[softly]: it’ll pass.

Sometimes Frank thinks he should put you on a leash.

Get one of those toddler backpack rigs with the little animal character on it and clip you in. Maybe that would preserve what remains of his peace.

Morifying for you, humiliating for him, definitely probably a terrible look in public, but at least you’d stay within a five-foot radius and he could stop living in this permanent state of low-grade vigilance you seem to provoke as casually as breathing. 

And he loves you. Deeply. Completely.

That’s the problem. Love, with you, is surveillance. It is anticipatory. It is watching for the exact point at which your glittering, social, I’m-fine performance starts to come apart at the seams while you insist it isn’t happening.

You just never seem to know when to stop. 

And tonight you are all over the pool patio with a mojito slicking one hand cold and damp, dribbling little sacrificial offerings of rum and mint over the stone, while the other hand keeps straying to the bikini strap at your hip. 

Restless. Fidgety. Smiling at everyone. Talking too loudly. 

A little drunk, a little sleepy, and, as ever, too stubborn to concede either.

The moment you glance his way, Frank tilts his chin and crooks two fingers in a come here.

A gesture that should not, by any reasonable standard, contain so much possession in it, and yet your expression changes all at once, brightening with buzzed delight as you cross toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite person to be bossed around by,” you say when you reach him, voice dipped in honey. You stop beside his lounger, smiling down at him. It’s such a pretty smile. “Did you miss me terribly?”

“I usually do.” 

There’s no point in pretending otherwise.

That gets you. 

“Yeah?” You tip forward a little, closing the distance with shameless interest. “Can I get a kiss, then?”

Frank’s mouth twitches. “You can get whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He lifts a hand to your jaw and draws you down, sealing his mouth over yours in a kiss that has to be brief by sheer circumstance, though not so brief he misses the cool, fizzy ghost of lime on your lips. 

Sugary and faintly effervescent, the taste of it lingering for one extra second after he pulls back, temptation rendered in citrus. 

Frank has never been especially talented at self-control where you are concerned.

It’s why he’s not a fan of PDA. Public affection is never only that. It is a beginning. A permission slip.

One kiss and suddenly he is keenly aware of all the ones he is not having, all the ways he would rather be kissing you if the two of you were alone.

So he stops there, because he has to, and leaves your hand at your jaw instead, thumb brushing once over your cheek.

“What do you say we go find you something to eat?”

You make a face immediately, lower lip pushing out in a sulky little pout. “‘M not hungry.”

“That’s fascinating, because you look like you’re about two minutes from falling asleep standing up.”

“You make everything sound so dire.”

Frank snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Then, in a flawless little proof-of-concept, you sway backward with all the structural integrity of a wilting palm tree. 

Frank moves before the thