hours. It really depends on if we get anything urgent come in. But we’ll try and get you through as fast as we can.” He reassured her.

Amy shot you a panicked look.

"Ok, thanks doc.” You answered for her as you grasped her hand and squeezed.

"No problem."

His eyes flickered to you once more before he disappeared through the curtain.

Frank pulled the curtain shut. Unable to help himself, he hovered outside as your muffled voices pierced through the thin fabric.

"You should go, seriously. I can't ask you to stay here for hours."

"I'm not leaving you here on your own."

"But there is so much work to do- ok wait pass me my laptop and I can start-"

"Amy, you're not working, you're in the hospital for christs sake. Nothing we do is that important."

Frank knew he should walk away, but he couldn't bring himself too.

"But-"

"-no buts." Your voice was gentle, but had a firm edge, one that made it clear you weren't budging. "I can do it all tonight."

"But you already have so much to do." Amy's voice grew softer as her resolve waivered.

"Exactly, so what's a couple more things to add to a never ending list?"

Frank heard Amy let out a defeated sigh. "Well at least there's one positive to all this."

"Oh yeah? what's that?"

A beat, and then-

"Doctor Langdon is hot."

He didn’t let himself hear your response.

Frank moved fast. Down the hall, around the corner, going anywhere but there.

His jaw tightened, heat creeping up the back of his neck despite himself.

Perlah made her way back to the desks clustered in the middle of the ER, the hum of monitors and overlapping conversations swelling around her again.

Princess pounced immediately.

“Javadi says there’s a gorgeous woman in Room 8.”

“There is. She’s a lawyer.”

“Oh." Princess' brows lifted. "Beauty and brains.”

“I like her, seems fiery.”

They both looked up, falling silent as Langdon walked past.

“And Langdon’s the primary?” Princess murmured in Tagalog, their eyes tracking his every movement.

“Yep, and he’s smitten.”

Frank stopped at one of the computers and swiped his ID.

He glanced over at Princess and Perlah to see them giggling. They fell silent when they noticed his gaze, before sharing a glance and bursting into another fit of involuntary laughter.

He shook his head, jaw tightening as he turned back to the screen, willing the faint heat creeping up his ears to disappear as he began typing.

"Heard you've got a stunner in Room 8."

Frank didn't bother to look up from his screen as McKay leaned across the desk, her tone far too casual to be innocent.

"Really? I can't say that I noticed."

McKay scoffed. "Sure you didn't."

She paused for a moment and then, "so... is she single?"

Frank finally looked up at her over his monitor. "I don't know." He said flatly. "I was busy treating my patient, you know - doing my job."

McKay rolled her eyes. "Why is everyone so boring today?"

He shook his head and cursed quietly under his breath.

Frank Langdon had handled a lot in this ER. He'd intubated critical patients, manually pumped hearts, stood knee-deep in chaos during mass casualty incidents without flinching.

And yet, the truth was, he was more rattled by you then anything else he'd stumbled upon in the pitt.

He'd nearly tripped over his own feet when he pulled back that curtain and saw you sitting in that chair.

You were a blur of long and graceful limbs, legs crossed neatly, posture perfect despite the chaos around you. Those sky-high heels tapping faintly against the floor, like you carried your own rhythm into the room.

Then, your eyes met his.

Your hair fell in soft, deliberate curls, framing a face that was too gorgeous to be sitting under harsh fluorescent lighting in the middle of an emergency department.

It had taken everything in him not to stare.

He was a professional, he had to remind himself. One who was lucky to even still be practicing.

Then, you'd started speaking. And that had somehow made it even worse.

You were fiery, well-articulated, confident - something that no doubt came as a result of your profession.

But there was a softness to you too, a kindness that made him slightly weak in the knees.

The way your hand had settled on Amy’s shoulder. The way your voice shifted when you spoke to her.

It had caught him off guard.

After a few minutes, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Dana a few feet from him, writing something out onto a chart.

"You knew."

Dana didn't even look up at first.

"Knew what?" She asked innocently.

Frank pursed his lips and kept his eyes glued to his charts as he muttered his next words. "You knew that she was gorgeous when you sent me in there."

"Really? I can't say that I noticed."

His eyes narrowed as she echoed his words back at him, a knowing smile on her lips as she shot him a wink.

He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Now that you were satisfied Amy was comfortable, you finally dared to look at your phone.

Three missed calls, thirty unread emails, seven teams messages and a voicemail from a very unimpressed partner.

"Go." Amy insisted, nudging your arm when she saw the look on your face. "Call whoever you have to call.”

“It’s fine-“

“You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re not stressed but you’re actually two minutes away from having a meltdown.”

“I am not-“

“-you are.”

You sighed, your shoulders dropping just slightly as you glanced back down at your screen.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m morphined up and have endless tiktoks to scroll through. I’ll be fine.” Amy insisted.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Ok…just try not to injure any other part of your body.”

“No promises.” She beamed back.

You shot her one last glare as you yanked the curtain back - and stepped straight back into the chaos.

It hit you all at once.

Voices overlapping. Monitors beeping. The constant movement like a fast flowing tidal wave.

You paused for half a second, scanning for someone who looked even remotely interruptible.

“Excuse me.” You hurried over to a young doctor with a mop of curly brown hair who was typing away frantically.

He swivelled around in his chair at the sound of your voice.

His eyes widened as he looked up at you.

“Sorry- is there somewhere I can take a phone call?” You asked as you held up your buzzing phone.

"Um-" His cheeks grew red. "Uh well you could maybe uh-"

"Ignore Ogilvie. He's new." You looked up to see the older blonde nurse from earlier.

"Work call?"

"Unfortunately."

She flashed you a sympathetic call as she jerked her thumb behind her. "Go use the ambulance bay sweetheart, just make sure you stay out of their way if one of them rolls in."

"I will, thank you." You flashed her and Ogilvie a smile before hurrying in the direction she pointed you in.

Ogilvie watched as you walked away, his mouth slightly ajar as your hips swayed in your tight skirt.

"Sweet lord have mercy." He breathed out.

You moved quickly, heels clicking sharply against the floor, cutting a clean line through the chaos.

You passed an older doctor, offering a polite, automatic smile as your eyes met his.

Robby slowed slightly, turning around to watch you as you walked past.

He blinked slowly, then glanced toward Dana, who was flipping through a stack of folders like nothing unusual had just walked past.

"Is there a lawsuit going on that I don't know about?"

"More like Ogilvie's about to get served with a restraining order if he doesn't stop gaping." Santos remarked dryly as she walked past.

Robby's stare hardened. Dana slid off her glasses, using them to point vaguely in your direction.

"She's the co-worker of the patient in Room 8, Langdon's looking after her."

"I bet he is." Ogilvie muttered.

Robby shook his head slightly as he raised his hands up in defeat.

"On second thoughts, I don't want to know."

You groaned softly, rubbing at your temples as you leaned back against the cool brick wall just outside the ER doors.

You'd successfully calmed down two partners, delegated three tasks and promised to 'circle back' and 'touch base' on something that you absolutely did not want to circle back or touch base on ever again.

And in the process, created an impossibly large to-do list for yourself.

A familiar tension headache was starting to creep up the right side of your neck, settling stubbornly at the base of your skull.

You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.

Frank had come out to take a breather.

Robby had been on his ass the entire shift, Santos was still giving him the evil eye and his back had started that low, persistent ache that never really went away - like it was just waiting for the worst possible moment to remind him it was there.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you.

You, in his usual hiding spot, tucked just out of sight from everyone unless they actively came looking.

Now that you were standing, he could take you in properly. You'd abandoned your matching suit jacket at some point, but the rest of your outfit was still immaculate - leaving you in a tight skirt that fell just below your knee and a structured top with capped sleeves.

You looked like you'd just stepped out of an episode of Suits.

Completely out of place, and yet somehow not at all.

He cleared his throat, causing you to startle slightly as your eyes snapped open.

"Hi." You blurted out.

"Hi." He echoed.

There was a small beat where you just looked at each other.

"Sorry I um- one of the nurses said I could take a call out here. I hope that's ok."

He smiled softly. "Yeah of course." Then he nodded towards the phone still clutched in your hand.

"Everything ok?"

"Oh, yeah." You said automatically. Then, after a second - "I mean no, but it will be."

He nodded like he understood.

"Work stuff?"

You let out a dry chuckle. "Always."

His eyes moved over your face more carefully this time, catching the faint shadows beneath your eyes - half-hidden by makeup, but not invisible.

"We're in the middle of a big trial." You explained. "So it's a little hectic at the moment, client's stressed, partner's stressed, so naturally... everyone's stressed."

Frank nodded again. "Sounds..."

"Stressful?" You offered, pulling a chuckle from him.

"Yeah, stressful."

"It is." You admitted, chewing the inside of your cheek. "But I mean-" You waved towards the ER. "it's nothing like what you guys deal with in there."

Frank frowned slightly at your deflection. "Stress is still stress."

"Yeah but when I'm stressed over a typo in a court document I have to remind myself that I'm not performing heart surgery to calm myself down." You tilted your head, looking up at him. "While you guys are literally performing heart surgery."

"Alright touche." Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. "But still, sounds like you've had a big week."

"More like a big year." You huffed, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it. "But yeah, big week."

"Lot of late nights?"

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "Is that your polite way of saying I look haggard?"

Frank let out a huff of disbelief, "trust me, you are far from looking haggard."

You tried to ignore the annoying way your stomach flipped at that.

He seemed to realise what he’d said a fraction too late.

He straightened slightly, clearing his throat, one hand lifting in a vague, corrective gesture.

"I just mean-" he motioned toward you, "you look like you’re running on about three hours of sleep."

You folded your arms across your chest, leaning more into the wall. "Is that your professional medical opinion?"

"It's a guess." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I'm usually right."

Your eyes narrowed further at the slight humour in his expression. There was no chance in hell you were going to admit he was practically right on the mark.

Before you could answer, your phone buzzed again.

Langdon watched as your eyes darted down, a grimace flashing across your features as you read whatever email had just come through. Your grimace only deepened as your phone began ringing.

“I’ll let you get that.” He made to go back inside.

“No it’s fine, I’m very intentionally ignoring it.” You shoved the phone back into your pocket, as if to emphasise your point.

“He’s a partner on the other side of this matter.” You explained, shaking your head. “He thinks ringing me is somehow going to make him get his way.”

"I'm guessing that happens a lot." Frank leant his shoulder against the brick, angling his body towards you.

"People underestimating you."

You studied him for a moment, searching for any sign of insincerity or expectation of praise for acknowledging something that was quite literally the bare minimum.

You were pleasantly surprised when your fine tuned bullshit detector didn't sound alarm bells.

"It does." You acknowledged after a moment. "But it makes it more fun when I inevitably run rings around them."

Your accompanied smirk made Frank let out a genuine laugh. "I have no doubt about that."

As his laughter faded, your eyes stayed locked. You felt it again - the shift. Something you couldn't quite name, or maybe were too afraid to just yet.

Your phone buzzed entitledly again.

"Sorry-" You glanced down at the caller ID. "I do actually have to take this one."

“Partner?”

“Oh- no I’m single.”

Frank blinked. Then a smirk broke through, unguarded.

“I uh- I meant law firm partner.”

“Oh.” Your phone was still buzzing in your hand, now completely forgotten as you tried not to spiral about how embarrassing that was.

“But that’s very good to know.” Or something of that ilk is what Frank wanted to say.

"Amy should be next in line for her CT, so it shouldn't be too much longer of a wait."

Is what he said instead as he pushed off the wall.

Professional, safe, controlled.

"Thank you doctor."

"Frank." He corrected you automatically. "What I mean is- just Frank is fine, you don't have to call me doctor." He added hastily as he began to slowly back away.

Smooth.

A smirk tugged at your mouth. "Ok." You said lightly.

"Well thank you... just Frank." You teased before finally placing your phone to your ear.

The way you said his name - low, deliberate, just teasing enough - landed in his chest, in his throat, somewhere inconveniently deeper than either.

He shook his head as the sound played over and over in his head as he slipped back inside the ER.

Frank exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

He was, to put it professionally, completely and utterly fucked.

Half an hour later, Amy was no closer to getting her CT scan.

You were back in your waiting chair beside her, posture far less composed than before, one leg bouncing slightly, still frantically glued to your phone.

And while you were trying your best to work, annoyingly all it seemed you could think about was Frank Langdon.

You exhaled sharply, dragging your focus back to the email in front of you.

The two of you looked up from your phones as the curtain slid across the railing.

And as if you'd manifested him with your thoughts, your eyes locked with Frank's blue ones.

Frank stepped inside, a coffee cup clutched in one hand, his other already reaching to pull the curtain closed behind him.

"Hey Amy, sorry for the wait. I just wanted to check to see how you were doing?"

"Oh I'm fine, just keep the morphine coming." Amy grinned.

"We can definitely do that." Frank chuckled.

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing between the two of you.

"You were next in line for CT but a trauma came in, I don't think it'll be too much longer now though."

"No problem, thanks for letting me know." Assuming the interaction was over, Amy glanced back down at her phone.

Suddenly, Frank's eyes were on you. There was the slightest pause, like he was debating something.

His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as he extended his hand holding the coffee out towards you.

"I got you this-"

"oh-"

"-figured you might need it if you're going to have a late one."

Amy’s head snapped up so fast it was almost comical.

"You really didn't have to do that Frank." Despite your words, your mouth was already salivating at the prospect of caffeine. Your hand already reaching, your focus locked on the cup like it might disappear if you hesitated.

"Thank you."

Your fingers brushed against his as the cup changed hands.

"You're feeding my addiction you know."

Frank’s mouth lifted as he adjusted his grip on his stethoscope, buying himself a second.

"Luckily you're not my patient then."

As if suddenly remembering Amy - his patient and whole reason for being here - was in the room, his attention snapped back her.

"Sorry Amy, no liquids other than water before a CT."

Amy's eyes darted between the two of you, a knowing grin forming on her face. "Oh that's ok, don't worry about me Frank."

You shot her a warning look behind his back.

If Frank noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead he just shot you another smile.

"Alright." He said, glancing back at you one more time - quicker now, but no less intentional. "I'll check back in after your scan is done."

You pressed the cup to your lips, using it as a shield to avoid Amy's stare as he left.

"Ok. What the fuck was that?"

"What was what?" You answered innocently as you busied yourself with your phone.

"You really didn't have to do that Frank." She mocked in a low, sultry tone.

"I do not sound like that." You snapped, your eyes finally meeting hers.

"You were practically eye fucking him."

"I was not!"

A heartbeat later you added quietier, "we talked for a bit when I was outside making work calls. He told me to call him Frank."

"Oh my fucking god." She let out a cackle of disbelief. "You want him."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do. Admit it! You want to fuck the hot doctor-"

"-would you keep your voice down!" You hissed, glancing over your shoulder.

"Yes, obviously he is attractive ok?" You muttered reluctantly.

"And-" She sat up straighter in her bed. "He clearly wants you too."

"Ok no-"

"- he just bought you a coffee." She interrupted, ticking it off like evidence, "which was clearly an excuse to come and talk to you by the way, and he couldn't keep his eyes off you. What kind of doctor does that unless they're into you?"

"Really nice ones?" You meekly suggested.

She shot you a deadpan stare. "You're too smart to be saying such dumb things."

Your brow furrowed. "I don't like your tone missy."

"What are you going to do about it? I'm not your paralegal, remember? Besides why is any of this a bad thing? Honestly when was the last time you actually got laid because-"

"Alright Amy-" Perlah barged in before you could retort back. "Finally time for your CT."

"Saved by the bell." You muttered.

Perlah tried her best to fight the grin threatening to spill onto her cheeks. Neither of you had to know that she'd heard every word.

As time wore on, your stomach started to grumble, promptly reminding you that you had not eaten anything since stuffing down a muesli bar this morning on your way to court.

The idea of hospital cafeteria food was enough to turn you off the idea of eating all together.

You could hear two staff chatting outside.

"Thank god this shift is nearly over."

"I know, I'm starving."

"I really could go for an unethical donut right now, but don't tell Dana I said that."

An idea started to take shape.

You googled the number of a local pizza place that you knew was half decent and open. You pressed the phone to your ear, tapping the well worn arm of the chair impatiently as it rung.

"Hello? Hi yes- look I was just wondering- would you by any chance deliver to a hospital?"

-

Frank glanced at the clock.

Only an hour left of this seemingly never ending shift.

Despite how busy they had been, it seemed the entire emergency department had found the time to learn about your existence and more annoyingly, his apparent thing for you.

Every time he walked past someone he was greeted with a shit-eating grin and a snarky remark.

"I didn't know you liked Legally Blonde, Langdon."

"Permission to approach the bench?"

"Is your girlfriend going to sue me if I stuff this intubation up?"

He slowed as he watched his co-workers flocking towards the break room.

"What's all this?" He asked Mel.

"Oh um- someone got us pizza."

"Upstairs send another gift?"

"Nope.” Mel shook her head. "An anonymous delivery apparently."

"Anyway." She shrugged after a moment. "I'm getting a slice. I just hope they ordered Hawaiian."

Frank frowned slightly, watching as Mel joined the feeding frenzy.

Dana stopped beside him, silently handing him a receipt.

"What am I looking at?"

"The online order receipt." She smirked up at him. "You might want to cross check it with Room 8’s emergency contact."

While still waiting for Amy to come back from her scan, you had finally relented and pulled out your work laptop.

You'd kicked off your heels at some point, abandoning them beneath the chair, and were now perched awkwardly with one leg tucked under you, using Amy’s side table as a makeshift desk.

You peeked over the top of your monitor at the sound of a throat being cleared.

Frank stood tentatively at the threshold, as if he was mindful not to intrude.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I thought you might be hungry."

You glanced down to see he was holding a slice of pizza on a paper plate, a napkin folded neatly underneath.

The way the napkin was folded so deliberately made something unfurl beneath your ribs.

"First a coffee and now pizza?" You teased as you closed your laptop halfway. "I didn't realise food delivery was in the job description of an emergency doctor."

"It's an unwritten but vital part of the job." He answered smoothly, handing it over to you.

Your fingers brushed again as you took it.

Except this time, neither of you pulled away particularly quickly.

You glanced down at the plate to see two pills placed neatly beside your pizza.

“Pain killers."

He motioned to his own neck. "You keep bunching your shoulders up around your ears, probably because your neck’s tight from sitting at a desk all day."

You tilted your head slightly.

"Which means, you more than likely have a tension headache right now.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“What are you, a doctor or something?” You teased, repeating his question to you hours earlier.

“Just a little bit, yeah.” He echoed your words right back.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, your head pounding a little too hard for you to bother to try and deny its existence.

"Well, thank you." You shot him a smile as you placed the pills on your tongue, reaching for the water beside you. As you tilted your head back you were very aware of his attentive gaze.

He took a seat on the edge of Amy's bed, leaving just enough space between you to be appropriate.

"You know." He cleared his throat again, glancing down at his hands. "Dana forced the delivery driver to give her the contact number for the order. Said she needed to make sure it wasn't a poisoning attempt or something."

You let out a real laugh at that. "A mass poisoning event? Sounds like the perfect opportunity for a class action, my firm's great at defending those."

Frank hummed, observing you take your first bite.

"You know you put your phone number down as Amy's emergency contact right? So it shows up in the system."

"I’m innocent until proven guilty."

"You didn't have to do that." Frank was unable to hide the affection in his voice.

"Do what?"

You held his gaze for a second and then broke, a smile tugging at your mouth as you finally relented and offered up an innocent shrug.

"I wanted to. You guys work hard."

You glanced back at your laptop. "I was going to come and grab some but I got stuck."

"Ignoring misogynistic partners?"

You snorted. "I wish. Putting out fires instead."

"Another late night?"

"Looks like it."

Frank hummed again, his teeth catching briefly on his lower lip as he watched you.

"I know you're worried about work and Amy." He said slowly. "But it's important to take care of yourself too."

You looked up. There it was again. The sincerity, the kindness, the softness in his voice that made your stomach flutter.

"Should I take that as official medical advice?"

"I'm just saying-" Frank emphasised. "I've seen a lot of hardworkers end up in here, I wouldn't want that to happen to you."

"Well it's a little too late for that." You remarked dryly.

You glanced up when silence followed. Your eyes widened as you realised you'd said those words out loud.

"I um- what I meant was-"

"You don't have to explain." Frank cut you off, but you were already shaking your head.

"No it's fine, I um-" You hesitated, then exhaled. "I got admitted here once during law school." You admitted quietly.

Frank stiffened.

"I was so stressed and studying so hard and getting no sleep obviously, and then next thing I know a friend of a friend is suggesting I try these pills that apparently made you focus for like twelve hours straight."

You let out a small, humourless breath as the words continued to pour out of your mouth. The weeks of sleep deprivation weakening your usual posterity.

"Of course I told myself it was safe because everyone at law school was using them so why couldn't I? And I was smart so I could control it and-"

You cut yourself off when you realised how much you had been rambling.

"Sorry." You pinched the bridge of your nose between your thumb and pointer finger as your headache pulsed, too soon for the painkillers to take effect. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." You confessed.

"I've been clean for years, so no need to report me or anything."

Your attempt at lightening the mood flatlined.

You inwardly cursed yourself, glancing down at your lap. Why did you have to open your mouth? Any chance of him being interested was going to completely fly out the window-

"Benzos." Frank murmured.

You looked up with a start. "What?"

"Benzos." He repeated, this time a little louder, his eyes meeting yours. "That was my vice."

Your face faltered. You closed your laptop lid fully, slowly, as if you might spook him if you made any sudden movements.

"Dexies."

Something deeper formed between the two of you. Recognition, understanding.

You both saw the irony then too. You were two sides of the same coin, two professionals albeit in vastly different fields - one chasing a high, the other a low.

You saw the pain in Frank’s face, unable to be concealed by a weak attempt at a smile.

Your struggle had been years ago.

His… wasn’t.

“You know-“ You began gently. “-addiction doesn’t define us.”

Frank let out a sharp chuckle, more terse then he’d intended.

You winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an Alcoholics Anonymous brochure.”

That got a genuine but short lived smile out of him. “You don’t need to apologise. The last few months have just been…” he paused, like he was trying to choose between words.

“Shit.” Was what he finally settled on.

You nodded slowly in understanding.

“It's hard not to feel like it defines you." He continued. "Working here."

"I know that feeling." You said quietly. "Like you've failed at something. Like you were supposed to have control over this innocuous thing and couldn't handle it."

He looked at you intently.

"That you should have been able to fix it yourself, without anyone else knowing. That everyone else is judging you for it."

His eyes stayed on you.

"How do you not feel like that?" His voice was smaller this time.

"I try and remember that everyone has shit going on, even if they're good at hiding it."

You smoothed your skirt as you shifted your weight.

"I have clients - CEOs, executives - the type of people you think would have everything under control, who royally fuck up and I mean royally. It usually starts with something small. Something they think they’ve got handled. And then it spirals."

You gestured outside. "You see people at their worst here everyday. People who ignore your advice, who try to convince themselves they can take care of themselves just fine without help."

Your gaze softened. "And you save them."

You offered him a small shrug. "So yeah, addiction sucks. But it isn't going to be what people remember. Not unless you give them a reason too."

You reached out instinctively to take his hand, to offer another layer of comfort. You stopped just shy, remembering yourself in time. Instead, you patted the edge of the hospital bed awkwardly.

Frank studied you for a moment. He barely knew you, and yet, you were one of first people since coming back to make him feel like he wasn't just a problem to be fixed. Like he was wanted, seen.

Frank ran a hand through his hair, letting a few strands of hair flop forward. His eyes flickered down to see that you still hadn't moved your hand from the bed.

"You know." He began, his voice lighter this time. "You're quite persuasive when you want to be." He placed his hands by his side, fingers curling over the iron frame of the bed.

"Oh yeah?"

The edge of his pinky brushed yours.

"Yeah. You should think of making a career out of it."

Your lips curved, "I'll keep that in mind."

You could have asked further questions - you had every right to want to know. But you didn't pry further, as if you knew the wounds were still so fresh they had barely begun to scab. Like you knew he wasn't ready to rip the temporary band aid off just yet.

That restraint said more than anything else could have.

It made something in his chest tighten.

It only made him want you more.

Like always, Jack Abbott had arrived early for his shift.

He strolled through the ER, taking stock of patients and preparing himself for whatever mess the day shift had left for him to mop up.

He glanced briefly through the slightly ajar curtains of Room 8.

He came to a stop as his brain caught up with his eyes. Then slowly he took a step backwards.

He blinked a few times, letting himself process what he was seeing before turning around and walking back towards the epicentre of the chaos.

"Someone want to tell me what's going on in Room 8?"

A few heads lifted as he glanced around at his colleagues.

"Is Langdon getting sued or something?"

Javadi snorted. "He's getting something alright."

Jack looked around for someone to promptly resolve his bewilderment.

"She's the co-worker of one of his patients." Whitaker supplied.

"Yes." Robby cut in, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. "So like everyone who walks in here, she should be treated with dignity and respect."

Jack raised a brow.

"Well, whatever's going on in there-" He said, glancing back towards Room 8. "I volunteer to be next in line."

Laughter erupted. Mohan shot him a glare from across the room.

"Oh for the love of god." Robby buried his head in his hands. "Would you please stop encouraging them."

"Robby!" Dana called out. "Trauma incoming, two minutes tops."

The laughter stopped just as quickly as it had started.

-

You peaked out from behind the curtain, watching as the doctors and nurses sprung into action.

Frank had bolted the second he'd heard the word trauma.

You watched as he kitted up for the trauma room, pulling on gloves, movements quick and efficient.

He slid his glasses on, those annoyingly attractive strands of his fringe still flopping over his forehead.

It was like the Frank who had been sitting beside you minutes ago, quiet and open and real had ceased to exist. He was replaced by something precise, calm, unmoveable.

You watched him step into the trauma room without hesitation.

And something about that - the competence, the confidence, the way the chaos seemed to bend around him instead of swallowing him - it did something to you.

Looks were one thing. But this? It was enough to make you weak in the knees.

-

"Don't worry kids, the adult has arrived."

Frank stepped back as Garcia sauntered into the trauma room, Robby immediately jumping in to explain the patient's symptoms.

"I'm going to need to make an incision."

Wordlessly a scalpel was placed into her outstretched hand.

"So Langdon-" She started casually. "I've heard you've got a hot lawyer down here." She said it so nonchalantly it was like she was running a knife through butter, not a person's chest cavity.

"Jesus- OR knows about this?"

"Everyone knows about this." She corrected him.

"Must be a slow news day." He grumbled as he went to check the patient's vitals.

"She bought us all pizza." Mohan unhelpfully added.

Garcia glanced up. "Really?"

"Really." Mohan confirmed.

Garcia's brow lifted slightly as she worked.

"So this woman is hot, smart and buys your co-workers food seemingly out of the goodness of her own heart?"

McKay let out a snort.

"Better find a way not to screw this one up Langdon."

"Trust me, I'm working on it." He mumbled under his breath.

Across the room, Robby noticed it.

There was something different in Langdon. He moved like he was more sure of himself, less in his head.

That dark, heavy layer that he'd been carrying since he'd returned was not gone completely, but it was like something had finally cut through it, even just a little.

Robby’s expression didn’t change, but he watched him for a second longer than necessary.

He was still so angry at him, the sting of the betrayal of his adopted prodigy still fresh. But he couldn't ignore the flicker of something in him. It was brief, gone as quickly as it came, but still identifiable.

Relief.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Amy and Perlah trundled back into the room from her journey upstairs.

Frank wasn’t far behind.

"It’s just a bad sprain." He confirmed. "Painful - but nothing we can’t manage."

Amy let out a dramatic sigh of relief.

“We’ll put you in a moon boot and give you some crutches." He added before crouching down at the foot of her bed.

You tried to focus back on your phone, but your attention kept drifting.

To the way he worked. The quiet focus. The gentle way he handled her ankle, explaining everything as he went.

And occasionally, to the way his eyes flicked up to you.

From somewhere just outside the curtain, voices filtered through.

"Have you seen the lawyer yet?"

"Yeah she's really pretty."

"I know. Langdon's whipped. He's doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The soft voice."

"He always has a soft voice."

"No - this is softer."

Your cheeks burned.

Frank very intentionally ignored them.

"This is amazing." Amy whispered.

"Please stop." You whispered back.

"Ok!" Frank jumped up with just a touch too much enthusiasm to be natural.

"You should be all good to go. You’ll have to keep weight off it for at least a week.”

“So no Jimmy Choos?”

“Definitely no Jimmy Choos.”

Amy pouted out her lower lip.

“I’d be happy to look after them for you.”

Amy cut you a side eye. “You have enough pairs of shoes to supply a small village.”

Frank smirked to himself at your bickering. Your eyes met briefly, training on one another long enough for Amy and Perlah to exchange a look.

"Um actually I think I need to go to the bathroom before I go." Amy announced loudly. "Perlah, do you think you could help me?"

"Of course."

"It might take a while." Amy held up one of her crutches. "You know, being impaired and everything."

"So plenty of time to talk." Perlah piped up.

You watched them go, both of them barely containing their giggles as they slipped out through the curtain.

Silence fell, thicker this time.

"Well, that was subtle." Frank remarked once the two of you were alone.

You let out a breathless laugh.

"Very."

Another pause.

It felt different now. Quieter. Like something was waiting to be said.

The two of you eyed eachother for a moment, as if daring to see who would break the silence first.

"So-" Frank relented first. "I um- I finish my shift in about ten minutes and I know you're busy but-" He paused, his cheeks tinging pink as he tried to phrase his words eloquently.

"I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go have dinner? There's a decent Japanese place just around the corner."

You couldn't fight the way your mouth instantly curved upwards.

"I thought doctors couldn't date their patients."

"We can't." He said quickly. "But you're not my patient. I even checked the hospital's guidelines just to be sure."

Your brow quirked up. "Did you now?"

"I did. Section 14, paragraph 5 provides the definition of patient - in case you wanted to do your own due diligence."

You laughed as if he might not be serious.

You didn't need to know that ten minutes ago he had been frantically flicking through the guidelines on his phone. Checking once, twice and then a third time just to be safe.

He was still on shaky ground here, he didn't want to do anything to rock the boat further. But there'd been a part of him that would have been willing to risk it regardless, to listen to the voice shouting at him that you were worth it.

"So technically ok but maybe just morally grey then?" You teased.

Langdon shrugged. "Maybe, but isn't that the area where you lawyers love to operate in?"

You snorted. "Wow. You know, if you ever decide you need a career change, you should consider the law Doctor Langdon."

"Something tells me the law is better off in your hands."

Your smile widened.

"So-" He said after a heartbeat, a little softer this time. "Is that a-"

"-it's a yes."

You surprised yourself at how quickly you answered.

There was a time not that long ago where you would have hesitated.

You hadn't dated in a long time, you were too busy with work, telling yourself that you weren't going to waste your limited spare time with mediocre men - which Pittsburgh seemed to supply in abundance.

But now, standing in front of Frank, you felt all of those worries fade away into the background.

Relief flickered across his face, quick but unmistakable.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Frank smiled - warm, a little shy, genuine.

"Ok, cool."

"I'll wait outside with Amy, her boyfriend should be here soon - finally."

"Sounds good, I won't be too long."

You moved to gather your things, slipping your laptop away, but paused as you reached for your bag.

"Everyone's going to be staring at me out there, aren't they?"

"...probably."

"And it's not because they want free legal advice?"

Frank chuckled. "I'm afraid not."

You nodded slowly as you digested that information.

Then, your mouth curved into a small smile.

“Well-“ You slipped your heels back on, straightening to your full height.

"Better give them something worth looking at then."

Frank let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head, not even bothering trying to look away as you walked past him.

As the faint click of your heels echoed once more down the hallway, something settled in his chest. He felt more grounded, more sure of his place here.

And for the first time since walking back in through the doors to the pitt, Frank Langdon felt truly glad to be back.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’s never been a smoker, but if he were, would that really be worse than being addicted to benzos? It’s not like American Spirits or cotton candy flavored vapes would drive him to steal from his job.

Yeah, yeah. Cancer. Lung cancer, esophageal cancer, all the cancers. Gum disease and tooth decay. He is still a doctor, even if it took him a long time to start feeling like one again. He knows the risks. And that is exactly why he hasn’t tried filling the void with nicotine.

He works out just enough to be able to say that he does and it not be a complete lie, but he’s never understood how people can get addicted to exercising. He understands the science behind it, but every time he steps on a treadmill, it just feels like an opportunity to think too much about every mistake he’s made in the last few years.

Video games have never really been his thing. He’s still paying off his stint in rehab, so betting and gambling are off the table. Alcohol, of course, is out of the question for obvious reasons.

When he hit one hundred days of sobriety, he really thought he was in the fucking clear. He let himself breathe a little for the first time in a long time, thinking he had finally learned his lesson.

Never did it cross his mind that he could become addicted to a person. Least of all one that he isn’t even supposed to like.

Least of all you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“This is a really fucking bad idea.”

Frank grunts, bottoming out as he fills you so full of him that it takes your breath away.

He stills, looking down at you in the glow of your living room television. His hands were on you the second your apartment door clicked shut - the two of you didn’t even make it down the hallway to your bedroom before you were pulling him onto the couch by the collar of his scrubs, his lips chasing yours with a degree of desperation that you might have found laughable if it weren’t for the fact that you had to bite back a moan the second that his tongue slipped between your lips.

He huffs a half breathless laugh. “We can stop if you want to, but I’m already inside you, so it’s a little late to realize this is a bad idea.”

You wiggle your hips, grinding down where his body meets yours. His eyes roll shut at the sensation, his muscles tensing beneath where your fingers grip his biceps.

“Didn’t say that I wanna stop,” you breathe. “Just said this is a bad idea. It’s called an observation.”

Frank snorts, retaliating by hiking one of your legs over his hip to deepen the angle. You hiss, your walls clenching around him. “You didn’t seem to think it was a bad idea when you were drenching my face a few seconds ago.”

You aren’t surprised in the least that his argumentative nature carries over into sex, but the dirty mouth on him does take you by surprise.

“So, what?” You hum, part challenge and part genuine curiosity. “You don’t think this is a bad idea?”

He shakes his head. He snakes a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. “It’s definitely a bad idea. I’m just finding it really hard to give a shit right now.”

You whimper at it all - the rough timbre of his voice, the the soft pad of his thumb brushing over your clit, the way he somehow still smells like musk and allspice even after working a full twelve hours in the emergency department and how his kiss-swollen lips glisten from his time spent between your thighs.

Come morning, you’ll regret this. Twelve hours from now, when you can’t concentrate on a routine intubation because you’re having flashbacks of pretty cerulean eyes peeking up at you as he brought you to climax with only his tongue, you’ll regret this. When you can’t take two steps tomorrow without the ache between your thighs reminding you where he’d been, you’ll regret this.

Probably should’ve thought about that before deciding that the best way to cope with stress of an exceptionally shitty day was by kissing him in the empty parking garage and inviting him back to your place, but you’ll deal with the aftermath of that when he’s no longer buried half a foot inside you.

You take his chin in your hand, stilling his face in front of yours. “Just so we are clear, this is a one time thing.”

Frank looks like he’s fighting the urge to laugh, a familiar, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know you’re the one who kissed me and practically ripped my clothes off, right?”

Your hands ghost over the planes of his shoulders and up his neck before settling at the base of his skull where your fingers thread through the short locks of his hair. “Don’t let it get to your head. You were the closest conventionally attractive man I could find after that shitshow of a shift. Don’t confuse convenience with desire.”

He cocks a brow. “What I’m hearing is that you think I’m attractive.”

You roll your eyes, pulling your hands away from his hair and playfully shoving his shoulders. You don’t bother denying it, though. He is attractive. Annoyingly, irritatingly, frustratingly attractive.

“I’m serious. One time, Langdon.”

He doesn’t verbally respond right away. Instead, he leans down, closing the space between your lips and his. You taste yourself on him, sweet and salty with a hint of the gum he had been chewing when you first kissed him in the parking garage. It’s slower than the first time, and the second, and the third, making heat bloom where he’s hard inside you.

He pulls back just enough to murmur the words against your lips.

“One time.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Two months ago, Frank Langdon kissed you and swore that he was only going to fuck you one time.

Two months ago, he lied through his teeth.

The good news is that you’re as big of a liar as he is.

Because one time turned to two, and two to three, and now the Pittsburgh winter has turned to spring and he’s forgotten all about that broken promise.

He knew before the words had fully left his lips that they were bullshit. How could he mean them when your kiss tasted like watermelon lip gloss and being bare inside you made him feel the best he’s felt since he got sober?

But still, he tried. For a whopping seven days, he tried his hardest.

One week. That’s all it took for him to feel like he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn’t touch and taste you again.

Then, in a moment of weakness - the kids were at Abby’s, he’d spent his day off cleaning his entire apartment in an attempt to keep himself busy, he’d already gone to an NA meeting earlier that afternoon, and he couldn’t get this one specific sound you had made when he nipped at the column of your throat out of his head - he did something he’s never done before.

He texted you.

Are you off work yet?

Short and vague, but you’re far from being dumb. He was confident that you could read between the lines without him having to spell it out for you.

Much to his relief, you replied before he could overthink the simple text message.

Keeping track of my work schedule now?

He scoffed to himself, smirking down at his phone. As if you haven’t worked the same set schedule the entire time he’s known you. At least, that was his excuse for knowing you’d be leaving work at approximately that time.

You replied fast. I take it that you are off?

He stared down at the screen as you typed, grateful that technology doesn’t allow you to see him waiting for your response in real time.

Leaving now. But if you’re about to say what I think you’re going to say, then you should know that I have been both puked and peed on today.

That should have deterred him, but it didn’t. In fact, it only further encouraged him, because you didn’t immediately tell him to fuck off like he halfway expected you to.

I happen to have a shower.

Then, before you can type a rebuttal, he sends a second text with his address.

You didn’t even reply, but twenty-three minutes later you knocked on his front door.

(It goes without saying that yes, you insisted on showering, and yes, he insisted on joining you, and yes, he ate you out until your legs turned to jelly and he had to help hold you up).

After both of you were thoroughly spent, he expected you to say something similar to the first time - when he had you pinned to your couch, balls deep inside you, and you told him that it would be a one time thing. He expected you to insist that what just happened would not be happening again, that it was a mistake for you to come over, and that he should lose your number entirely.

So it took him by surprise when you got out of his bed, put your clothes back on, and said, “it goes without saying that this stays between us, right? If this is going to be a thing, the last thing I want is Perlah and Princess spreading it all over the hospital.”

“Please,” Frank had scoffed, pulling his own t-shirt over his head. “Like I want the entire emergency department making a bunch of ridiculous bets about us. Trust me, this stays between us.”

And that was that. There was no further discussion of what exactly this is, but Frank knows.

He knows what it is, and he knows what it isn’t. For two months now, you’ve been on the same page. He comes to your place, or occasionally, you’ll go to his. One time, you even rode him in the backseat of his dad mobile, as you had referred to the midsize SUV.

But work is off limits. You have made that abundantly clear by acting indifferent to his existence anytime a coworker or patient is within ten feet of you, which happens to be damn near always. When the two of you are at work, he pretends like he doesn’t know that you clench around him every time he tells you how well you’re taking him or where your birthmark is located.

As soon as he walks out of those hospital doors, though, all the pretending comes to a stop.

It most often happens after long shifts, when one or both of you needs to decompress and not think of whatever horrors had been witnessed that day. But every now and then, like that day you and Frank both broke the initial agreement of this being a one time thing, he’ll find himself alone with thoughts of you that are a little too loud and unrelenting.

So instead of only thinking about the way your breathy, fucked out voice sounds saying his name when you’re on the verge of coming apart, he calls and hopes that you answer.

And, for some reason that Frank refuses to let himself dwell on, you always do. He knows that there will inevitably come a day that you don’t.

But he doesn’t let himself dwell on that, either.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“Meet me in the empty on-call room in fifteen minutes.”

The words are murmured low enough for only him to hear. He glances up from his charting, utter disbelief on his face. He opens his mouth to question you, but you’re already walking away.

You’re weak. Spineless as a damn jellyfish, really.

And it’s all Frank Langdon’s fault.

If he didn’t kiss you like you’re the air he needs to breathe, go down on you like you’re the last thing he’s ever going to taste, and fuck you like he’s trying to ruin all other men for you, then it wouldn’t be so embarrassingly easy for you to go back on your word.

But here you are. Going back on your word. Again.

The first time it happened - when he texted you his address a little over two months ago and you wasted no time driving to his apartment even after telling him and yourself that you would not be hooking up with him again - you forgave yourself. You allowed yourself the small comfort of knowing it was him that reached out. It was him who caved first, even if you had thought about doing so every day since you first slept together.

But this time? Telling him to meet you in an empty on-call room in the middle of the day at work? Where any of your coworkers could potentially catch you? This boundary being crossed is all on you.

You must have a competence kink. That’s the only logical explanation for why you’re willing to let this happen right here, right now.

Your watch reads 2:17. He’s two minutes late.

Two more minutes. If he isn’t here in two minutes, then you’re leaving this room and forgetting that you ever even considered doing this.

The door creaks open and he slips in with only twenty seconds to spare.

“Wasn’t sure if you were actually going to come,” you hum from where you’re perched on the edge of the mattress.

Frank locks the door behind him. He still looks as confused as he did when you first told him to meet you here, but there’s now a hint of amusement on his features, too.

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh, slowly walking towards you with his hands shoved in his scrub pockets. “I came as quickly as I could. My patient in Central 14 pulled up WebMD on his phone to try to argue about his diagnosis so I got a little tied up with that.”

You snort. “Don’t you love when they do that?”

“So…” he drawls, eyes glancing around the small room, empty save for the two of you. He comes to a stop directly in front of where you sit on the bed. “You gonna tell me what we’re doing in here right now?”

You look up at him from beneath your lashes. “What do you think?” Then, before he can answer, your hands go to the waistband of his pants. You don’t look away from his face, blue eyes dilating and pretty lips parted in surprise.

“Seriously?” He breathes, looking around the room again as if there’s anyone around to catch you in the act. “Here?”

You shrug, tugging his pants down just enough to expose the soft patch of dark curls below the waistband. “What can I say? Watching you perform that closed cervical reduction really did something to me.”

He blushes. Even with the curtains closed and only a small bedside table lamp illuminating the room, you can see pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks.

“That’s all it takes to make you stop avoiding me like the plague while we’re here?” He scoffs low. “A closed cervical reduction?”

You hum a laugh. “Sorry, does it hurt your feelings that I don’t spend my shifts fawning over you like every early-to-mid twenties female that walks into this place?”

Frank chuckles lowly. “Not quite.” He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as he leans down far enough that his lips hover just above yours. “You might not fawn over me, but you’re the one who got me alone just so you can give me head.”

Under normal circumstances, you’d keep going until you get the last word. But right now, you have a list of patients who need tending to and a boss who has already been on your ass about patient satisfaction scores today.

And as much as it physically pains you to admit, he isn’t wrong.

“Mm-hm,” you hum in agreement. “I did. Now are you going to let me or not?”

With your fingers still hooked into the waistband of his pants and boxers, you pause. It’s not like he’s ever said no to receiving head from you before - and the unmistakable bulge behind the fabric of his scrubs would normally be enough of an answer - but he is just now finding his way back into Robby’s good graces, so the risks here may outweigh the reward.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his nose brushing against yours as he nods slightly. “If I ever say no to that, page neurology, because something is very wrong with me.”

You roll your eyes, pretending you aren’t slightly charmed by the dorky remark. “Sit down, then.”

The two of you trade places. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, and with help from you, his scrubs and boxers fall to a puddle at his feet. You spread his thighs gently with your palms, nestling yourself between them. You take his hard length in your hand, giving a few languid strokes as you look up at him.

“I mean it, you know,” you murmur, voice uncharacteristically earnest. For a moment, you drop the sarcastic facade. “The closed cervical reduction was very impressive. You were incredible.”

He swallows thickly, his cock twitching in your hand as he stares down at you in the dim lighting. Despite the truth to your words, you expect him to brush the compliment off with a cocky grin and smartass retort that undercuts the rare instance of genuinity between you.

Instead, he leans forward without a word, takes your face in his hands, and crushes his lips against yours. He tilts your head slightly, sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip to encourage you to open up for him. You can’t help but lose yourself in the effortless familiarity of his kiss that you’ve grown to crave more than you ever thought possible.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t release the careful hold on your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “Means a lot coming from you.”

For one impossibly long second, the two of you stare at each other until the sincerity of the moment starts to feel suffocating.

And because you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do with that, you swallow it down and do what you came here for.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank sees you before he finishes parking his car next to the ball fields.

At first, he thinks he’s seeing things. It must be someone who looks like you - someone with the same hair color and skin tone as you, who just so happens to be roughly the same height - because it couldn’t possibly actually be you.

Why the hell would you be at a Pee Wee soccer game bright and early on a Saturday morning?

He knows exactly why he’s here - it’s one of Penny’s last games of the season and between a pain in the ass custody arrangement and an even bigger pain in the ass work schedule, Frank has only been able to attend a few of his daughter’s soccer games this spring season. He would have missed today’s game, too, if Robby hadn’t agreed to him switching a couple shifts around and Abby hadn’t been willing to let him take Penny for the day during her week with the kids.

You don’t have children, though. He’s sure enough of that. There’s no way you wouldn’t have said something about having a kid at some point during your time spent together these last few months. He’s been over to your place enough times to have noticed toys scattered around the living room or sippy cups in the sink or tiny clothes left lying on the bathroom floor.

But as Penny sprints ahead to join the rest of her teammates and Frank crosses the field to where all of the player’s families sit in lawn chairs, he realizes that his eyes are not playing tricks on him.

Even from behind, he knows it’s you. He’s spent enough collective hours memorizing the curves of your body to recognize you anywhere - even wearing something so different than what he normally sees you in: scrubs or nothing.

He comes to a stop a couple feet behind you to take you in. It’s an unseasonably warm day, with temperatures already in the mid 70s before nine o’clock in the morning, and you’re dressed to match the weather. His gaze trails from your polished toes that peek out of your sandals and up the expanse of your legs before settling on the sun-kissed skin of your shoulders.

You’ve yet to notice his presence as you wave to a kid in the distance as all of the players start to take their positions on the field. “Good luck, Holly!”

He smirks, his eyes darting back and forth between you and the little girl with curly pigtails.

“Who’s Holly?”

You jump as if you had been electrocuted, your head snapping to look in his direction. He can’t see your eyes well because of your sunglasses, but he can clearly picture the look of surprise on your face.

“Jesus, Frank. What are you doing here?”

He snorts, coming to stand beside you, as he brushes off the fact that you called him Frank instead of Langdon. “My daughter is playing. What are you doing here?”

“My niece is playing.”

He looks back out to the field - your niece, Holly, you had called her - is standing right beside Penny. They’re wearing matching jerseys. Same team.

“Huh. I didn’t know that you have a niece.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. You cross your arms over your chest with a shrug. “We don’t exactly spend very much time talking about our personal lives, do we?” You glance around, seemingly looking for something - or someone. “Where’s Abby?”

“Oh,” Frank clears his throat, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants just so he has something to do with them. “It’s Abby’s week with the kids, but she let me take Penny for the day. She’s uh…she’s not here. She’s spending some quality time with Tanner today.”

You nod, your posture relaxing slightly. He isn’t sure if he’s just imagining things, but he can’t help but think you look a little relieved to hear that his ex wife isn’t here.

Not that he’d blame you for not wanting to see the ex wife of the man you’ve been casually fucking on a regular basis for months now. He definitely wouldn’t want that, either, and feels extremely relieved himself that Abby isn’t here to witness this interaction.

“That was very nice of her,” you say after a beat of silence with a small smile. “I’m sure Penny is happy that you’re here with her.”

Frank glances around now. You had been standing alone when he approached you, and you don’t seem to be here with anyone else. “So, is Holly your sister’s…or brother’s…kid?”

He mentally curses how fucking awkward he sounds. He knows what the most intimate parts of you taste like, knows what you sound like when you come for a third time in a row because of him, but he doesn’t know how to ask you a straight forward question about your personal life.

But he wants to. He shouldn’t, but he does. He wants to know if you have siblings, and how many, and if you have other nieces or possibly nephews. He wants to learn things about you because he asks and you answer or because you volunteer the information freely.

He wants to know what you do after a hard day at work, when you aren’t doing him after a hard day at work. He wants to know things because you want him to know things. Not just the shit that he observes at work (like how you take your coffee) or during the ten minutes that he lays in your bed after finishing inside you (like that you have a white noise machine that is basically always on).

“She’s my brother’s,” you answer, looking away from him to watch as Holly, Penny, and a few other girls all sprint after the soccer ball. For a second, he thinks you’re going to leave it at that, but then you continue. “He and Holly’s mom are going through a pretty nasty breakup. He only has Holly on weekends right now, and he works a lot, so…I’m just trying to help him out a little.”

“Ah,” Frank hums, surprised by the answer for more reasons than one. “Yeah, that’s tough. I know firsthand how…messy that kind of thing can get.”

“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh. “It sucks. But it’s probably for the best. They weren’t good together. I’m just hoping they can learn to co-parent for Holly’s sake.” You pause, eyes cutting back to him. “Seems like you and Abby do a pretty decent job with that.”

He has to refrain from laughing at that. He exhales slowly through his nose, gaze drifting back to the field. There’s a lot he could say in response to that - about lawyers and custody hearings and the same arguments that he doesn’t know if he and Abby will ever stop having - but if he starts then he might not stop, and he highly doubts you care to hear all of that. You’re here to watch your niece play soccer. Not listen to your fuck buddy trauma dump about his divorce.

“We try,” he settles on instead. “It’s still a work in progress, but we’re figuring it out.” Then, so you don’t feel pressured to respond in any particular way, he glances down at the lawn chair that he brought, still folded and tucked between his arm and side. “You uh - you want to sit? I brought a chair.”

He unfolds the chair, not giving you the opportunity to object as he takes a seat on the still slightly dewy grass right next to the chair.

The rest of the game continues with the two of you sitting side by side, watching the girls in an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable kind of companionship. He cheers for Holly, and you cheer for his daughter just as much.

You even introduce herself to her when Penny runs over to where Frank sits for a sip of water. As his coworker, of course. Because that’s what you are, even if the relationship title rubs him the wrong way for reasons he won’t let him think about for long enough to have to be honest with himself.

Still. It’s nice. Much different than how time with you is normally spent - working together to save someone from a pulmonary embolism, or naked between bedsheets - but this doesn’t feel wrong. It’s unexpected but pleasant, Frank thinks.

He tries not to think about how you feel about it, instead focusing on Penny chasing and kicking the soccer ball (sometimes in the wrong direction, but she’s four, so it’s cute).

When the final whistle blows, the swarm of four and five year olds erupts into excited shrieks. Penny and Holly spot the two of you at the same time and sprint over - Penny with her white tube socks stained green with grass and Holly with hair falling out of her pigtails.

Holly reaches you first, practically launching herself into your lap. “We won! We won! Did you see how far the ball went when I kicked it?”

“Of course I did,” you answer cheerfully. “You were amazing. I’m so proud of you. You did so great too, Penny.”

Before he has a chance to recover from the way the softness in your voice made his chest tighten, Penny starts jumping up and down, chanting daddy, daddy, daddy.

“Daddy, can Holly go with us to get ice cream?”

Oh. That’s right. He had promised his daughter ice cream after the game.

“Uh—” Frank hesitates, just for a second, glancing over at you. With your sunglasses now resting on the top of your head, he can see your wide, slightly panicked eyes. “We…we don’t know if Holly and her aunt already have plans, sweetie,” he says gently, not wanting to disappoint her but also giving you the out that he’s almost certain you’ll take.

But Holly is already looking up at you with pleading eyes. “Please, please, please can we go get ice cream?”

You let out a small laugh, eyes darting between Holly and Frank. He offers a small smile of his own, shrugging as if to say the ball’s in your court.

“Why not?” You sigh. “Sure. Ice cream sounds good to me.”

Frank might not show it in the same way that the girls do - with wild cheers and shrieks of laughter - but he’s just as pleased that you said yes.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

More and more often, you find yourself wishing that you met Frank Langdon when you were younger.

Not because you wish you met him before he got married or before he had children or before he fell into addiction. None of that deters you, actually.

Maybe it should. It probably should. But it doesn’t.

No, you wish you met him when you were still an optimist. When you still welcomed love with open arms and wore your heart on your sleeve and believed that everyone you met had as good of intentions as you do.

You wish you met him before your past tainted the mere idea of relationships and romance and trust.

You know it’s irrational. Things are the way that they are for a reason. If you had met him in med school, you probably would’ve thought he’s such a douche that you never would have even entertained the idea of kissing him.

But sometimes you still can’t help but wonder…

If you had met him at a different time, would there be more days like today? Early morning sunshine and soccer games and ice cream instead of late night booty calls that turn into mornings where you still wake up all alone, breathing in the scent he leaves behind on your pillow?

It’s fun to imagine that things could be different.

Then you remember the hurt and the heartbreak that comes with loving, and you shut those thoughts down. Back to sporadic, unplanned hook-ups and the illusion of control that they give you.

You suppose you can still allow yourself to sniff the scent of him that lingers after he leaves your bed, though.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

There’s a gradual shift in your and Frank’s dynamic over the weeks following Holly and Penny’s soccer game and the subsequent ice cream date that somehow ended in you and Frank sharing a chocolate soft serve.

It’s so subtle that at first, the changes don’t register as out of the ordinary.

You’re a little more reluctant to put your clothes back on and leave his place after sex. You stop ignoring each other at work, even exchanging jokes at the nurse’s station. He compliments you openly when you do something impressive with a case, not caring who might overhear the praise. When it’s his day off, you’ll randomly text him to tell him about something crazy that he missed at work. He starts opening up more - about his recovery, about his divorce, about his children. Not all at once. Just little pieces of his life bit by bit that you weren’t privy to before.

And you open up to him, too. Without realizing it. Without even meaning to.

It slips out by accident. You can’t even recall exactly what you’d been talking about at the time, but you tell him that he’s the first person you’ve slept with since your ex.

Your ex that you broke up with nearly two years ago.

He’d looked surprised when you revealed that. But he didn’t laugh, or say anything to tease you. He just turned to lie on his side, propped his head in his hand, looked down at you lying beside him, and asked you the same question that you’ve asked yourself on more than one question but have never answered.

“Why me, then? If you waited that long to…be with someone again. What made you kiss me in the parking garage that night?”

You stare up at him for a moment before answering, your fingers teasing his chest hair. “I’m not really sure,” you answer honestly. “Maybe I thought you were having as shitty of a day as I was, and that you looked like you needed someone as badly as I did. Maybe I thought it would be a good thing for both of us.” You pause. “Or maybe I just thought you looked like you’d be good in bed.”

He exhales a shaky laugh. One hand rests on your hip, fingers drawing lazy circles across your skin. It’s too dark to tell with only the moonlight from your open curtains illuminating the room, but if you had to guess, you would say that he’s blushing. It takes practically nothing to make him blush, a fact that you often take full advantage of because you think he looks pretty when he blushes.

“And were you right?”

“About which part?” You murmur, your hand stilling against his chest.

He gives a half shrug, hesitating just long enough for you to know exactly what he’s asking without him saying it. “The part about me being good in bed,” he says instead, with no trace of his normal humor in his voice.

“Frank.” You cup his face in your hand, swallowing down the answer to the question he won’t ask. “You know you are.”

It wasn’t a lie. He’s more than good. He’s the best you’ve ever had, and that’s exactly why you’re blind to the most damning way the lines begin to blur.

What started as stress relief, as a coping mechanism for a shit day, turned into something that started to feel less like an escape from reality and more like something that feels terrifyingly like love.

Just coworkers with benefits turned friends with benefits don’t stare into each other’s eyes during sex like they’re trying to see into each other’s souls. They don’t touch you, hold you, and kiss you like you’re their lifeline. Like you’re the air they need to breathe.

They definitely don’t call you baby when they’re telling you to come for them.

But then Frank goes and does just that.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank’s hips slam into yours, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that makes you croon his name against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat.

You weren’t supposed to come over tonight. He had come to your place last night, and the two of you have never hooked up two nights in a row before.

You’ve also never hooked up when his children are sleeping in their bedrooms just down the hallway.

But he called you, right as you were leaving the hospital, and told you that he wants to see you. That he misses you. He even said please in a low, sleepy voice that made heat bloom down your spine.

And you pictured him - skin flushed and dewy from his shower and dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips - and then next thing you knew, you were driving the route to his apartment that has become as familiar as the route to your own.

He noticed you were tired as soon as you walked in. Laid you down in his bed, undressed you, and kissed down your body until stopping between your thighs, where he spent even more time than he usually does - so much time, in fact, that your legs were shaking around his head when you pulled him up to you by the tops of his arms and all but begged him to fuck you.

And he did. Is.

Sounds of flesh on flesh and his bed frame creaking fill the room as your nails scrape down the skin of his back and his teeth dig into the meat of your shoulder, the familiar fiery coil in your core dangerously close to snapping again.

“Frank,” you breathe, voice unrecognizable. “Fuck, I’m close. I need - I’m gonna—”

He gently shushes your incoherent babbling, slanting his lips over yours with a sloppy, open mouth kiss that makes you cry into his mouth.

“I know,” he grunts low and breathless when he pulls away. Skilled, slender fingers find the swollen bundle between your folds, coaxing you to climax. “I can feel it. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight. You’re so close, just let go for me, baby.”

The foreign pet name falls from his lips so effortlessly that it sends you over the edge - warms you from head to toe, white-hot pleasure coursing through you as he fucks you through your orgasm and his own.

Baby, baby, baby.

You barely register the fact that he pulls out and collapses beside you on his mattress, his thigh brushing against yours.

Every nerve in your body vibrates with the typical post-coital blend of oxytocin and serotonin but the bliss is background noise to the word he’d murmured so pretty against your skin.

It flashes in your mind like a neon sign. Baby.

Suddenly, everything leading up to this moment begins to play like a highlight reel.

The touches that linger for a split-second too long, the random texts throughout the day, the just because kisses that don’t necessarily lead to sex, your favorite vending machine snack randomly appearing on your desk at work when you’re having a hard day, how you know his go-to take-out order by heart, baby, baby, baby—

You bolt upright, cutting Frank off in the middle of a sentence that you hadn’t registered a single syllable of. You throw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching down to pick your underwear and scrubs up off the floor.

“Uh—” He lets out a soft, confused laugh. “You okay?”

You pull your shirt over your head, unable to bring yourself to look at him. “Yeah,” you say, your voice unnaturally high. “It’s just late. I’ve got work in the morning, so I should get going.”

“O…kay,” he draws the word out, obviously unconvinced. “You sure that’s all it is?”

You jump up, yanking your pants into place. “Yep. Just tired.”

He’s silent for a moment, as if trying to gauge the sudden shift in your demeanor. Then, he clears his throat. “I mean, if you’re tired, you can sleep here. Probably shouldn’t drive—”

“What the hell are we doing, Frank?”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, eyebrows knitting together. “What are we doing?” He repeats. “Same thing we’ve been doing for the last few months, I thought.”

You’re shaking your head before he can finish the sentence.

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same and you know it.”

He sits up straighter, blue eyes boring into you like he’s trying to read your mind. It feels like an eternity before he speaks again, and when he does, his voice is low and restrained. “Where is this coming from?”

You make a vague, exasperated gesture with your hands. “It’s coming from…all of it. You call two nights in a row and I come running. People at work are starting to talk because we barely even try to hide it. Your kids are sleeping right down the hall and you’re offering to let me spend the night—”

“Okay, okay,” he interrupts gently. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. You’re right,” he admits. “Things aren’t exactly the same. Haven’t been for a while now.” He pauses, the intensity of his stare keeping you glued to the spot where you stand next to his bed. “I just don’t see why that’s a bad thing.”

Your chest constricts at the way he doesn’t try to argue. Doesn’t get defensive, just wants to understand.

“Because it was never supposed to be…this.” Your gaze drops to the floor. “It was supposed to be casual. No strings attached. No feelings. But now?” You look back up to find him still staring at you, jaw clenched. You mentally will your voice to stay level, but emotion still slips through. “Cuddling all night then having breakfast with your children in the morning? Calling me baby like I’m yours? That’s not casual, Frank. That’s—”

He cuts you off with an incredulous laugh. “That’s what this is about?” He pushes the covers off of him, grabbing his underwear as he jumps out of bed to yank them on. “Me calling you baby?”

You’re silent as he walks over to you, stopping when his still bare chest is just inches from yours. He looks at you, unblinking, as he waits for you to answer.

You stare up at him, offering a small shrug. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything. Tell me it just slipped out and meant nothing and I’ll let this go.”

He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “I’m not going to lie so you can stay in your comfort zone,” he says, voice dangerously low. “It wasn’t just a slip. I called you baby because that’s what you are to me. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but at least be honest with yourself about why it upsets you.”

His words hit you square in the chest, knocking the air from your lungs and causing you to take a small, involuntary step back. “And why exactly do you think it upsets me?”

He leans in slightly, his eyes darkening. “Let me ask you this. Are you really that pissed off that I called you baby? Or are you upset that me calling you baby made you come harder than I’ve ever felt you come?”

You laugh at that. Cackle, really. Louder than you probably should at this hour when his children are sleeping with only walls in between you.

“Wow,” you exhale. “Okay.” You nod. “You’re a dick, and I am leaving.”

You don’t wait for a response before you’re grabbing your tennis shoes and bag off of his floor, not even bothering to put the shoes on your feet before storming out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the front door.

You’re aware of footsteps trailing after you, of Frank calling your name in a desperate whisper-shout, but you don’t stop. You aren’t thinking, you aren’t processing what just transpired, you just want to go back to your place, scream into a pillow, and hope that when you wake up in the morning, your heart is no longer doing gymnastics in your fucking ribcage.

“Please,” he breathes, his hand blanketing yours over the doorknob when you go to turn it. “Hear me out for just a second, okay?”

You don’t look up. His palm feels like wildfire against your skin and your brain is screaming at you to yank your hand away but you’re frozen in place.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he starts, voice a notch above a whisper. “If you want to leave, you can leave. But I can’t let you walk out of here thinking that this is still just sex to me. It was at first. I don’t know exactly when that changed for me, but it did. And I think it did for you, too.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. All of the words that you know you should probably say pile up in your throat.

I can’t be what you want me to be. I don’t know how.

I’m scared of hurting you. I’m scared of getting hurt.

It’s easier for me to shut down than to admit how I really feel.

I don’t remember how to let someone in. I wish I could.

For you, I wish I could.

You swallow them all down.

But you don’t tell him he’s wrong, either.

“I’ll see you at work, Frank.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Though the cravings have yet to subside, Frank is now a month sober from the exact thing his therapist had warned him about in the earliest days of his recovery.

Unlike when he got clean from benzos, this specific brand of newfound sobriety isn’t his choice. It’s yours.

He would never choose this for himself.

But still, he has surprised himself. Hasn’t reached out, no matter how much he has wanted to. Hasn’t texted you, no matter how many drafts he’s typed and deleted. Hasn’t called, even though it has killed him inside to watch your name get lower and lower in his call history. He’s given you space at work and has only talked to you when it pertains directly to a case.

He’s hated every fucking second of it, but he can officially say that he is thirty days clean. If the past thirty days have taught him anything, though, it’s this: he’d happily fall back into old habits, if only you’d give him the chance.

Because it isn’t the sex that he misses most. The sex doesn’t even crack the top ten things he thinks about when he’s trying to fall asleep at night.

It’s the way you’d occasionally forget a hair clip or chapstick on his bedside table and he’d find little pieces of you when you weren’t around and smile. It’s the way he’d get a text from you when he least expected it. It’s the way you’d ask about his children, and make a point to celebrate his recovery milestones even when he didn’t.

And now he’s here, thirty days without you, and one thing has become abundantly clear to him: he didn’t fall back into addiction, he fell in love.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The news comes on a random Tuesday.

Temple University Hospital. Philadelphia. An internal medicine based fellowship you had impulsively applied for the night after you slept with Frank for the last time.

You had already made peace with the fact you weren’t going to get it. Didn’t think you even stood a chance, really, and you were okay with that. You had already been offered a pediatrics fellowship here in Pittsburgh, anyway.

Then the email appears in your inbox on a random Tuesday morning while you’re at work.

Suddenly, you have what most doctors approaching the end of their residencies don’t have: options.

And because you can’t talk to the one person you most (selfishly) want to talk to about it all, you talk to Cassie, instead.

“Wait. Temple?” She exclaims. “As in Philadelphia? I didn’t even know you had applied! What happened to pediatrics here in Pittsburgh?”

You sigh, taking a seat on the concrete curb in the ambulance bay. “It was really last minute. I didn’t say anything because I really didn’t think I’d get it. And as for the peds fellowship…” You shrug. “I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, sitting down beside you. “That’s amazing. Do you know how hard it is to get into that program? They’re crazy selective.”

You force a smile. “I know.”

Cassie’s smile falters into concern. “Why does it seem like you aren’t thrilled about this?”

“I am,” you answer way too quickly, hugging your knees. “I’m just…surprised, that’s all. It’s big news.”

She stares at you as if you’re a patient who’s lying to her about how much pain they’re in. “You sure that’s all?”

Before you can bullshit a response, the automatic doors to the hospital slide open, and the very reason that you find it impossible to jump for joy right now steps outside.

He’s saying something to an EMS worker, completely oblivious to you watching him from across the bay, but the mere sight of him makes your heartbeat stutter and palms go clammy.

“I’m sure,” you force out, your eyes still glued to Frank. “It’s just…”

“Just…?” Cassie prompts, then follows your gaze. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between you before the pieces click into place. “Oh.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Oh.”

She clicks her tongue. “So that’s why you submitted a last minute application for a fellowship in Philly.”

You can’t deny it. Not when you know she’s right. Not when you’re staring right at him with every feeling you’ve been trying to bury since the very first time you kissed him bubbling to the surface.

“I really fucked things up, Cass.”

You finally look away from him, your eyes burning with the threat of all of the unshed tears that you’ve refused to let spill for the last month.

“Between you and Langdon?” She asks gently.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I completely shut down the second things started to get real. He told me how he felt and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I feel the same. I just ran like I always do and…”

“And now you’re thinking about running to Philadelphia.”

Again, you can’t even deny it. Not in any way that would be halfway convincing.

“Temple would be a great opportunity,” you mumble instead, looking down at your shoe.

Cassie purses her lips. “It would be,” she agrees. “But moving five hours away isn’t going to magically erase your feelings. You have great opportunities here, too. And I don’t just mean peds.”

She nods in Frank’s direction. You glance back over to where he still stands chatting with the EMS worker. At the same moment, he looks up and his blue eyes meet yours.

You exhale, hoping that he doesn’t have a hidden talent for reading lips. “I don’t know if he even wants to talk to me at this point.”

She snorts. “Please. If the way he’s been moping around like a dejected puppy for the last month means anything, then you have nothing to worry about.” She pauses. “Look, if you really want to go to Philly, then I’ll help you pack. But if you’re gonna go, go for the right reasons. Not because facing your feelings scares you more than the thought of moving three hundred miles away.”

You hate that she’s right. But not as much as you hate the fact that you know she’s right, and still might take the easy way out, anyway.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

What hurts Frank more than anything is that he doesn’t hear the news directly from you.

He isn’t supposed to hear it at all, actually. He only finds out because he happens to be standing a few feet away at the nurse’s station, and Victoria’s voice carries.

“I heard about your fellowship offer from Temple,” Victoria practically sings. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. Internal medicine, right?”

Frank doesn’t even look up from his tablet at first. He isn’t sure who Victoria is talking to, but he has no reason to believe it’s you. You didn’t apply to any fellowships in internal medicine. You’ve always been interested in going into emergency pediatrics—

“Oh—” Your nervous laugh causes Frank’s eyes to shoot up. Your back is to him, so he can’t see your facial expression. “Yeah, thanks,” you tell Victoria, your voice an octave higher than it typically is.

He doesn’t register the rest of the conversation because of a shrill ringing in his ears that makes him bolt to the restroom.

It’s been one month since his last legitimate conversation with you, and now you’re moving to Philadelphia? For a fellowship in internal medicine, which you’ve never expressed interest in during all the years you’ve worked together or months you slept together?

And you didn’t even tell him yourself. He heard it from Victoria talking so loudly that patients in fucking triage probably heard the news.

Not that you owe him anything. Of course you don’t have to run your life decisions by him. He was just blindsided is all.

Blindsided, and more devastated than he probably has any right to be.

He wishes he could be as happy for you as Victoria is. But no matter how much Frank works on himself, no matter how much time he spends in therapy or how many self-help books he reads, he’s always been a selfish man when he’s in love.

But you aren’t his to be selfish over. He knows this. He’s painfully aware of it every time he sees you at work and every time he feels your absence when he’s alone at night.

So when he sees you walking to your car in the parking garage after work that night, he tries to do the right thing even though it feels wrong.

“So, Philly?”

You come to a halt beside your car, slowly turning around to face him. You purse your lips in the way that Frank knows that you normally do when you’re nervous, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

“You heard about that, huh?”

Frank stops a couple feet away from you, one hand on the strap of his backpack and one crammed in his pants pocket. “Yeah, Javadi doesn’t exactly whisper.”

“Ah,” you breathe. Then, with a small laugh, “No, I suppose she doesn’t.”

An awkward beat of silence passes between you as it dawns on Frank that this is damn near exactly where he stood months ago when you first kissed him. The realization makes his gaze flash to your lips.

God, what the hell is he doing?

He clears his throat and starts to take a step back. “Well, I just wanted to say congratulations. Temple will be really lucky to have you—”

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” you interject quickly, the words nearly running together. “I just found out yesterday so I…I don’t really know what I’m going to do yet.”

Frank hopes that his face doesn’t show the sudden relief he feels to hear of your indecision.

“But I’m sorry you found out that way,” you add in a smaller voice, not meeting his eye. “I was going to tell you, once I made a decision.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says softly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here.” He pauses and adds the words that taste like bile when they leave his mouth. “Even if it’s not with me.”

But goddamn, do I wish it was, he thinks.

A storm of different emotions flicker across your face in the span of about two seconds. For one of them, Frank thinks you might step toward him.

But it’s just wishful thinking, or maybe the shitty parking garage lighting.

“Thank you, Frank.”

Anything else he could possibly say would be solely for his own benefit, so he nods.

And he doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment, knowing there’s a chance that he may not have many more with you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The words on the screens in front of you bleed together.

The email you received yesterday morning from Temple University Hospital is open on your laptop screen. The iPad in your hands displays UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh’s website.

You’ve scanned and scrolled as if the answer you’re searching for will appear in bold letters across one of the screens, but since you got home from work a few hours ago, the only decision you’ve succeeded in making is chamomile over peppermint tea.

You thought taking a hot shower might help you clear your mind. All that resulted in was remembering all of the times that you ended up at Frank’s or he ended up at yours after work and you’d shower together, washing off the long day with your hands and lips on each other the entire time.

After cutting your shower short, you figured eating something other than a protein bar would help you gain at least a little mental clarity - but then you opened your fridge to see leftover takeout from the Italian place down the road that you know Frank likes, and completely lost your appetite.

The following hours weren’t much different.

Put on body lotion - remembered how much Frank loved the smell of it. Turned on music - the first fucking song that played on shuffle was by an artist that Frank introduced you to. Searched through a pile of laundry for a cardigan - found a t-shirt Frank accidentally left at your place over a month ago that you can’t bring yourself to give back to him.

He’s still everywhere. It’s been a month and he’s still occupying spaces that he hasn’t been in weeks. In your apartment and in your brain and in your heart.

And to top it all off, the words that he had said to you in the parking garage tonight won’t stop replaying in your head.

I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here. Even if it’s not with me.

But what if it is? What if it is here? What if it is with him?

You sigh, rubbing your eyes, but it does little to improve the quality of the words on the screens in front of you. Maybe, if you put on your reading glasses, everything will become clear to—

Your hand freezes on a piece of paper in your bedside table drawer as you’re searching for your glasses.

A bright blue, wrinkled sticky note. You don’t even have to flip it over to remember what it says but you do, anyway.

Stop overthinking. You made the right call. You always do.

Also, stop scowling.

Frank’s handwriting. He’d scribbled the words, crumpled the paper up, and flicked it at you across your desks while charting after a particularly brutal trauma that he knew you were beating yourself up over.

It had been the first thing to make you smile that whole day. It was a reminder that you desperately needed at that moment. And it was from Frank. Of course you kept it.

And now here it is. At the exact moment you so desperately need that reminder once again.

Stop overthinking.

So that’s exactly what you do. You stop overthinking, and do what you should have done a long time ago.

He’s probably already asleep, but you put on your shoes.

There’s a voice in the back of your mind telling you that you’re probably too late, but you grab your car keys and make the short drive to his place.

And there’s a tight ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach that begs you to turn around, but you raise your hand and knock on his front door.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank is convinced that he must be dreaming.

He didn’t actually hear a knock and open his front door to you standing outside at midnight.

There’s no way this isn’t his subconscious playing some cruel joke on him. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve appeared in his dreams, but it is by far the most realistic he’s had. He can feel the chill of the night wind as it blows the familiar scent of your body lotion in his direction and it is all so, so lifelike.

It doesn’t register that he is very much awake and you are very much here until you speak.

“Shit.”

It’s the first word out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you huff. “Are the kids here right now? I hope I didn’t wake them up. I didn’t really think this through. I just got in my car and drove here before I could chicken out because I’m tired of chickening out and—”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, stepping over the threshold of his doorway. He almost reaches out and touches you, but stops himself at the last second.

You’re here. You’re actually fucking here right now. It’s the middle of the night and you’re in your pajamas and slippers and he has no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re here.

“What’s going on?” He asks gently, unable to keep obvious concern from his tone. “It’s…after midnight. Is everything okay?”

You nod. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry to freak you out. I just…I told you that I was going to tell you whenever I came to a decision.”

Frank stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. You did say that…approximately five hours ago.

The shock and the hope he had initially felt upon realizing that you’re standing on his front porch is quickly replaced with dread at what you might say next.

He swallows, his voice rough. “So…you made a decision, then? About Philadelphia?”

Another nod, followed by a smile that he can’t quite read. “Philly sounds great. I mean…the Eagles, the Liberty Bell…cheesesteaks.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “And the internal medicine program at Temple would be a really great opportunity.”

Frank drops your gaze, bracing for what surely comes next.

“But Philadelphia does not have the guy that I love.”

His eyes shoot back up. You’re staring at him, eyes wide and closer to tears than he thinks he’s ever seen from you. Before he can speak, you take a step closer and he forgets how to breathe.

“It doesn’t have you.”

Frank knows it defies all science and logic, but he swears the entire city freezes around you two right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt before his brain has a chance to catch up. “Frank, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out on you like I did. I shouldn’t have shut you out, I shouldn’t have taken this long to get my head out of my ass—”

“Hey—” he tries gently, but you’re on a roll now.

“—and I should have told you that you were right. It wasn’t just sex to me, either. I don’t think it ever really was. And I get it if I’m too late. I get it if you can’t give me another chance. But I’m not going anywhere, I’m done running away from what I feel, and if I have to prove every day that I love—”

That’s it. He won’t listen to another word.

Not that he doesn’t love the sound of them coming from your lips because goddamn, he does. Every word, every apology, every promise you’re willing to give, Frank will take.

But he can’t just stand here and watch the way your hands are starting to shake and listen to your voice begin to tremble when every part of him that has missed you for the last month screams at him to pull you close, so that’s exactly what he does.

It only takes a fraction of a second for you to process that his lips are moving against yours.

Your hands fly to his hair, his own dropping from your face to your waist to pull you flush against him. You gasp into his mouth, a pretty noise that Frank is happy to swallow down. It takes no time at all for the kiss to turn fervent, a clash of tongue and teeth that makes him grateful that it’s the dead of night and all of his neighbors are asleep.

“—you,” you finish when you reluctantly break apart, your breath warm against his lips. “I love you.”

The three words are everything he’s been waiting to hear since the first night you kissed him. He just didn’t know it at the time.

“I love you, too, baby,” he murmurs low. A smirk forms on his kiss-swollen lips. “It is okay that I call you that now, right?”

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half sob at the words. You grab his face in your hands and pull him down again for one more kiss, this one shorter but just as sweet.

“Please,” you sigh, smiling up at him. “Because you weren’t wrong about the effect it has on me.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The café wore luxury like a mask. By daylight, it glittered—crystal glasses chiming softly, velvet drapes drawn just enough to let in curated sunlight, laughter exchanged between people who never spoke plainly. But midnight stripped it bare. The performances ended. The illusions thinned. What remained was a place where wealth whispered to power, where names were traded in low voices and no one lingered longer than necessary.

Tonight, even that life had been erased. There was no staff members in sight, no patrons. No sound but the distant hum of the city beyond the tall windows. It felt less like a café and more like a stage, cleared for a single scene.

You stepped inside anyway. Each footfall echoed too clearly against polished floors, your senses sharpening out of habit—years of pursuit carved into instinct. Every rumor, every intercepted transmission, every carefully unraveled lie tied back to the Stellaron Hunters had led you here.

To him.

And just as expected, Elio was already waiting. He sat by the window, one arm resting loosely against the table, the faint glow of the city outlining his silhouette. There was no tension in him, no sign of urgency or caution. If anything, he looked… composed. As though this moment had long since been decided, and he had merely arrived on time.

He didn’t turn when you approached. You assumed he didn’t need to. “…You’re later than expected,” he said, his voice quiet but precise, cutting cleanly through the silence.

You slowed for half a second—just enough to register the weight of it—before continuing forward, your gaze fixed on him.

“Don’t act like you didn’t plan this,” you replied, your tone steady, though your hand remained close to your weapon. “You knew I’d be here.”

A brief pause followed. Then, finally, he turned his head. His eyes met yours, the quiet intensity almost takes you off guard. There was no surprise in them. No calculation you could read. But a calm, unsettling awareness— as if he had already seen you standing there, already heard those exact words.

“…Yes,” he answered simply.

You stopped across from him, the table a thin, meaningless barrier. “You cleared the place out,” you continued, your voice lowering slightly as you took in the emptiness around you. “No staff, no witnesses. What— afraid someone might hear something they shouldn’t?”

“Not afraid,” he said, his tone even, almost absent of emotion as his gaze drifted briefly toward the darkened room. “Unnecessary.”

The word lingered. Unnecessary. As if the world itself had been trimmed down to only what mattered, to only this moment.

To you.

You didn’t sit, not yet. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of an 'arranged meeting' he so hoped for. You didn't want to calmly negotiate with a criminal who left bloodstains with each step he took.

This was not what the Galaxy Rangers taught you.

“Enough of this,” you said, your patience thinning as years of frustration pressed at the edges of your restraint. “I want answers.”

There was the faintest shift in his posture—subtle, but deliberate, like a piece on a board being acknowledged rather than moved.

“To what extent?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, his voice carrying a quiet curiosity that felt… wrong.

Your jaw tightened. Slight impatience began to flare up within you— perhaps this was what you inherited from La Mancha, this restlessness at the lack of answers. (Ashveil sneak ik)

“The Stellaron Hunters,” you began, each word measured. “Their operations. Their goals. The damage they leave behind.” Your gaze sharpened. “The Aeons. And the Astral Express—what role they play in whatever you’re orchestrating.”

For a moment, silence loomed over and he said nothing. Then, a soft hum escaped him, thoughtful, almost idle.

“Mm.” Not an answer, not even an attempt at one.

You stepped closer, the tension in your shoulders tightening. “Don’t do that,” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet.

“Do what?” he asked, his gaze returning to you, unbothered.

“Act like you’re thinking about it,” you snapped. “You already know what you’re going to say.”

A pause. You can almost catch a glimpse of the smile that graced his lips for a faint moment. “…Correct.”

The admission came easily. Too easily for someone who's escaped from your grasp for so long. Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

“Sit.” An abrupt command, this time laced with finality. The word was soft, but there was no room for refusal in it.

Your eyes flickered to the chair across from him. Every instinct resisted. Every lesson told you to remain standing, to keep control, to never lower yourself in front of someone like him.

And yet, you pulled the chair back and sat. Up close, he was worse. Not imposing, not threatening in any obvious way but the underlying intent in every word he spoke told you more than he wanted to let you know.

This certainty in his voice— as if nothing you could do here would change anything. Like this entire conversation had already happened somewhere beyond your reach—and you were only now catching up to it.

“You’ve been following me for a long time,” he said, his voice quieter now, more focused.

You let out a short breath, almost scoffing as you leaned back slightly. “You mean I’ve been trying to catch you.”

“No,” he corrected gently, his gaze steady. “Following.”

The distinction settled uneasily in your chest. “You let me get this far,” you said, the realization surfacing fully now.

It was not a question but an observation. You've traveled around planets after planets, going after any traces you had received, all for this moment.

Elio's answer didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” A short answer you had a feeling you'd be hearing for a while.

Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. “…Why?” you asked, your voice lower than before, edged with something sharper than anger.

He regarded you in silence, his gaze unreadable. “…I was curious,” he answered in nonchalance.

Your brows drew together. “Curious,” you repeated, disbelief threading through your tone.

“Yes,” he continued, as if the word alone was sufficient. “Most outcomes deviate minimally. Predictable variables. Predictable conclusions.” His eyes held yours, unblinking. “You were… persistent.”

“You call this curiosity?” you shot back, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve destroyed lives. Interfered with entire systems. People die because of the Stellaron Hunters.”

“I am aware,” he replied, his tone unchanged. There was no guilt present in those words, no defense. A sentence filled with so much apathy it almost disgusted you.

Your patience snapped. “Then answer me properly,” you demanded.

A longer pause this time. The air felt tighter, like something unseen had shifted between you.

“No.” The word was quiet. Final and unmovable.

Your chair scraped softly as you pushed it back, frustration breaking through. “Then what was the point of this?” you demanded, your voice rising slightly. “You sit here, wait for me, and you won’t even—”

“I didn’t bring you here for answers.” Your words cut off instantly.

Silence fell again. Now a heavy and pressing ache. Slowly, he leaned back, his posture relaxed in a way that only made your tension sharper.

“I wanted to see something,” he stated, his ocean gaze casted upon you.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

A brief pause. Then, he answered simply: “…You.”

The word settled between you, quieter than everything that came before it—and somehow heavier.

Your grip tightened. “That’s not funny.” Your eyes bore into his, the pupils that spoke of millions of possibilities, you knew he was leading you somewhere.

“I’m not attempting humor.” The confession is apathetic, one the universe could get around with an issue but it still fueled your restlessness.

The city lights flickered faintly behind him, casting shifting shadows across his expression. For the first time, something in his gaze felt… focused in a different way. Not detached or distant but present.

“You’ve reached a point where most would stop,” he continued, his voice lowering slightly. “Or fail.”

Your breath slowed, just a fraction.

“You didn’t.”

You exhaled sharply. “So what? You’re evaluating me now?”

“In a sense.”

You straightened, resolve hardening again. “Then here’s your evaluation,” you said coldly. “You’re a criminal. And I’m here to bring you in.”

He took a moment to look at you— truly look at you, the unnerving intensity set in his gaze now amplified a thousand times stronger. “You won’t.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “…Excuse me?”

Elio didn’t move. Nor did he reach for anything. “You won’t,” he repeated, his tone calm, certain. A conclusion you were forced to bear, not even an observation.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your voice tightening.

“No,” he replied softly. “You already have.”

The words lingered, unsettling in a way you couldn’t immediately place. Then, he leaned forward. Enough that the distance between you felt intentional.

“There is a point,” he said quietly, “at which all paths converge.”

Your breath caught, barely.

“And when that point is reached… a choice is made.”

Your gaze hardened. “I’ve already made mine.”

“Not yet.”

Any slight distraction could've allowed you to miss this— the fact that Elio hesitated. It was slight and nearly imperceptible. But it was there.

“…When that moment comes,” he continued, his voice softer now, something deeper threaded beneath the certainty, “I want to know—”

He paused, his hand reaching forward— not to touch you but linger by your side. “Will you walk to the end… with me?”

The question settled into the silence like something irreversible. It was not a command disguised as a prediction. The words seemed something dangerously close to a request.

Your breath faltered for a second. You stared at him, trying to reconcile the absurdity of it—the weight of everything he was, everything he had done—with the quiet way he asked it.

You knew this was natural to him— this inevitability he bore but it wasn't to you. Not for a Galaxy Ranger who carved their own path, be it narrow.

“You’re insane,” you said finally, your voice lower now, less certain than before.

“Possibly,” he replied, without denial.

You stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “This ends with you in custody.”

“No.” Again, with that same certainty.

Your hand moved instinctively—but stopped. Because something felt wrong. You looked at him again. At how he hadn’t moved. Resistance failed him and he had yet to try to leave.

“…You’re not planning to escape,” you said slowly, a conclusion you had reached.

“No.” The Stellaron Hunter answered once more. His answers were certain yet they were presented in a way that would fall your composure to be faltered— you had caught that, like a wolf's keen eyes catching a trap.

“Because you don’t need to,” you realized, your voice quieter now.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched between you one last time, now you were the one to break it. “…This isn’t where it ends,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

“No,” he agreed softly. His head tilted and he stared up at you, a hint of intrigue lingering in those ocean eyes.

You knew this was all just an arrangement for the meeting— you would not receive any answers no matter how much you persisted. This meeting was for his benefits, to see you, to study you akin to a butterfly under a microscope. And as you turned, caught between duty and something far more dangerous—

His voice followed you like a quiet ghost that only spoke of the unavoidable.

“I’ll ask you again,” he stated with finality, not even sparing a glance toward you. Then, his voice shifted to something softer and a knowing smile carved itself on his lips. “…when you’re ready to answer.”

For the Prophet of Finality had earned a face he'd look back for once the Paths converged.

You have been confined to your rooms for three days.

Three days of meals brought to you on trays because your presence at the family dining table has been deemed temporarily unnecessary. Three days of Lenne and Korel moving through your space with the careful quiet of people who have been briefed about something they will not discuss. Three days of watching the wisteria from your window and thinking about absolutely nothing except the fact that thinking about nothing is considerably harder than it sounds.

Your mother is displeased.

This is not news. Your mother has been displeased before—when you wore the wrong gloves to a reception, when you forgot the correct form of address for a visiting dignitary, when you expressed an opinion about a painting at a volume someone three tables away could hear. But those displeasures were temporary, small corrections delivered with the brisk efficiency of a woman who considers mistakes inevitable and correction mandatory.

This is different.

This displeasure arrived three afternoons ago when Maret returned to the tea house alone and found your mother still at her table, still smiling at Saint Harrow across a plate of petit fours, still performing the exact social calculation that had required your presence as supporting evidence. And you were not there. You were in Pangaea Castle standing in a garden full of butterflies that did not care whether you existed, and your absence became, in that moment, a statement you had not intended to make.

Your mother does not appreciate unintended statements.

The conversation that followed, Maret's quiet report, your return to the estate two hours later, the silence in the entrance hall that felt heavier than any reprimand, resulted in the current arrangement. Your rooms. Your meals. Your books. The window. Nothing else until your mother decides that the lesson has been sufficiently absorbed.

You understand the lesson. You left a social engagement without permission during a period when your family's position in the inner city is still being assessed. You made your mother explain your absence to women who catalogue absences professionally. You turned what should have been a successful afternoon into a question mark.

Understanding the lesson does not make the confinement less suffocating.

You sit at the writing desk and stare at the book open in front of you. You have been on the same page for forty minutes. The words refuse to arrange themselves into meaning. Outside, the afternoon light shifts across the wisteria in that particular late-day gold that makes everything look significant, and you think about the butterfly garden.

The stone ledge. The moss between the paving stones. The air that smelled like green things and rain and absolutely nothing expensive. Practically chaos in this insufferable city.

Three days ago feels like three months.

You have reorganized your books twice. Not by title, not by author — by color, first, which lasted approximately half a day before you found it unbearable, then by some internal logic you cannot now reconstruct that seemed meaningful at the time and now looks like the evidence of a person losing their mind incrementally. You have written four letters you will not send.

You have counted the wisteria clusters from the window on three separate occasions and arrived at a different number each time, which is either a problem with the wisteria or a problem with you, and you suspect it is you. You have slept too much and then not enough. You have had every thought you own and some you would prefer not to.

This is, you think, what suffocation feels like when it is administered politely.

The thing is, you had not planned it. That is what makes the punishment feel both fair and entirely beside the point. You had not planned to stand, had not planned to excuse yourself quietly while Maret was mid-sentence and your mother's attention was occupied with Saint Harrow's opinion on something you had already stopped hearing.

You had simply reached the exact moment where the air in the tea house felt like it had been breathed by too many careful people for too many careful years, and your body decided, independently of your judgment, that it was leaving.

The butterfly garden had been an accident of direction. You had walked until the streets opened up and the noise shifted registers, until you found yourself at a gate you had passed before and never entered. And inside — stillness. Not the performed stillness of a reception room, not the deliberate quiet of a house in mourning. Just the ordinary indifference of living things going about their business without any awareness that you were standing among them, failing to be a social asset to anyone.

You had sat on a stone ledge for forty minutes and felt, for the first time in weeks, like your own edges.

It was worth it. You know it was worth it. This does not prevent you from also knowing it was extremely stupid.

You'll do it again the moment you have a chance to.

The strangest part of this confinement is that your mother has not come to see you.

This is itself a message.

When she is displeased but recoverable, she delivers corrections directly, brisk, efficient, the matter closed once addressed. The silence means she is not yet ready to close it, which means the disappointment is still being held somewhere, still being turned over. You know her well enough to know that what she minds is not the butterflies.

It is not even, precisely, the leaving. It is the moment she had to look across the table at Saint Harrow and account for a gap where you should have been. The moment her management of you became visible as management.

You are, in her estimation, a reflection she is still in the process of polishing. Reflections are not supposed to wander off. Puppets are not supposed to wander off.

The door opens without knocking, Lenne, carrying another tray, her expression carefully neutral in the way that means she knows exactly why you are still in here and will not acknowledge it.

"Dinner, my lady," she says quietly, setting the tray on the low table near the settee.

You do not move from the desk.

Lenne hesitates for exactly one second, then withdraws without comment. The door closes with the soft click of someone who has learned that quiet is safer than conversation.

You look at the tray. Roasted something. Vegetables arranged with care. Bread that is still warm enough to release steam when broken. It is, objectively, an excellent dinner… only you are not hungry. Boredom has long satiated hunger.

You move to the settee. Sit. Look at the tray with the expression of someone prepared to be reasonable about this. Because you are not an unreasonable woman.

The roasted something is lamb. It smells like rosemary and the particular richness of things that have been cooking since mid-afternoon, and your stomach responds to this information with an enthusiasm that the rest of you does not share. You note the rumble with the detached interest of someone observing a minor structural complaint in a building they have no plans to repair. Yes. Noted. Irrelevant.

You pick up the fork.

The lamb is, in all likelihood, excellent. Korel has never produced a bad meal since you arrived and this is clearly not going to be the occasion. The vegetables are roasted through, catching at the edges the way you actually prefer them. The bread is still faintly warm against your fingers.

You put the fork down.

She waited. Three full seasons, while every other girl your age was introduced, assessed, positioned, while the city learned their names and their faces and their families, your mother kept you back. No rush, she said. The timing must be correct. Debut is not a thing to be done carelessly.

Three seasons of being told you were not ready, or the city was not ready, or the moment was not right, and now, suddenly, the moment is extremely right, and your presence is required at every table and every tea and every carefully orchestrated afternoon, because apparently whatever your mother was waiting for has arrived, and you are the instrument she has spent years tuning for a performance she has not yet explained to you.

It would be useful to know what she is trying to accomplish.

It is not that you are making a point. There is no one here to receive the point. Lenne has withdrawn, the door is closed, and whatever silent statement you might make with an untouched dinner will be reported upward in the morning with the same careful neutrality with which everything else has been reported. My lady did not eat again. You are aware this is not productive. You are aware, also, that productivity is not currently what you are optimizing for.

Your stomach disagrees. Loudly, this time, with real conviction.

You break off a piece of bread. Turn it over in your fingers. The warmth has mostly faded by the time you eat it, which feels appropriate. You eat three bites of lamb, Korel's lamb, which is, as predicted, excellent and which you are experiencing at approximately a tenth of its deserved appreciation — and two forkfuls of vegetables and then you set the fork down again and accept that this is what dinner is tonight.

Good enough, you decide. Functional.

Your stomach, notably, does not agree, but your stomach has been wrong about things before.

You stare at the tray for another moment, then push to your feet with the restless energy of someone who has been sitting still for too long.

Three days is too long to wait for answers that should have been offered immediately.

You cross to the door and open it, finding the corridor empty in both directions. Your rooms sit in the quieter wing of the second floor, away from the main staircase, which means your parents' chambers are two corridors over and you will need to pass exactly three points where a servant might see you and report your movement.

You don't care.

"Lenne," you call, not loudly, but with enough certainty that the word carries.

She appears within seconds, materializing from the servants' passage with the silent efficiency of someone who has been trained to always be nearby without being present. Her expression shifts to careful attention the moment she sees you standing in the doorway rather than seated at the settee.

"My lady?"

"Is my mother in the house?"

Lenne's eyes flicker briefly toward the main corridor before returning to you. "No, my lady. Lady Montclair is attending the Varell reception this evening. She left an hour ago."

Of course she did. Three days of confining you to your rooms and she hasn't missed a single social engagement.

"And my father?"

"Lord Montclair is in his study, my lady."

You nod once. "Thank you."

Lenne does not ask where you are going. She simply steps aside, and you move past her into the corridor with the decisive stride of someone who has made a decision and will not be talked out of it.

Your father's study sits on the ground floor, tucked into the east wing behind the formal library where he can work without interruption from the household's daily operations. You take the back staircase rather than the main one, passing through the quieter sections of the house where the servants move and do not stop to question a Celestial Dragon woman walking alone through her own home.

The study door is closed but not locked. You knock once, briefly, then open it without waiting for permission.

Inside, your father sits behind his desk with a glass of something amber at his elbow and several papers spread before him in the organized disorder of a man mid-work. He looks up at your entrance with the mild expression of someone who has been interrupted but is not particularly surprised by it.

"Lyris."

"Father." You close the door behind you and remain standing near it, hands folded at your waist. "I need to know what is really going on."

He sets down the paper he was holding and leans back in his chair, regarding you with the measured calm that has always been his default state. "That is a rather broad question."

"Then I will narrow it," you state evenly. "What is mothers objective in treating me like a marionette?"

Your father is quiet for a moment. Not the silence of someone caught off guard — he is never caught off guard, it is one of his more frustrating qualities — but the silence of someone deciding how much of the truth is useful.

He picks up his glass. Sets it down without drinking from it.

"Sit down, Lyris."

"I would rather stand."

"I know." He gestures toward the chair across from him anyway, the worn leather one that has sat in the same position since you were small enough that your feet didn't reach the floor from it. "Sit down regardless."

You sit. You do not unfold your hands from your waist, which is perhaps a small statement, but you are running low on available statements.

Your father looks at you the way he sometimes does — as if he is performing a quiet calculation, weighing something, arriving at a number he does not entirely like. He has your mother's precision without her performance of it. You have always found this both easier and harder to deal with.

"Your mother," he begins, "is not operating without reason."

"I know she isn't. That is precisely the problem. She has reasons she has not shared with me, objectives I have not been shown, and a plan whose shape I cannot make out despite being apparently central to it." You keep your voice even. "I am not asking you to take my side. I am asking you to tell me what I am a part of."

He considers this. The fire in the east-wing hearth has burned down to something low and orange, and the study has the settled quality of a room inhabited by one person over many years — books with cracked spines, a correspondence tray that has never quite been emptied, the faint smell of ink and old paper.

"You are aware," he says finally, "that our position here is newer than we present it."

"Yes."

"And that your mother has spent the better part of a decade building relationships in this city that would make that newness irrelevant."

"Yes, Father. I am aware. I have been watching her do it while being trussed as a guinea fowl."

Something shifts briefly in his expression — not quite a smile but adjacent to one, the amusement of a man who finds the metaphor apt and will not say so. He turns his glass once against the desk.

"Necessary nonsense," he says, and his tone is not unkind but it is also entirely final, in the way that closes a door without slamming it. "Then you understand that debut is not, for your mother, the simple matter of introducing a daughter to society."

"Then what is it, precisely?"

He folds his hands on the desk. "It is the final piece of an argument she has been making for years. That we belong here. That we have always belonged here. That our place in the inner city is not an aspiration but a fact." He pauses. "You are the evidence."

The fire crackles. Outside, somewhere in the house, a door closes.

Evidence. Not a daughter being introduced. Not even a reflection being polished. Evidence in an argument you did not know was still being made.

"Evidence of what," you question, barely holding your face together.

Your father's expression does something small and difficult to read. "That everything she has built is real. That the name, the connections, the position — it is not performance. It is lineage. It is a family. It is you." He picks up his glass again. This time he drinks. "A woman who has built something from careful work does not announce that work. She simply produces the result and allows other people to conclude that it was always inevitable."

You sit with this for a moment.

"And the three seasons," you say. "The waiting."

"She needed the city to want you before it had you." He says it simply, as if it is obvious, which perhaps to him it is. "Scarcity is its own argument."

You think about the tea houses. The carefully managed appearances. The calculated positioning at every engagement, every afternoon, every table. Your mother's hand at the center of all of it, moving pieces you could see but never quite trace back to their origin.

Your mother built anticipation. She made your absence into its own kind of presence, and now your debut is not an introduction. It is a confirmation of something people already decided they believed.

It is, you will admit privately, impressive. It does not make you feel less like a puppet.

"And if I don't want to be evidence," you counter, already suspecting the answer is not one you'd like.

Your father looks at you for a long moment. His expression is not unkind.

"That," he responds, "is a conversation to have with your mother."

═════════⚓︎══════☠️══════⚓︎═════════

The estate falls into a rhythm after that conversation with your father.

Not a comfortable rhythm. Not one that feels natural or pleasant. Simply the pattern that emerges when all parties have reached the limits of what they are willing to say to each other and have agreed, without saying so, to stop saying it.

Your mother resumes inviting you to things. You attend them.

She does not mention the butterfly garden. You do not mention it either.

The silence around the subject has weight, sitting between you at breakfast tables and in carriages and during the small moments when she adjusts your sleeve or comments on your hair. She knows you went somewhere you should not have gone. You know she knows. Neither of you is willing to be the first to acknowledge it directly, so instead you perform a careful pantomime of normalcy while the unspoken thing occupies the space where honesty would go.

It is exhausting in ways you did not anticipate.

Days pass. A week. Then another. You attend a luncheon at the Pellerin house where sixteen women discuss the upcoming season with the focused energy of generals planning a campaign. You sit through a garden reception at the Silverbourne estate where someone's cousin from the outer territories commits three separate social errors in under an hour and you watch the room catalogue each one with the collective precision of a firing squad.

You smile. You nod. You say how lovely and of course and I quite agree in the correct registers.

Your face stays where it belongs and she has nothing to fuss about.

The Delacroix dinner is on a Thursday.

Fourteen guests. A table long enough that conversation naturally divides into clusters, which means you will spend the evening managing your immediate neighbors, Lord Aldric Delacroix on your left, who is seventy and primarily interested in his own opinions, and a woman named Seraya Voss on your right, who is approximately your age and watching everything with the careful attention of someone keeping score.

You know how to manage this. You have been managing versions of this for weeks.

Your mother sits four seats down, across the table, which is close enough to observe and far enough that communication requires subtlety. Maret is between you, which means she will spend the evening pretending not to notice what is passing over her head.

The first course arrives on porcelain plates edged in silver—a delicate consommé garnished with thin ribbons of herbs and a single carefully placed edible flower. You lift your spoon with the practiced economy of someone who learned young that every gesture at a table like this one is observed and catalogued.

The angle of your wrist is correct. The rhythm of your movements is unhurried but not languid. You do not lean too far forward. You do not pause too long between bites. The temperature is perfect, the clarity of the broth precisely what is expected from the Delacroix kitchens, and you taste almost none of it because tasting is secondary to execution.

Lord Aldric to your left makes a remark about the quality of the stock, something about the chef's training under someone terribly important in the North Blue estates, and you make the appropriate murmur of agreement without breaking the rhythm of your own meal. Seraya on your right eats in near-silence, but you can feel her watching in your peripheral vision, marking the cadence of your spoon, the placement of your hands when you are not actively eating.

You finish the soup at the socially correct moment, not first, not last, and set your spoon down with the handle angled precisely as you were taught. Your napkin remains in your lap, touched only once to blot the corner of your mouth. There is nothing for anyone to correct. There is nothing for anyone to note. Your mother is almost fuming over this fact.

Lord Delacroix, from the head of the table, offers an opinion on the eastern trade routes, something about the levies being unreasonably weighted against the smaller northern ports, and you find, to your mild surprise, that you actually have thoughts about this. Real ones.

Not the rehearsed murmurs of polite agreement your mother would prefer, but a genuine and slightly inconvenient opinion forming somewhere behind your ribs.

"The northern ports have always carried a disproportionate burden in that regard," you say, keeping your tone even, conversational, the way you might observe that the soup was warm. "Though I suspect the issue is less the levy structure itself and more the lack of consistent representation at the revision councils. The routes haven't been formally reassessed in what, forty years? The infrastructure has changed considerably since then."

There is a very brief silence.

Too far, some instinct warns you. You have opinions, which is already borderline, and now you've said one out loud at a dinner table.

But Lord Delacroix does not look displeased. He looks, if anything, rather alert, the way a man looks when something unexpected has arrived in a conversation he thought he already understood.

This is excellent — the port conversation is a perfect vehicle for the silent tension because it's genuinely interesting, Lyris is clearly competent, and her mother cannot object to a single word of it without looking absurd. Here's the continuation:

"Forty-three," he answers, with the precision of someone who has clearly thought about this before. "And you are not wrong about the councils." He sets down his spoon and turns toward you with the air of a man who has just decided this is the more interesting conversation available to him. "The problem, as I understand it, is that the northern port representatives have never managed to consolidate their interests sufficiently to present a unified position. They arrive at revision discussions divided and leave having accomplished nothing."

"Which suits the southern interests perfectly," you observe. "A fractured north is easier to maintain than a coordinated one."

From four seats away, across the centerpiece arrangements and two candlesticks, you feel your mother's attention shift.

Not toward you. That would be too obvious. But the quality of her attention to her own conversation changes, becomes slightly less present, the way a person's focus redistributes when something in their peripheral vision requires monitoring.

You are aware of this the way you are aware of most things your mother does. Completely, and without acknowledgment.

Lord Delacroix makes a sound of genuine appreciation. "Precisely. And the revision council structure itself compounds it, the representation model hasn't been updated to reflect the population shifts of the last two decades, which means the northern ports are still operating on allocations that made sense in your grandfather's time and make considerably less sense now."

"The Cerrath amendment proposal," you say, because you have read it, because you read things when you are confined to your rooms for three days with nothing else available. "The one that died in the second session."

Lord Delacroix stares at you for a moment with the expression of a man recalibrating something. "You know the Cerrath proposal."

"I know it was poorly timed and reasonably well-argued and that it failed primarily because Alderman Voss had a personal interest in the existing allocation model rather than any principled objection to the revision." You pause, head tilted in consideration. "The irony being that a properly weighted northern representation would likely benefit several of the southern families who voted against it, if they had looked past the immediate quarter."

The silence this time is slightly longer.

Seraya Voss, on your right, makes a small sound that might be a laugh, quickly converted into a sip of wine.

You become aware, without looking, that your mother has stopped eating.

She has not stopped her conversation. She is still turned toward the woman on her left, still present and engaged and performing the dinner with her usual flawless efficiency. But the rhythm of her silverware has changed by approximately nothing, and you know, because you have spent twenty years learning to read her, that she is no longer tasting her food either.

This is not what you are for, her silence says, across four seats and a floral arrangement. You do not need to know about port levies. You do not need opinions about amendment proposals. You are here to be seen and to be charming and to confirm what Lady Sefton and women like her have already decided to believe about you, and none of that requires the Cerrath proposal.

You reach for your wine glass.

I am being charming, yours says back. Lord Delacroix is extremely charmed. Look at his face.

Lord Delacroix's face is, in fact, the face of a man who is having a considerably better evening than he expected. He has leaned slightly toward you in the way that people do when a conversation has acquired momentum, his earlier dinner-party posture replaced with something more genuine.

"The downstream effect on the Meridian routes alone," he says, with real feeling. "If the northern allocations were properly weighted, the pressure on the central corridors would ease considerably. We have been patching infrastructure problems for thirty years that are fundamentally revenue distribution problems in disguise."

"And calling them infrastructure problems keeps them technical rather than political," you agree, "which means they never reach the level of discussion where they might actually be addressed."

"Exactly." He looks at you with the satisfied expression of someone who has found an unexpected equal. "Where did you study, Lady Lyris?"

"I had a very thorough tutor," you reply pleasantly. "And a great deal of time to read."

From four seats away, Maret reaches for her wine with the focused serenity of someone who has decided this glass is the most interesting object in the room.

“Have any of you tried the rose hybrid trend?” your mother inquires, her eyes sweeping the table to ensure attention has shifted. “It’s simply transforming gardens at the moment.”

Immediately, Lady Sefton lights up from across the table, grateful for a topic she can embrace without any depth of thought, her fork pausing above a delicate pastry like a treat that could absolve her from intellectual pursuits.

“Oh indeed, Seraine!” she exclaims, her agreement fluttering about like one of those very petals. “I’ve heard the roses are marvelous in the Montagnard gardens!”

Conde Verel chuckles into his sleeve. “A trifle for horticultural minds, perhaps?”

"On the contrary," your mother replies, with the smooth ease of someone who has never once been caught flat-footed at a dinner table, "I find that the people who dismiss horticulture as trivial are invariably the ones who have never attempted to maintain a garden worth discussing." She smiles at Conde Verel with the particular warmth that means she has just won something and is being gracious about it. "There is considerable strategy in a well-managed garden. The timing, the positioning, what you allow to grow beside what."

The table laughs, appropriately.

You reach for your wine and do not look at her.

The metaphor is not accidental. It is never accidental with your mother. You'll give this one to her, your mother, after all, does know how to work a dinner party.

"But gardens aside," she continues, turning the conversation with the practiced ease of someone changing a river's course and making it look like weather, "I have been hearing the most interesting things about the Caravel exhibition. Lady Mourne, you attended the preview, didn't you? I understand the Tessaly collection was rather extraordinary."

Lady Mourne, who has been waiting for an opportunity to speak for approximately two courses, straightens with visible relief. "Extraordinary doesn't cover it. The provenance alone, three generations of acquisition, and the Tessaly family has never shown publicly before. It was quite the coup for the exhibition committee."

"Lyris." Your mother's voice is pleasant, her gaze finding you with the gentle precision of a pin finding its mark. "You have always had such a good eye for the acquisitive arts. Didn't you spend some time studying the Tessaly school with your tutor?"

There it is.

Not a shutdown. Never a shutdown, that would be visible, would suggest something was wrong, would invite the table to wonder what exactly needed shutting down. Instead a redirect, elegant and absolute, reframing you from the woman who just discussed the Cerrath amendment proposal with Lord Delacroix's full and genuine attention into something more appropriate. Something decorative. Something that can speak knowledgeably about art and demonstrate cultivation without requiring anyone to take you seriously as a thinking person.

You look at your mother for exactly one moment.

She looks back with the serene expression of a woman who has done nothing wrong. Your eyebrow twitches ever so slightly and your lips curve into a pleasant smile.

"A little," you reply, turning to Lady Mourne with the appropriate warmth, the appropriate interest, settling into the redirect as smoothly as if you chose it yourself. "The early acquisitions were remarkable, the Tessaly eye for Marenthine work specifically was quite singular. Was the Bellacroix triptych included in the exhibition? I had heard it might finally be shown publicly."

Lady Mourne lights up entirely.

Lord Delacroix, to your left, is quiet for a moment. Then he picks up his fork and returns to his meal with the expression of a man who has noticed something he will not comment on at this particular table.

Seraya Voss, to your right, says nothing. But she refills her own wine with the unhurried air of someone settling in, and when you glance at her she meets your eyes for just a fraction of a second with an expression that is not quite sympathy and not quite recognition and is perhaps some precise combination of both.

The dinner finishes without incident.

Which is to say it finishes exactly as these things always finish: with dessert arriving on small plates, with your mother making gracious remarks to the hostess, with everyone standing at precisely the correct moment and departing in the correct order.

You say the appropriate things to Lord Delacroix, thank you for the fascinating conversation, and to Seraya Voss, perhaps we'll see each other at the Silverbourne reception, and you mean approximately half of what you say, which is a better ratio than most dinners achieve.

Your mother does not speak to you on the walk to the carriage.

This is fine. Expected, even. She is still performing for the departing guests, still visible, still Lady Montclair who has just hosted a successful connection at the Delacroix table. She will not break character until the carriage door closes.

It closes.

The silence inside is immediate and heavy.

Your mother smooths her skirts with delicate precision. Maret, seated across from you, has adopted the expression of someone who has suddenly become very interested in the window.

"That was quite the performance," your mother says finally.

Her tone is pleasant. Light, even. Which means you are in considerably more trouble than if she had simply been angry.

"Lord Delacroix seemed pleased," you offer.

"Lord Delacroix," your mother replies, "is seventy years old and has been bored at dinner parties for the last forty of them. Of course he was pleased. You gave him something novel." She turns to look at you directly now. "Do you know what else is novel? Daughters who discuss amendment proposals at formal dinners when they are meant to be establishing social connections."

"I was establishing social connections."

"You were showing off."

The words land with the precision of someone who has been holding them for the past hour and has finally found the appropriate moment to release them.

"I was having a conversation," you say, keeping your voice level.

"You were having the wrong conversation." Your mother's hands remain folded in her lap, but her posture has shifted infinitesimally toward something harder. "You are not here to demonstrate your education, Lyris. You are here to be charming. To be memorable for the right reasons. To make the other women at that table think I should introduce her to my son rather than she certainly has opinions about trade policy."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"In Mariejois they are, no one wants an educated lady, they want someone who will perform as expected and know how to mind her tongue."

The carriage turns a corner. Outside, the pale facades of the inner city drift past in their endless gilded procession.

"You redirected me," you say quietly. "In front of everyone."

"I saved you," your mother corrects. "From yourself. Which I have been doing with alarming frequency since we arrived in this city."

The silence that follows is not comfortable.

Maret continues looking out the window with the focused determination of someone who has decided this conversation does not require her input and will not be offering any.

"The Tessaly collection was a perfectly appropriate topic," your mother continues, her tone returning to something closer to normal instruction. "Art, culture, aesthetic appreciation, these are things you are allowed to know about. These are things that make you interesting without making you threatening." She pauses. "Trade policy makes you threatening."

"To whom."

"To every potential suitor and his mother who was sitting at that table." Your mother's expression doesn't change. "You have five weeks until your debut. Five weeks to establish yourself as someone the senior families want their sons to court. And you are spending those weeks discussing revision councils with septuagenarians."

"Lord Delacroix found it engaging."

"Lord Delacroix," your mother says, with the particular patience of someone explaining something obvious, "is not a potential suitor. His sons are both married. His grandsons are too young. He has no strategic value to you beyond being pleasant company at a dinner table, which means impressing him accomplishes nothing except drawing attention to exactly the qualities we are trying to keep appropriately subtle."

You look at your hands.

"I wasn't trying to impress anyone, I simply wished to have a stimulating conversation that did not make my ears bleed."

"That," your mother says, "is precisely the problem."

The carriage slows as you approach the estate gates. Through the window, you can see the wisteria outlined against the darkening sky, the grounds settling into their evening arrangement.

Your mother adjusts her gloves, closing the discussion.

"Next time," she says, "when a man old enough to be your grandfather begins talking about policy, you smile, you nod, and you find a way to mention something he can compliment you on instead. A painting you admire. A book you enjoyed. Something that allows him to feel knowledgeable without requiring you to demonstrate that you are." She looks at you directly. "This is not negotiable, Lyris. No one wants a debutant speaking of trade policies they know nothing about."

The carriage stops.

The footman opens the door and your mother descends without a word, striding off to the estate in finality.

Maret does not immediately follow your mother out of the carriage.

The fact that she remains seated, hands folded in her lap, looking at you with the careful expression of a woman choosing her words, means she has made a calculation and intends to soothe the sting in the only way she can. By providing advice.

"She is not wrong," Maret says, gently, "about the optics."

"I know."

"Lord Delacroix was genuinely engaged, which was lovely, but the other guests were watching, and what they saw was—"

"I know what they saw."

Maret pauses. Tries a different approach. "If you were to frame it differently next time. Lead with a question rather than a position. Allow him to arrive at the conclusion himself, then agree with him. The effect is nearly identical but the impression is—"

"Maret." You are looking out the window. The wisteria is barely visible now, just dark shapes against a darker sky, the estate lit warmly behind its gates. "I need a moment."

A brief pause. "Of course. I'll let the footman know—"

"I mean I need a moment in the carriage."

Maret is quiet.

You continue looking out the window.

"Lyris." Her voice has shifted slightly, the professional gentleness replaced with something more direct. "The garden is in Pangaea Castle."

You do not confirm or deny this.

"It is late," she continues.

"I am aware of the time."

"Your mother has just gone inside."

"Also aware."

Another pause, longer this time. You can feel her thinking, running the calculation the way she always does, weighing variables, arriving at a number she does not love.

"If you are going regardless," she says finally, with the careful tone of someone who is not saying what they are saying, "the carriage is already here. The driver knows the castle routes. It is considerably safer than—" she stops.

"Than walking," you finish, turning to look at her. "Which is the alternative."

Maret closes her eyes briefly. Opens them. "You would walk. At this hour. Alone."

"It is not so far."

"Lyris."

"The streets between here and Pangaea Castle are perfectly—"

"Lyris." She says your name with the particular weight of someone who has reached the end of their available patience and is being very restrained about it. "I will tell the driver."

Something in your chest loosens by a fraction.

"You do not have to come," you offer.

"I am absolutely coming," Maret says, with quiet finality, reaching up to knock twice on the carriage roof before you can argue. "And we are not staying longer than an hour. And if your mother asks—" she pauses, appearing to locate a version of events she can live with— "I needed air. The dinner was close and I required air."

"That is a terrible excuse."

"It is the excuse we have." She settles back against the seat as the carriage begins to move, folding her hands with the expression of someone who has made their peace with a decision they cannot fully endorse. "One hour, Lyris."

"One hour," you agree.

═════════⚓︎══════☠️══════⚓︎═════════

It had taken much convincing to get Maret to agree to remain in the carriage while you walked around the butterfly garden.

Three separate assurances that you would not leave the visible path. One promise that you would return before the hour was out. A negotiation regarding the definition of wandering versus walking with intention that you suspect Maret won on a technicality. And finally, the observation, delivered with the patient logic of someone who has made this argument before, that Pangaea Castle's grounds were lit, walled, and patrolled, and that the carriage was directly outside the gate, and that nothing was going to happen to you between here and the wisteria walk that could not be immediately remedied by shouting.

Maret had looked at you for a long moment with the expression of a woman adding this evening to a private ledger she keeps somewhere behind her eyes.

She had stayed in the carriage and you had set out to find the butterfly garden. So now you walk through corridors that seem designed to make you feel small.

The ceilings are high enough that your footsteps echo in a way that suggests the space was never meant for a single person walking through it. The columns are wide enough that three men standing shoulder to shoulder could hide behind one. Every surface is carved with something, heraldry, mostly, the stylized sun of the World Government repeated until it stops being a symbol and becomes texture.

The architecture here doesn't care that you're looking at it. It was built to last centuries and impress people considerably more important than you, and it accomplishes both without trying.

You pass a tapestry depicting something historical. A battle, probably. Men in formal dress standing over something conquered. You don't stop to read the plaque beneath it.

Further along, the corridor branches. Left continues deeper into the administrative wing, where you can hear distant voices and the shuffle of papers being moved. Right opens toward what looks like another courtyard, smaller than the entrance, with afternoon light falling through tall windows in long clean bars.

You go right.

The castle settles around you in the particular silence of government buildings in the evening, not empty, but winding down, the urgent business of the day already concluded. Somewhere above you a door closes. Footsteps cross overhead and fade.

You turn another corner and nearly walk into them.

Three men in steel uniforms, standing in a loose cluster near a doorway, mid-conversation. They notice you immediately in the way trained fighters notice everything, quick assessment, already cataloguing threat level before you've finished registering their presence.

Holy Knights.

You've seen them before, of course. At formal events, standing at attention near the senior families, always present, always watching. But never this close. Never in a corridor where there's nowhere else to look.

The tallest one has red hair. Long, braided, falling past his shoulders in a way that should look impractical for combat and somehow doesn't. His face is sharp-featured, handsome in the particular way of men who know it and don't particularly care. He's holding a sealed letter in one hand, clearly mid-discussion with his companions before you interrupted.

All three of them are looking at you now.

"Saint Montclair," the red-haired one says.

Not a question. A statement. Which means they know who you are, which means someone briefed them, which means your family's arrival in the inner city has reached the level where the castle's security forces are tracking your movements.

You keep your expression pleasant.

"Good evening," you say.

The Knights exchange a brief glance, not quite silent communication, more like checking to see who's going to handle this. The red-haired one shifts his weight slightly, a small gesture that somehow establishes him as the one speaking for the group.

"You're far from the residential quarter," he observes. Not unfriendly. Just noting a fact.

"I am taking a walk," you say, which is true and explains nothing.

His mouth does something that might be amusement. "Clearly."

One of his companions, stockier, darker-skinned, with the particular alertness of someone who notices things professionally, tilts his head slightly. "Did you need directions back to the main entrance, my lady?"

"No," you say. Then, because you need to say something that sounds like an actual reason for being here: "I was looking for a garden."

Three sets of eyes regarding you with varying degrees of interest.

"A garden," the red-haired one repeats.

"With the butterflies," you add, and immediately wish you hadn't because now you sound like a child asking for a petting zoo.

But something in his expression shifts, not mockery, more like recognition of something specific.

"Ah." He glances at his companions, then back to you. "The Garden of Flowers."

"Is that what it's called?" you ask. "Aptly named. I discovered it not long ago. I was hoping to walk through it once more, but I am afraid I am still unfamiliar with the castle."

"That's what we call it." He gestures down the corridor with the letter still in his hand. "Continue to the end, turn left at the statue, you'll know which one, it's holding a sword incorrectly, then through the archway into the east courtyard. The garden entrance is at the far end."

You commit this to memory.

"Thank you," you say.

"Mind the moss," one of the other Knights adds. "The stones are slippery if you're not expecting it."

The red-haired one is still watching you with that particular quality of attention that means he's filing this conversation away somewhere. "Most nobles don't wander the castle looking for gardens."

"Most nobles are only interested in vanity," you say pleasantly. "A garden has the considerable advantage of not noticing whether you're impressive."

His eyebrow lifts a fraction. "Clearly."

One of his companions coughs quietly into his fist.

"We should let you continue your search," he says, stepping aside in a way that manages to be polite without being deferential. "Enjoy the butterflies, Saint Montclair."

"Enjoy your evening," you say, inclining your head to all three of them equally, which is a small kindness since it doesn't single him out, and walk on before the amusement in his expression can develop into anything requiring a response.

The statue with the incorrect sword is exactly where he said it would be.

Some classical figure in marble, holding their weapon at an angle that would get them killed in actual combat but looks dramatic in stone. You file this observation away, Holy Knights who notice when statues are holding swords wrong, and continue through the archway.

The east courtyard is smaller than the entrance, paved in pale stone that has settled slightly over the centuries. A few benches. A fountain that isn't running. And at the far end, exactly as promised, an entrance framed in climbing vines that have clearly been growing here longer than anyone has been managing them.

You walk toward it.

The air shifts as you approach, warmer, greener, carrying that particular scent of growing things in an enclosed space. The entrance isn't grand. Just an archway, stone worn smooth at the threshold from centuries of feet crossing it, the vines overhead dense enough to create a living frame.

You step through.

And stop.

Oh.

This is what you were looking for without knowing you were looking for it. Not a garden in the Mariejois sense, no careful arrangement, no color coordination, no strategic sight lines. Just green. Abundant, unbothered, growing.

Vines everywhere, climbing the walls in thick tangled curtains, reaching across the ceiling in loose nets that filter the afternoon light into something dappled and inconstant. Flowers in no particular order, deep blue next to pale yellow, terracotta red tangled with white, all of it blooming on its own schedule without asking permission.

And butterflies.

Everywhere.

You relax into the garden with the kind of ease that has been unavailable to you since stepping off the carriage all those days ago.

The path beneath your feet is uneven, old stone, settled and cracked, with moss filling the gaps in thick green seams that give slightly when you walk. Not the calculated roughness of a garden designed to look natural. Actual unevenness, the kind that happens when stone has been left alone long enough to develop opinions about where it wants to sit.

You follow it without direction, one hand trailing along the flower beds as you pass, fingers brushing petals that don't care whether you touch them or not.

A pale violet bloom, cool and soft under your fingertips.

Something deep gold with petals so dense they feel almost like velvet.

Terracotta red, the edges catching the dappled light from above, and you stop to look at it properly, really look, the way you haven't looked at anything in weeks because everything in Mariejois demands to be looked at and this flower is simply existing whether you notice it or not.

You bend slightly, leaning in to smell it.

The scent is faint, something green and slightly sweet, honey maybe, or the particular smell of growing things when they're warm in sunlight. Not overwhelming. Not performing like the noxious perfumes so frequently used among debutants. Just there, because that's what flowers do when nobody tells them otherwise.

You breathe it in for a few moments, enjoying a natural beauty that is so seldom in Mariejois.

Straightening up, you continue walking, the hem of your dress trailing behind you with that soft persistent whisper that you've stopped noticing because there's nobody here to notice it either.

A butterfly drifts past your shoulder, pale yellow, unhurried, and lands on a cluster of white flowers a few feet ahead. You watch it work at the center of the bloom with the focused unconcern of something that has never once considered an audience.

The path curves slightly, following the wall, and you follow it too, no destination, just walking because walking here doesn't require justification.

Another flower catches your attention, something low-growing, deep blue, almost purple at the edges. You crouch down to look at it properly, your skirts pooling around you on the moss-covered stone, and tilt your head to catch the light through the glass ceiling above.

The petals are layered in that particular way of flowers bred carefully into this version of themselves, but unlike the roses at the Veramont house or the arrangements at every Mariejois table you've sat at, these aren't performing sophistication. They're just… here. Growing. Doing what flowers do when left alone.

You stay crouched there for longer than necessary, just looking, just breathing air that doesn't smell like careful perfume and furniture polish.

When you finally stand, your knees protest slightly, too long in heeled shoes, too many hours on fitting platforms, but the complaint feels honest in a way nothing else today has been.

You brush your hands against your skirts and keep walking.

The garden opens wider ahead where two columns stand further apart, and between them the planting beds have spread into each other in the particular way of things that stopped asking permission several seasons ago. You pause there, looking at where the pale violet has tangled into the terracotta red, where the deep gold spills into white without any apparent concern for color theory or seasonal coordination.

It's beautiful.

Not in the way Mariejois is beautiful, that calculated, exhausting, look-at-me beauty that requires constant maintenance and never admits to effort. This is the kind of beauty that happens when things are left alone long enough to make their own decisions.

You crouch again beside a cluster of something pale cream, petals opening toward the filtered light above, and this time you don't just look, you touch one petal very gently, feeling the texture of it, cool and smooth and alive under your fingertip.

A shadow passes overhead.

You glance up.

A butterfly, larger than the others, dark wings edged in amber, moving between the vines with the ease of something that knows this place intimately.

You watch it disappear into the green tangle above, then return your attention to the flower in front of you, and that's when you see him.

Not directly ahead, slightly to the left, perhaps ten feet away, standing perfectly still near a section of wall where the vines have grown so thick they've created a kind of living curtain.

A man.

Tall. Lush snow-white hair framing his sharp face in a way that catches the dappled light filtering through the glass ceiling, making it almost luminous against the green backdrop. And his eyes…

You straighten slowly.

His eyes are crimson, ringed in a way you've never seen before, multiple circles within the iris itself, and they're looking at you with the particular quality of attention that suggests he's been standing there long enough to have watched you ungracefully crouch beside the flowers twice without announcing himself.

You should probably say something.

Your mouth has temporarily forgotten how.

He is, objectively, the most beautiful person you have ever seen, and you have spent the last several weeks attending events populated entirely by people who have dedicated considerable resources to being looked at. You have sat across tables from women whose appearance is a carefully maintained argument and men whose faces have been called distinguished in print. You have been in rooms where beauty was a currency and everyone present knew the exchange rate.

None of that has prepared you for this particular moment in this particular garden.

It is not just the hair, though the hair is remarkable, or the eyes, though the eyes are doing something you have no prior reference for. It is the combination of him and here, this person standing in this garden among the untidy growing things with the filtered light catching the planes of his face, entirely still, entirely unhurried, watching you with an expression that suggests he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend some of it being quietly amused by you crouching beside flowers.

You are aware that you are staring. You are having some difficulty addressing this.

Something moves at the edge of your vision.

Then several somethings, a small drift of butterflies lifting from the vines to your left, moving through the air between you with the unhurried confidence of creatures who have right of way here and know it. You track them automatically, the way your eyes always find movement, and for one suspended moment your attention divides between the butterflies and the man and the garden and the quality of light coming through the glass above.

One of them lands on your neckline.

You look down at it.

Small, pale gold, wings moving in the slow contemplative rhythm of something that has made a decision and is comfortable with it. It has chosen you with the complete indifference of a creature that does not understand what you represent in the social architecture of this city, does not know about the Delacroix dinner or the Cerrath proposal or your mother's carefully managed debut strategy, and has landed precisely where it wanted to land without asking anyone's permission.

You raise your hand slowly, carefully, the way you were taught to move in rooms where sudden gestures are noted, and bring two fingers close enough to gently redirect it.

The butterfly moves its wings once, twice, in the unhurried way of something considering its options.

It stays.

You try again, a little closer, fingers almost brushing the edge of its wings in what is meant to be a gentle suggestion toward departure.

The wings move again. Slow. Contemplative.

It stays.

You lower your hand.

The butterfly settles, adjusting itself with an air of mild satisfaction, and resumes its previous arrangement on your neckline as though the interruption was noted and dismissed.

You look back up at the man with the crimson eyes.

He is watching the butterfly with an expression that is, you think, genuine. Not polite interest. Not the performance of delight that well-bred people produce when something charming happens in their vicinity. Something quieter than that. Something that looks like a person who actually likes butterflies standing in a garden that has too many of them and finding this entirely acceptable.

Your mouth, finally, locates itself.

"It seems," you say, with a composure you are approximately sixty percent actually feeling, "that I am not the only one who finds this garden preferable to the alternative."

He looks at you for a moment with those ringed crimson eyes, unhurried, the way someone looks when they have not been surprised in a very long time and are deciding whether this qualifies.

"No," he says finally. His voice is quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn't need volume behind it. "You are not."

The pale gold butterfly is still on your neckline.

You look down at it with the patient expression of someone who is going to be reasonable about this.

"I have," you tell it, quietly, so as not to disturb the garden's particular quality of silence, "a very limited amount of time here. And you cannot come with me."

The butterfly opens and closes its wings once, in the manner of something that has heard you and found your argument unpersuasive.

You bring your fingers close again, very gently, and this time it steps onto them with the cooperative air of something that has decided to engage with the process while reserving the right to ignore the outcome. It walks to the end of your index finger and sits there, wings moving in that slow contemplative rhythm, apparently quite pleased with the new arrangement.

"Thank you," you say, and carefully extend your hand toward the nearest flowering vine.

The butterfly considers the vine. Looks at you. Looks at the vine again.

It walks back toward your wrist.

"That is not what we agreed," you inform it.

It reaches the inside of your wrist and stops there, wings catching the filtered light, entirely comfortable.

You sigh, very quietly, and attempt to transfer it back to the flowers a second time, which is when two more butterflies drift in from somewhere to your left and land on your sleeve with the coordinated decisiveness of creatures acting on a shared conclusion.

"Oh come now," you sigh in resignation, not really mad, but nervous that Maret might come bulldozing into the garden because you have stayed precisely one minute past your allotted hour.

You look at your arm. Three butterflies. One on your wrist, two on your sleeve, all apparently very satisfied with themselves.

You look back up at the man with the crimson eyes.

"I apologize," you say, with genuine sincerity. "I don't think they understand the concept of consequences."

The corner of his mouth moves. Barely. Less than a smile and more than nothing.

"No," he says. "They don't."

You return your attention to the butterflies with the expression of someone attempting a negotiation they already know they are losing. You try once more, very gently, extending your arm toward the vine in what you hope communicates the general direction of please, and the one on your wrist walks obligingly onto your other hand instead.

"That," you tell it, "is not the vine."

It opens its wings. Closes them. Stays.

From somewhere beyond the garden walls, faint but unmistakable, you hear the sound of a carriage. Maret, you think, with the particular frequency of a woman who has been patient for exactly as long as she intends to be patient and is now making her presence known.

You look at the butterflies on your arm. You look at the garden around you, the tangled growing things, the filtered evening light, the impossible quiet of it.

You look, briefly, at the man standing near the wall of vines, who has watched this entire proceeding without offering advice or moving to help or doing anything except being very still and present in the way of someone for whom stillness is simply a natural state.

"I have to go," you tell the butterflies, and mean it as an apology.

You try once more, with the focused patience of someone who has spent an entire evening being perfectly composed and can manage three butterflies, and this time, with a great deal of coaxing and what amounts to a gentle herding motion along the vine, you manage to redistribute them back to the flowers. The last one, the pale gold one, lingers on your fingertip for one final moment with the air of something making a point.

Then it steps off. Onto the vine. And stays there.

"Thank you," you say, with complete sincerity.

You straighten, smoothing your skirts with both hands, and become aware that you have just spent four minutes negotiating with butterflies in front of a stranger. You turn toward the man with the crimson eyes with the composed expression of someone who has decided this evening simply is what it is.

"I apologize for the disturbance," you say. "The garden is very beautiful."

You mean it as a compliment to him, though you are not entirely sure why, since he has not indicated the garden is his in any way. It simply feels, in the particular quality of how he stands in it, like it belongs to him or he to it, and either way the sentiment seems correct.

He says nothing.

He simply watches you, those ringed crimson eyes steady, as you incline your head and turn toward the archway.

You do not look back at the man with the white hair and the crimson eyes and the entirely unreasonable face.

Behind you, the garden settles back into its quiet, and if he moves at all after you leave, you don't hear it.

Date Published: Apr. 30th, 2026

Last Edit: Apr. 30th, 2026

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You have been standing on a raised platform in the center of Madame Cerell's fitting room for forty minutes and your left foot has fallen asleep.

You cannot move it.

Moving it would require explaining why you moved it, which would require admitting that standing perfectly still for forty minutes in heeled shoes on a slightly elevated platform while three women circle you with pins and measuring tape and opinions has produced a physical consequence, which would give your mother something to address, and your mother addressing things is how you end up standing here for another forty minutes. Possibly with a lecture about posture. Possibly with another seamstress summoned. Possibly with everyone pretending the delay is somehow your fault.

So you keep your weight distributed correctly and your chin level and your left foot quietly dead below you. You look at the middle distance the way Maret taught you, the expression that says attentive but unbothered, obedient but not vacant. It is apparently the face expected of girls whose families have suddenly become important.

And you wait.

Waiting is a pastime you’ve never had the patience for.

The fitting room is the finest you have ever been in. This does not surprise you anymore — everything in the inner city is the finest you have ever seen of its particular category, the finest streets, the finest gates, the finest topiaries, the finest women sitting in the finest chairs saying the finest calibrated things to each other. Nothing here is merely good. Everything is the best version of itself that money and reputation can force into existence.

Madame Cerell's fitting room is large and high-ceilinged and lit from above by a skylight that fills the space with a clean diffuse light that presumably makes the colors of fabric easier to assess and incidentally makes everyone in it look like they are being painted. It is the kind of light that forgives no wrinkle and flatters no impatience, which is perhaps the point. The walls are hung with panels of silk in various stages of completion, pinned to frames like quiet specimens. Some are embroidered, some only chalk-marked, some still loose lengths of fabric waiting to become something expensive.

The floor is pale wood, buffed to a quiet shine that reflects just enough light to remind you how carefully everything here is maintained. Every surface holds something that costs more than it appears to: folded bolts of fabric, small trays of needles, scissors heavy enough to feel serious in the hand, a lacquered box whose lid has been opened and closed so many times the hinges move without sound. Nothing is cluttered. Nothing is careless. Even the disorder is arranged.

It occurs to you that this room exists almost entirely so that wealthy women may pretend the act of dressing themselves is a craft rather than a transaction.

Your mother is sitting in one of the low chairs arranged to the side of the platform and she is not sitting quietly.

"The silhouette last season was entirely different," she is saying, to Madame Cerell's primary assistant, a composed young woman with a measuring tape draped around her neck who has been nodding at precisely the correct intervals for the last twenty minutes. "Much more structured through the bodice, which suited Lyris's figure, she has the waist for it, but the question is whether we lean into the structure or soften it for the debut specifically—"

The assistant nods again, the same small thoughtful inclination she has used for every previous sentence. You suspect she could perform the entire gesture in her sleep.

"The current season favors a slightly softer line through the shoulder," the assistant says, with the diplomatic precision of someone who has had this exact conversation approximately a thousand times. "It reads as intentional rather than rigid. Very well received among the houses this year."

Which houses, you wonder. The ones that have decided softness is fashionable this month. The ones that will decide it is vulgar next spring.

"Mm."

Your mother turns her head slightly to look at you with the assessing expression of a woman trying to see you as other people will see you, which you find both useful and deeply uncomfortable. It is the same expression she uses when considering a painting or a new acquaintance: measuring, adjusting, mentally placing you into the correct category.

"What do you think, Lyris."

There are, you have learned, several correct answers to this question.

None of them involve actually having an opinion.

"I think whatever reads correctly," you say, keeping your voice pleasant.

Your mother makes the small sound that means this was not a helpful answer. Not that she was asking for a true opinion. What you say tends to have very little impact on your mother's decision.

However—

"Saint Yvaine Veramont mentioned ivory specifically," you add before she can redirect. "For the debut." You keep your tone even, offering it as information rather than opinion, which is how you have learned to introduce things your mother will otherwise argue with.

"She said it reads as confidence without aggression. Her exact phrasing."

A half second of silence in the fitting room.

Your mother looks at you.

Madame Cerell's assistant looks at her measuring tape with the expression of someone who has just witnessed a move and is professionally obligated not to react to it.

"Yvaine said that," your mother says.

There is a pause just long enough for you to wonder whether invoking her was too obvious.

"At the tea," you confirm. "She was quite decided about it."

What follows is the subtle but complete rearrangement of your mother's position on ivory, which had previously been neutral-to-skeptical and is now rapidly becoming enthusiastic, because Saint Yvaine Veramont's opinion on debut gowns carries more social weight in the inner city than anything your mother had previously concluded on her own and both of you know it.

You watch the recalibration happen in real time behind her eyes and feel something that is not quite satisfaction and not quite guilt and is mostly relief that the conversation is now moving in a direction that will not require you to have an opinion.

"Ivory," your mother says, to the assistant. "With structure through the bodice but softer at the shoulder, as you said. What fabrications do you have that would support that."

The assistant moves to the wall panels with the focused energy of someone finally being allowed to do the thing they were trained for.

What follows is fabric.

An enormous amount of fabric.

Bolt after bolt brought to the platform for your assessment, each one held against you at the shoulder while the assistant and your mother and occasionally Madame Cerell herself, a small precise woman who has been moving through the fitting room like a chess piece, speak about it in the particular vocabulary of people who have been thinking about fabric long enough that it has developed a language of its own. Weight. Drape. Sheen. The difference between a cold ivory and a warm one and why it matters at a debut specifically. The question of underlining. The question of lining color.

You hold your arms slightly away from your body when asked. You turn when asked. You look at swatches placed against your collarbone and say things like yes, that one, and I think so, and what do you think, which is the most useful thing you can say because it extends the conversation between your mother and the assistant and requires nothing further from you.

The left foot continues not to exist.

"The embroidery question," your mother says, accepting a glass of water from a hovering junior assistant with the automatic grace of someone who has always had water appear when she wanted it. "Yvaine mentioned a gold thread technique—"

"We do several," Madame Cerell says, appearing at your mother's elbow with the timing of a woman who has been listening to everything from across the room. "For a debut I would suggest restraint. The gown should speak first. Embroidery is punctuation." She looks at you with the direct assessing gaze of someone whose professional opinion of you is entirely about your measurements and bone structure. "She has the frame for a clean line. Let it be clean."

Your mother considers this.

You consider the skylight.

Your right foot considers existence.

"Clean," your mother says finally, in the tone of someone accepting a verdict. "But the hem."

"The hem," Madame Cerell agrees, which apparently means something to both of them because the conversation moves forward without further clarification.

Maret is standing near the door with her hands folded and her expression composed in the way it always is when she is in a room where she has no direct function, present and watchful and completely unintrusive. You catch her eye once, briefly. She gives you the almost-imperceptible nod that means you are doing fine, which you translate as keep your chin up and stop thinking about your feet.

You keep your chin up.

By the time Madame Cerell's assistant has finished taking every measurement that exists and several you didn't know were measurements, and your mother has selected the fabric and approved the silhouette and discussed the hem at length and made three separate decisions about sleeve construction, you have been in the fitting room for just under two hours and the skylight has shifted from morning white to the warmer gold of late morning.

Four dresses. Not one. Four, because the debut gown is one thing and the season requires several others and your mother, once she has started, does not stop easily. A reception dress, something appropriate for smaller dinners, something appropriate for larger ones, something that will look effortless in a garden and something that will look deliberate in candlelight. Debuts, you are discovering, are not events so much as campaigns.

You did not argue.

Arguing would have required a position, and positions lead to discussions, and discussions lead to decisions you are expected to participate in.

You looked at the swatches placed against you and said yes and I think so and what do you think and you stood still while they pinned things and stepped back and tilted their heads and spoke about balance and proportion as though you were a piece of architecture currently being restored.

You kept your left foot silent. Your right half numb. You breathed when it seemed appropriate to breathe. Your mother finally clicks her tongue in appeasement.

"Now the petticoat situation," your mother says.

You blink.

"The petticoat situation," you repeat. "Mother I already have many petticoats, what is the problem with them? They are made from the best crinoline, I doubt they need replacing so soon…"

Your mother looks at you with the patient expression of a woman who has already had this conversation in her head and won it.

"They are outskirts petticoats," she says.

You open your mouth.

"Before you say anything," she continues, with the gentle preemptive precision of someone who raised you and has therefore heard every argument you are about to make, "I am not suggesting your current petticoats are poorly made. I am suggesting that they were made for a different context. The silhouettes here are cut differently. The underskirts need to support a different line. What worked on the outskirts will create bulk in the wrong places under the gowns Madame Cerell is constructing and bulk in the wrong places at a debut is—"

"A catastrophe," Madame Cerell supplies, from somewhere to your left, without looking up from her pinwork.

"A catastrophe," your mother agrees, pleasantly. "You are the daughter of a prominent Celestial Dragon, dear, you shall have nothing but the best."

You look at your mother.

Then at Madame Cerell, who has returned to her pinwork with the focused serenity of a woman who has said her piece and considers the matter settled.

Then at the assistant, who is already moving toward a cabinet on the far wall with the purpose of someone who knew this moment was coming before you walked through the door.

"Of course," you say.

Because what else is there to say. You are the daughter of a prominent Celestial Dragon. You shall have nothing but the best. The best gowns, the best underskirts, the best underlayers beneath the underskirts, presumably the best air to breathe while wearing all of it. The entire apparatus of your presentation assembled from the finest available materials so that when you walk into a room at your debut the hem moves correctly and the silhouette reads correctly and nobody has any cause to look at the underlayer and find it wanting.

The underlayer that nobody will see.

The petticoats that exist solely to make other things look right.

You breathe in through your nose. Slowly. From the diaphragm, the breath that doesn't move your shoulders or announce itself to the room. Maret's method. In for four counts, hold, out for four. You have been using it since you were sixteen and furious about something you can no longer remember, and it works, mostly, in the sense that it keeps your face where it belongs.

This is fine, you tell yourself. This is simply a conversation about fabric that goes underneath other fabric that goes underneath the actual fabric. It is not a personal attack. It is not a siege. It is a logistical conversation about textile infrastructure and it will end, eventually, because all things end, and when it ends you will step off this platform and your foot will remember how to exist and you will go home and sit in your rooms and read something that has nothing whatsoever to do with underlayers.

"The weight affects how the hem moves when she walks," your mother is saying to the assistant now, having apparently accepted your silence as consent and moved on without requiring anything further from you. "Which matters at a debut because people watch how a woman enters a room before she says a single word—"

This is useful information, you remind yourself. Tactically relevant. Maret has said essentially the same thing in different words on at least four separate occasions. You are not being subjected to an arbitrary conversation about petticoats. You are being prepared. Preparation is valuable. Preparation is the difference between walking into a room and being ready for the room. Maret said that on your third day here and you have thought about it approximately every twelve hours since.

Preparation is—

"Lyris, what do you think about the layering."

You surface.

"Whatever creates the best line," you say pleasantly.

Your mother gives you the look. The one that means technically correct, personally useless.

"The duchess satin underlayer," Madame Cerell says, with the authority of someone ending a discussion that didn't need to become one, "provides structure without volume. I would not recommend anything else for this silhouette. A flutter, even, as she walks."

"A flutter," your mother repeats, and something in her expression shifts the way it does when a word lands exactly where it needed to.

You watch her fall in love with the word flutter in real time.

"Yes," Madame Cerell says, with the quiet satisfaction of a woman who has been doing this long enough to know which detail closes the sale. "The duchess satin has enough weight to move with purpose rather than billow. At the hem, when she walks, there is a—" she pauses, making a small precise gesture with one hand, "—suggestion of movement. Nothing excessive. Simply the impression that the gown is going somewhere."

Your mother is nodding slowly now, the nod of a woman constructing an image in her head and finding it pleasing.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, that's exactly—" She looks at you. "Do you see what she means?"

You are standing on a platform with a dead foot contemplating the philosophical implications of petticoat infrastructure. No, you do not see what she means.

"I think so," you say.

"The flutter," your mother says again, as though the word itself is the thing she came here for and everything else was incidental. She has the look she gets at the tailor and occasionally at the florist and once, memorably, when someone described the acoustics of a particular reception hall — the look of a woman receiving information that reorganizes something she already believed into a better shape.

Madame Cerell accepts this with the composure of someone who has watched women fall in love with the word flutter before and expects to watch it happen again.

"Four sets," your mother says, returning to business with renewed momentum, "in the duchess satin. And I want to see the fabric before it's cut."

"Of course," the assistant says.

"And the underlining of the bodice—"

You breathe out.

One more thing, you think. Just one more thing.

Your right foot, somewhere below you, quietly disagrees about how many more things there are likely to be.

It is always just one more thing.

═════════⚓︎══════☠️══════⚓︎═════════

You press your lips together and look at the street ahead.

This is the expression Maret calls the acceptable one, not a smile, not a frown, not the particular arrangement of features that means you have an opinion you are choosing not to share. Simply a mouth, closed, neutral, existing without comment. You have been practicing it since you were fourteen and it has never once stopped requiring effort.

"—and the dropped waist silhouette is simply everywhere this season," your mother is saying, to no one and everyone simultaneously, her voice carrying the bright unhurried energy of a woman who has just spent two hours in her natural habitat and has emerged thoroughly invigorated. "Which I find interesting because last season it was entirely the opposite, everything was high-waisted, very structured, very architectural, and now suddenly everyone has decided the waist should sit lower and I cannot determine whether this is a genuine shift or simply the Donquixote women deciding something and everyone else following without asking why—"

Beside you Maret walks with her hands folded and her eyes forward and her expression composed in the way of a woman who has heard this particular register of conversation approximately ten thousand times and has made her peace with it. You, however, have not.

Your mother's personal assistant, Sylvaine, young, no nonsense, perpetually one step behind your mother's left shoulder with a small leather folio tucked under her arm and the expression of someone whose entire professional existence consists of being ready for the next thing, keeps pace without appearing to keep pace, which is its own kind of skill.

"—and the sleeve question, Sylvaine, make a note, I want to ask Cerell about the sleeve treatment on the reception dress when we go back for the second fitting, I forgot to raise it and it will bother me if we don't settle it before the underlining is cut—"

Sylvaine produces a small pencil from somewhere without breaking stride.

You glance at Maret.

Maret's eyes move to you for exactly one second.

The look she gives you is not complicated. It does not need to be. Twenty-two years of being raised by this woman means that a single sidelong glance from her contains approximately the same information as a three page letter. This particular look says: your face is doing something, stop it, your mother is not doing this to you deliberately, this is simply who she is, you know this, you have always known this, fix your mouth and walk correctly and we will discuss nothing because there is nothing to discuss.

You fix your mouth.

You walk correctly.

"—though I will say the color story this season is considerably more interesting than last year's. Last year everything was muted. Dusty rose, dusty blue, dusty everything, as though the entire inner city decided to dress like old furniture simultaneously. This year there is actual color. Yvaine's deep rose at the tea was exactly right, very deliberate, very assured—"

The street opens slightly ahead of you, the upper market quarter widening at a junction where three roads meet and the architecture steps back as if to give itself room to be admired. Pale stone everywhere. Gold fittings catching the midday light. The particular Mariejois quality of everything existing at one degree past necessary, one more cornice, one more gilded detail, one more window than the building strictly required.

Beautiful, you think, for the hundredth time. And completely exhausting to the point of nauseating. Is there nothing naturally beautiful in this city?

"—and I have been thinking about the question of a signature color for you, Lyris, because women who are known for something specific are considerably more memorable than women who simply dress correctly, and memorable is—"

"Important," you say pleasantly.

"Crucial," your mother corrects, without missing a beat. "Correct is the floor, not the ceiling. Anyone can dress correctly. The women who are actually remembered are the ones who made a choice and committed to it." She glances at you sidelong with the assessing expression that has been your entire morning. "You have the coloring for jewel tones. You can carry depth in a way a great many women here cannot. That is an asset and it should be—"

She stops. Not because she has finished the sentence. Because she has seen something.

You follow her gaze to the left side of the street, where a shopfront sits between a milliner and what appears to be a very serious establishment selling stationery. The window display is minimal, a single piece on dark velvet, catching the light with the quiet confidence of something that does not need to compete for attention.

Your mother's expression does what it does at the tailor and occasionally at the florist.

"Jewels," she says.

You recognize this expression.

It is the same one she wore forty-five minutes ago when Madame Cerell said the word flutter. The same one she wore three days ago when someone described a particular style of floral arrangement as "architectural but organic." The look of a woman who has just encountered the next thing that will require her complete attention for an unspecified amount of time.

"We should—" your mother begins.

"Mother," you say, and the word comes out slightly more pointed than you intended. "We have been out for five hours."

Your mother turns to look at you with the expression of someone who has just been reminded that other people experience time differently than she does.

"It will only take a moment," she says, which is what she said about the petticoats.

You glance at Maret.

Maret's face remains perfectly neutral in a way that somehow conveys the sentiment: I cannot help you.

"One moment," your mother says again, already moving toward the shop with the decisive energy of a woman who has decided something and considers the matter settled.

Sylvaine follows without hesitation, folio tucked efficiently under her arm. Maret follows because Maret always follows. And you follow because standing in the middle of the street by yourself would be significantly worse than whatever is about to happen inside the shop.

The door opens with a quiet chime.

Inside, the air smells faintly of wood polish and something else, something clean and expensive that probably has a name you don't know. The interior is smaller than you expected, narrow and deep, with cases lining both walls and a counter at the far end where a man in dark clothing stands with the posture of someone who has been waiting for exactly this kind of customer to walk through his door.

Your mother moves directly toward the nearest case with the focus of a hunting bird spotting prey.

You remain near the door and wonder how long one moment will actually be.

"Sapphires," your mother says, bending slightly to examine something behind glass. "Lyris, come here."

You walk toward her because refusing would create a scene.

"Look at this setting," she says, gesturing toward a necklace displayed on ivory silk. "The clarity. The cut." She looks at you. "This would be extraordinary with the ivory gown."

The necklace is, objectively, beautiful. Deep blue stones set in what appears to be platinum, arranged in a pattern that manages to be both delicate and substantial. The kind of thing that would catch light from across a room.

"It's lovely," you say.

Which it is. Objectively. You are capable of recognizing that something is beautiful without wanting to own it, which feels like an important distinction that this city has not yet learned to make.

The jeweler has materialized at your mother's elbow with the smooth inevitability of a man who recognized his best customer the moment she walked through the door.

"An exceptional eye, my lady," he says, with the warmth of someone who means it professionally if not personally. "That piece came in from a commission that fell through — the stones are Kōri, unenhanced, the clarity is genuinely remarkable, we see perhaps two or three of this quality in a year—"

Your mother makes a sound of deep satisfaction.

You look around the shop.

It is the kind of place that rewards looking. The cases are not crowded, each piece has room around it, space to be considered, which you understand by now is its own kind of language. The light inside is warm and directed and makes everything glow faintly, stones and metal alike, everything performing its best version of itself under the most flattering possible conditions.

You think about the cabinet in your mother's dressing room at the Montclair estate. The one with the velvet sleeves. The one Sylvaine labeled in small precise handwriting. You have been in your mother's dressing room twice since arriving and both times you counted the shelves without meaning to, the way your eye moves to count things when your brain is looking for something concrete to do.

Four shelves. Perhaps thirty pieces on each. More in the drawers below, you suspect, though you have never opened them.

Your mother does not need more jewels.

"—and the setting is platinum rather than white gold which makes an enormous difference to the drape, you can feel it in the weight—" the jeweler is saying, with the focused enthusiasm of someone who has found his audience and intends to keep her.

"I can see that," your mother says, which is not the same as I will take it but lands close enough that the jeweler's posture shifts infinitesimally toward satisfied.

"Lyris." Your mother straightens and looks at you with the brisk attention of a woman who has just remembered you exist. "Find something."

You look at her.

"Something for the season," she says, gesturing loosely at the cases around you in the way of someone delegating a task they consider simple. "You need pieces. Look."

"I have pieces," you say.

"You have outskirts pieces," she says, which is apparently a complete sentence, and turns back to the sapphires.

The jeweler glides toward you with the smooth reorientation of a man who can divide his attention without appearing to divide it, still half-turned toward your mother, already half-angled toward you, a social double act performed with such practiced ease it is almost impressive.

"Perhaps something for a debut," he says, warmly, as though the idea has just occurred to him. "We have several pieces that would suit a first introduction beautifully. The current season among the houses—" a brief, significant pause, "—sapphires are very strong. Several of the senior families have come through recently. Deep blue reads exceptionally well at a formal event."

"I'm sure it does," you say pleasantly.

You move along the cases with the resigned efficiency of someone who has learned that compliance is faster than resistance.

The jeweler trails beside you, maintaining a respectful half-step behind while offering occasional commentary about particular pieces. You nod at the appropriate intervals and look at things when gestured toward them. Sapphire earrings. A bracelet set with stones that catch the light like fragments of deep water. A brooch shaped like a stylized flower, the petals picked out in graduated shades of blue.

All beautiful. All correct. All completely interchangeable with thirty other pieces that perform the same social function. I have money. Look at these jewels. There is a redundancy in the preferred styles of most Celestial Dragons.

You select three items that your mother would approve of without requiring lengthy discussion: a pair of drop earrings, simple but well-cut; a bracelet with a clean platinum band; and a small chandelier setting on a chain fine enough that it disappears against the throat rather than announcing itself.

Respectable, glamorous enough to show power, minimal in the way that implies the rest of the collection must be much larger. Nothing desperate. Nothing that suggests you are trying to prove something. The kind of jewelry that allows people to assume wealth rather than forcing them to acknowledge it.

Your mother glances at the selections.

Her eyes move across the tray once, twice.

She nods.

Which is how you know you chose correctly.

The assistant begins quietly setting the pieces aside to be packed while another tray is brought forward for consideration, because the process, like most processes in the inner city, does not really end so much as continue until someone of sufficient rank decides they are tired of it.

The jeweler accepts each choice with flattery and is already calculating, you suspect, how to position the conversation back toward the more expensive pieces your mother is currently admiring.

Then you see it.

Tucked into the corner of a case near the back wall, half-shadowed by the angle of the light, sits a pendant so unlike everything else in the shop that for a moment you think it must have been placed there by mistake.

The chain is delicate, almost fragile-looking, fine silver links that catch the light with the barest whisper of reflection. But the stone itself—

You step closer.

The gemstone is small, perhaps the size of your thumbnail, and it does not behave the way the other stones in this shop behave. It does not sparkle. It does not catch light and throw it back in calculated brilliance. Instead it seems to hold light inside itself, glowing faintly from within like something organic, something alive.

The color shifts as you move your head. Not blue. Not exactly. Pale green threaded through with gold, or gold threaded through with green, or perhaps both at once, the hues moving against each other like water under sunlight, like leaves backlit by morning, like something you cannot quite name because you have never seen it rendered in a gemstone before.

"What is that," you say.

The jeweler follows your gaze and his expression shifts into something that looks almost like surprise.

"Ah," he says. "The chrysoberyl."

He hesitates, which is the first time all afternoon a jeweler in this city has hesitated before describing something expensive.

"A rare stone," he says carefully. "Chrysoberyl cat's-eye. The phenomenon is called chatoyancy—the way the light moves across the surface. Quite beautiful, naturally, but… not commonly requested. It does not refract light in the way that reads well in formal settings. Most clients prefer something with more brilliance. More immediate impact."

You look at the pendant again.

The stone glows softly in its setting, the band of light moving across its surface like something breathing.

"It is a beautiful piece," the jeweler continues, warming slightly to his subject now that he has decided how to position it. "Truly. But for a debut, perhaps something more eye-catching would be appropriate. The sapphires, for instance, or we have several—"

"I want this one," you say.

The jeweler stops.

"This one," you repeat, "I want this one."

The words come out calm. You did not plan them but now that they exist in the air between you and the jeweler and your mother, you realize you mean them completely.

The stone does not sparkle like the others. It does not announce itself. It simply exists, holding light the way living things hold light, and you have spent five hours being measured and pinned and advised and observed and made to stand perfectly still while people decided what version of you reads correctly to a room full of strangers who will judge you for the angle of your hem.

This stone does not care what reads correctly. It simply exists in simplicity.

Your mother appears at your shoulder.

She looks at the pendant the way she looked at the petticoats — with the expression of a woman preparing to be reasonable about something she has reservations about.

"That is very small," she says.

"Yes," you say.

"And the setting is,” she tilts her head, “…very plain."

"Yes," you say.

"The other houses will be wearing—"

"I know what the other houses will be wearing," you say, pleasantly, in the tone that means you have heard this sentence and are choosing not to continue it.

Your mother looks at you. Then at the pendant. Then she looks at the jeweler with the expression of a woman conducting a silent consultation with the nearest available authority.

The jeweler, to his credit, reads the room with the precision of a man whose livelihood depends on reading rooms.

"It doesn't catch the light," her mother says.

Not unkind. Just factual, in the way your mother is factual about things she considers obvious. She is looking at the pendant with the expression of a woman trying to find the angle that makes it work and not quite finding it.

"No," you agree.

"At a debut the stones need to do something," she says. "They need to," she gestures, a small movement of her fingers, "speak. From across the room. This,” she looks at the pendant again, "—whispers. At best."

"Yes," you say.

Your mother waits for the rest of the sentence. There is no rest of the sentence. She has made her opinion known, and that is that.

She looks at you. "Lyris."

"I don't want the sapphires," you state firmly. "I don't want the emeralds. I don't want anything that catches light from across the room and announces itself to people who aren't looking closely enough to deserve the information." You pause and hold your mothers gaze. "I want this one."

Silence.

The jeweler has gone very still in the practiced way of a man who has learned that stillness is the safest position when the women in his shop are deciding something.

Your mother opens her mouth.

"I haven't asked for anything today," you say, quietly. "Not at the tailor. Not about the four dresses or the four petticoats or the underlining of the bodice. I stood on that platform for three hours and I said yes and I think so, and whatever creates the best line and I meant all of it, I will wear whatever Madame Cerell makes and I will wear it correctly and I will stand at the debut and read correctly and do everything that is expected of me."

You pause.

"But this, this I want."

The shop is very quiet.

Your mother looks at you for a long moment with an expression you cannot entirely read, which is unusual because you have been reading your mother's expressions your entire life. There is something in it that is not quite surprise and not quite pride and is possibly something she will never say out loud.

She looks at the pendant.

The light moves across it slowly, that quiet unbothered band, indifferent to everything.

"It's boring," she says finally, but the word has lost most of its conviction somewhere between her deciding to say it and it arriving in the air.

"Perhaps," you say, knowing full well that with a mere glance it is.

Another silence.

"Fine," she says. The same tone as the petticoats. The same tone as the ivory. Except this time underneath it there is something different, something that sounds almost like she has filed this moment away somewhere she intends to keep it.

She turns back to the sapphire case.

"The earrings," she says, to the jeweler, who reanimates immediately with the relief of a man returning to known territory. "Something with presence. We'll need them to do the work the pendant won't."

"Of course," he says, already moving.

The jeweler produces a tray.

Then another.

Your mother leans over them with the focused attention she reserves for things she considers worth her time, which apparently includes every earring in this establishment, and the conversation between them settles back into its natural rhythm, two people who are very good at the same game playing it together with genuine enjoyment.

You take a small step back and let them have it.

The junior assistant, a young woman who has been so quiet and so still near the counter that you had nearly forgotten she existed, steps forward with the particular timing of someone who has been waiting for exactly this moment. She opens the case with careful hands, lifts the pendant from where it rests on its square of velvet, and turns to you with the expression of someone performing a small ceremony.

"Saint Montclair," she says, quietly enough that it doesn't carry to the other end of the counter. "Would you like to wear it out, or shall I have it packaged with the rest of your pieces?"

You look at the pendant in her hands.

The band of light moves across the stone in the warm air of the shop. Slow. Unbothered. The same as it has been since you first saw it in the case, indifferent to everything that has happened around it since.

You have been in this city for seventeen days and you have worn what was chosen for you and stood where you were placed and said what was expected and kept your face where it belonged.

"I'll wear it out," you say.

The assistant nods once and moves behind you without fuss, her fingers light at the clasp. The pendant settles at your throat, cool for a moment against your skin before it warms.

The weight is barely there, less than a whisper, but somehow the absence of weight makes you more aware of it than if it had been heavier. You can feel the fine chain against your skin, cool silver warming slowly in the shop's air.

The band of light moves beneath your touch, that strange living quality that first caught your attention, and for a moment you simply stand there with your fingers against it, feeling oddly settled in a way you have not felt since walking into Madame Cerell's fitting room this morning.

Then you glance toward Maret.

She is standing near the door where she has been standing for the past twenty minutes, hands folded, posture perfect, expression composed. But her eyes are on the pendant now, assessing it with the particular quality of attention Maret brings to things she has opinions about.

Not the broad sweeping judgment your mother uses when evaluating jewelry, more the focused precision of someone examining a chess piece and considering what it means for the rest of the board.

You wait.

Maret's gaze moves from the pendant to your face, then back to the pendant.

"Do you disapprove," you say quietly, keeping your voice low enough that it does not carry to where your mother is currently debating the merits of cushion-cut versus oval-cut sapphires with the jeweler.

Maret's expression does not shift, but something in her eyes changes very slightly. Not softening, exactly. More like recalibration. The look she gives you when you have done something she was not expecting and has not yet decided how she feels about it.

"No," she says finally.

She considers the pendant again for a moment longer, tilting her head almost imperceptibly to catch the light moving across its surface.

"The piece fits you well," she says. Matter-of-fact. The same tone she uses when confirming that a hem sits correctly or that your posture reads appropriately for a particular setting. Simple observation, delivered without embellishment.

But coming from Maret, who measures every word before releasing it into the world, the statement carries more weight than the pendant itself.

She does not say it is beautiful. She does not say it was the correct choice. She does not say anything about whether it will read well at your debut or whether the other houses will approve of it.

She simply says it fits you.

Which is, you realize, the first time anyone in this city has suggested that something should fit you rather than the other way around.

Your mother concludes her negotiation with the jeweler with the satisfied precision of a woman who has extracted exactly what she came for and is ready to move on.

"Have everything sent to the Montclair estate," she says, already pulling on her gloves. "The upper quarter. Sylvaine has the address."

Sylvaine is already writing it down.

"Of course, my lady," the jeweler says, with the slight forward incline of a man who expected nothing less and is relieved the afternoon has concluded on cooperative terms.

The junior assistant begins packaging quietly in the background, each piece wrapped and labeled with the efficiency of someone who does this twenty times a day and treats each one like it is the first. Your mother watches for exactly long enough to confirm the process is being handled correctly, then turns toward the door with the energy of a woman closing one chapter and looking for the next.

“Come along, Lyris,” she states, already halfway out the door. “We still have engagements to attend before the afternoon disappears entirely.”

Outside the afternoon has shifted while you were inside.

The light is different now, softer and more diffuse, the sharp gold of midday gone into something hazier that sits over the pale stone of the street like a held breath. The foot traffic has thinned. The carriages pass with the unhurried pace of things that stopped needing to be anywhere urgent hours ago.

Your mother steps out and stops.

She tilts her chin slightly, the way she does when she is registering something and deciding whether it requires a response.

"The air," she says.

You wait, trying to understand precisely what the air has done this time.

"It has staled." She says it with the mild displeasure of a woman who considers atmospheric conditions a personal inconvenience when they fail to perform correctly. "The afternoon does this here. The upper quarter sits too close to the castle walls, the air stops moving properly once the light shifts." She smooths her sleeve. "I noticed it last week as well. Very enervating."

You breathe in and your nose twitches.

The air smells, as it always smells, of pale stone and expensive flowers and the particular quality of Mariejois simply being Mariejois. Whether it has staled is not a distinction you are currently able to make. You have been indoors for the better part of six hours and your capacity for atmospheric fine-tuning is not operating at full capacity.

"We could return home," you say pleasantly. Hopefully.

"Mm," your mother says.

Which is not agreement.

You look at Maret.

Maret's expression says: I know.

Sylvaine clears her throat at exactly the right volume, one step behind your mother's left shoulder, folio already open.

"There is a tea house several streets over," she says, in the careful tone of someone offering information rather than making a suggestion. "On the corner of the Velaure market. I understand it has become quite popular among the houses recently." A brief, precisely weighted pause. "Very well regarded for afternoon service."

Your mother turns toward her with the expression of a woman receiving useful intelligence.

"Which houses," she says.

"Several of the senior families," Sylvaine says. "Saint Renelle Lacroix has been mentioned."

Something in your mother's posture shifts by approximately one degree in the direction of interested.

You think about your rooms. The window. The book on the writing desk. The particular quality of late afternoon quiet in a space where nobody is assessing anything.

"A few streets," your mother says, less a question than a measurement.

"Yes, my lady."

She looks at you.

You keep your face where it belongs.

"That sounds lovely," you say.

Your mother nods and turns, and Sylvaine falls into step, and Maret moves to your shoulder, and the afternoon continues down the street ahead of you without asking whether you are ready for it.

As you walk, you glance around the street, taking in the carved marble and intricately designed inlaid paths. The streets of Mariejois do not get less exhausting the more you walk through them.

If anything they get more so. There is only so many times you can register carved marble and gold fittings and flowers arranged with military precision before something in your brain simply stops bothering and starts producing a low persistent static instead. Not boredom exactly. More like the feeling of eating something very rich for six hours straight and losing the ability to taste it properly.

Your feet hurt. Your ears hurt from your mothers endless chatter.

You are not going to mention either of those things.

"—and Sylvaine, the Lacroix table, find out if they have a regular arrangement, it would be useful to know before we arrive—"

Sylvaine notes something down without breaking stride.

You look at a carving above a doorway you are passing. Two figures in profile, classical, draped in something that has been carved to look like fabric and looks nothing like fabric. Whoever made it was very skilled. You cannot summon the energy to care.

Further along, a flower bed. Deep red, perfectly even, every bloom at exactly the same stage of openness as every other bloom in the bed, which should be impossible and in Mariejois simply isn't.

You look away.

Your mother laughs at something Sylvaine says, bright and social, the laugh she uses in public that is slightly more musical than her real one. You have been listening to both versions your entire life and can distinguish between them the way you can distinguish between a cold ivory and a warm one now, automatically, without meaning to, knowledge you acquired by proximity rather than by choice.

The pendant shifts slightly as you walk, the fine chain settling against your collarbone.

You press your lips together and watch the inlaid path pass beneath your feet, small tessellated pieces fitted together into a pattern that only makes sense from far enough away. Nobody looks at the ground here. You are looking at the ground because it is the one surface in this entire city that isn't performing anything, that is simply being walked on, that does not care whether you find it beautiful.

You find it beautiful.

That is somehow the most tired you have felt all day.

The tea house is on the corner exactly where Sylvaine said it would be and it is, like everything else in this city, a great deal.

The facade alone. Climbing roses trained up pale stone, deep pink, abundant in the particular way that says we have so much we stopped counting, window boxes overflowing, a sign above the door gilded and unnecessary given that every woman in the inner city apparently already knows exactly where this is and has formed opinions about it.

Your mother sees it and makes the sound.

You know the sound. It is the same sound she made at the tailor when Madame Cerell said flutter and at the jeweler when the man mentioned provenance and at approximately forty other moments today that you have lost count of. The sound of a woman arriving somewhere she already decided she would enjoy.

Inside it is warm and loud and full of women.

You would like to go home. You would like to go home very much indeed.

You follow your mother through the door anyway because that is the shape of the afternoon and the afternoon is not finished with you and there is nothing to be done about that.

The proprietress finds you immediately, which means she was expecting you, which means Sylvaine sent word ahead during the walk without you noticing, which means you will never fully understand the operational machinery running quietly behind your mother's life.

"Lady Montclair." The proprietress inclines her head with the warmth of someone who has been briefed and intends to make good use of it. "We are so pleased to receive you. And this must be Saint Lyris."

She looks at you with the particular quality of attention that means she is filing you away for future reference.

"It is," your mother says, with the quiet satisfaction of a woman being introduced to a room she intends to become a regular feature of. "We heard wonderful things about your establishment from Saint Renelle Lacroix."

"Saint Renelle is very kind," the proprietress says, warmly, which is not the same as confirming it and everyone at this exchange understands that. "We do try to make this a comfortable space for the houses. Somewhere a little removed from the formality of the season." She gestures toward a table near the window with the smooth authority of someone who already decided where you would sit before you walked through the door. "I have your table ready. Will you be taking the full afternoon service?"

"Please," your mother says.

"And for Saint Lyris?"

You open your mouth.

"The same," your mother says.

You close your mouth.

The proprietress smiles at you with the expression of a woman who noticed that and will not mention it, which is its own kind of mercy, and leads you through the room.

The table is small and positioned perfectly, which means positioned so that your mother can see the entire room and the entire room can see her, which you understand by now is what perfectly means in Mariejois.

Tea arrives before you have finished settling. Then a tiered stand, three levels, each one crowded with things so small and precise they look less like food and more like architectural models of food. Tiny sandwiches with the crusts removed. Small cakes with surfaces so smooth they appear lacquered. Pastries in shapes that required someone to care more about presentation than anyone has ever cared about anything in your personal experience.

You take a sandwich.

It is very good. You eat it and take another and focus on this because it is the most straightforward thing that has happened to you since approximately seven this morning.

Your mother is looking around the room with the focused unhurry of a woman cataloguing useful information. Who is here. Which table. Who they are with, what they are wearing, how they are sitting, what the combination of all those things communicates about where they currently stand.

"The Pellerin women," she says quietly, almost to herself, her eyes moving to a table near the far wall. "Both of them. That's interesting."

You do not ask why it is interesting. You have learned that asking why something is interesting in this city produces a briefing you did not request and cannot leave.

"And Saint Harrow." A small pause. "She looks well."

Saint Harrow, from the Veramont tea. The woman with the jewels at her throat and the expression of someone who considers most introductions unnecessary. She is sitting with two women you don't recognize, all three of them leaning slightly inward over their cups in the particular posture of people who are saying something they don't want the adjacent tables to hear, which in a room this size means saying it at the volume of a normal conversation and simply trusting that everyone else will pretend not to.

The adjacent tables are pretending not to hear.

You take a small cake.

"—absolutely no one was surprised," Saint Harrow is saying, with the tranquil certainty of a woman delivering a verdict she has been sitting on for some time. "The only question was when."

One of her companions makes a sound of fervent agreement.

"The mother knew," the other says. "She must have known. You cannot tell me she didn't know."

"Of course she knew," Saint Harrow says. "She chose not to look. Which is its own kind of answer."

The first companion leans in slightly. "And the husband?"

A pause that does considerable work.

"The husband," Saint Harrow says, "is a man who finds it very convenient not to ask questions."

Small laughter. The kind that doesn't require anything to actually be funny.

You look at your teacup.

At the next table, slightly to your left, two women you don't recognize are deep in something that has the texture of concern and the actual substance of entertainment.

"—the youngest girl, did you hear, they've had to push the debut back an entire season—"

"No."

"Yes. The whole thing. Apparently the fitting was — well." A pause loaded with implication. "Apparently there were tears."

"At Cerell's?"

"At Cerell's."

A sharp inhale from the second woman. "Cerell doesn't do tears."

"Cerell does not do tears," the first confirms, with the gravity of someone reporting a natural disaster. "Which tells you everything."

"The poor thing."

She does not sound like she thinks the poor thing is a poor thing. She sounds like she is enjoying a story that has been improved by calling its subject a poor thing.

Your mother, across the table, has caught the edge of this and filed it away without reacting, the way she files most things, cleanly, for later use.

"Lyris," she says, at a normal volume, pivoting smoothly. "Try the lavender one. Second tier."

You try the lavender one.

It is excellent. You focus on this. Small precise thing, lavender and something else underneath it, honey maybe, the kind of thing that required genuine skill to make and will be consumed in two bites and forgotten entirely by the woman eating it.

You take another.

The room has settled into its rhythm now, the particular tempo of a Mariejois tea house in full afternoon operation, conversations overlapping at the edges, the clink of china providing a kind of percussion underneath it all. It sounds almost pleasant if you don't listen to the words.

You are listening to the words.

"—well the Voss engagement, you heard about the Voss engagement—"

"Which one."

"The elder. Saint Mira. To the Caldwell boy."

"The Caldwell boy." A pause that contains an entire opinion. "Really."

"Really. The mother negotiated it herself apparently, went entirely around the father, which—" the voice drops half a register in a way that makes it carry further, not less, "—tells you something about the state of that household."

"It tells you several things about that household," the second woman says pleasantly.

You reach for your teacup.

Breathe.

"—and Saint Mira herself, I mean, the girl is perfectly nice, perfectly, but the Caldwell name is—"

"It's not what it was," the first says.

"It hasn't been what it was for fifteen years," the second agrees. "Everyone knows. The mother knows. Which means this wasn't about the name."

A pause weighted with implication.

Small sounds of agreement around the table.

Twenty six, you think, catching the thread of it. Four seasons. The calculation changes.

You are twenty two.

You put the teacup down.

"Lyris." Your mother's voice, low and pleasant. You look at her. Her eyes move briefly to your left hand which has gone to the pendant at your throat without you deciding to put it there. "The petit fours," she says. "Bottom tier."

You drop your hand. Reach for a petit four. Eat it in two bites and focus on the flavor and breathe.

The room moves on. The Voss engagement yields to something about the Ferryn family, the Ferryn family yields to something about the Silverbourne girl, the Silverbourne girl yields to something about a recent reception where someone wore the wrong color and the table's collective verdict on what that communicated.

It is relentless in the particular way of water. Not violent. Just constant. Always moving, always finding the next available channel, carrying everything along with it whether it deserves to be carried or not.

You are managing.

You are doing fine.

And then the woman two tables over — older, well dressed, the kind of face that has been carefully maintained for decades — says something to her companion in the warm confiding tone of someone sharing a mildly amusing anecdote.

"—and she had the nerve to flinch," the woman says, lightly. Lifting her cup. "I said to her, I said, you will stand still or I will have you replaced with one who can, and after that there was no more flinching."

Her companion laughs. Brief, easy, already moving on. "They do test the boundaries when they're new."

"They all do," the first woman agrees, setting her cup down. "You simply have to be clear from the start. Firm. They respond to firmness the way animals respond to it." A small pause. "It is really no different."

Her companion reaches for a cake.

"No different at all," she says.

And that is the end of it. The conversation moves on, to something about a garden renovation, and the woman picks up her fork, and the room continues, and nobody at any of the surrounding tables reacts because there is nothing to react to, because this is simply a woman describing how she handles her staff in the pleasant conversational register of someone discussing the weather.

You are looking at the table.

Your teacup is in your hands and you are looking at the table and somewhere in your chest something has gone very still in the way things go still just before they stop being still.

Your face.

You can feel your face.

Maret is somewhere behind you and you cannot look at her because looking at her would require moving and moving would require your face to do something in the process of moving and your face is currently operating outside your jurisdiction.

"Excuse me," you say.

Your mother looks at you.

"Powder room," you say pleasantly, with the expression that means nothing in particular. You are almost certain it means nothing in particular.

You set your teacup down at the correct angle and fold your napkin, push your chair back, and stand. Then you walk toward the back of the tea house at the correct pace.

You do not look at the woman two tables over. You do not look at her companion. You do not let your face do the thing, not until you are through the door at the back of the room, into the corridor beyond it, and the door has closed behind you.

The powder room is lavish and adorned with decoration, and mercifully, empty.

You stand at the basin and grip the edge of it with both hands and breathe. Not the Maret method. Not the counted, diaphragm-controlled, shoulder-still kind. Just breathing. The kind that happens when your body decides it has been performing for seven hours and requires a moment to simply exist without an audience.

Your reflection looks back at you from the mirror above the basin. Face shifting between composed and emotional. Posture hunched slightly. The pendant at your throat catching the warm light of the room, that slow unbothered band of gold moving across the stone.

You are fine. You must be fine.

You breathe out through your nose and grip the basin slightly harder and think about the woman's voice. The ease of it. They respond to firmness the way animals respond to it. The way she lifted her cup afterward. The way her companion reached for a cake.

The way the room continued as if this cruelty is normal, expected even.

Glancing down at your hands once more, you note that your knuckles have gone pale. You release it and flatten your palms against cool the cool marble before taking another deep breath.

Then you look back up at yourself, and your reflection is doing a poor job of looking unbothered.

Fix it, you think. Fix your face and breathe and go back out there and eat another petit four and listen to the room do what it does and you will be fine because you are always fine, you have been fine every day since you arrived in this city and you will continue to be fine because the alternative is not available to you.

The powder room door opens.

Three of them, young, your age or near enough, in the particular formation of women who move through the world as a unit. Gowns in the current silhouette, hair elaborately pinned, jewels that announce themselves immediately and thoroughly. They bring the noise of the tea room with them briefly before the door swings shut and seals it out again.

You busy yourself by looking as if fusing over your appearance for the sake of propriety.

They do not look at you directly. You are simply a woman at the basin, adjusting something, present but peripheral. They move to the mirror beside yours with the easy ownership of people who have never considered that a room might belong to someone else.

"—three," the tallest one is saying, picking up a conversation mid-thread as she opens a small enameled case. "She brought three to the Varell reception. Three, and two of them were—" a pause loaded with theatrical disgust, "—unmatched."

"Unmatched," the second one repeats, in the tone of a woman confirming a crime.

"Completely. Different collars. Different heights. One of them had clearly never been properly trained because it just stood there, like—" the tall one gestures vaguely at the mirror, at the air, at the concept of inadequacy, "—like it didn't know what standing still meant."

The third one laughs, touching up something at the corner of her lip. "The Ferraille household has always been like that. My mother says their acquisition taste is twenty years behind everyone else's. They buy for novelty and then wonder why nothing functions correctly."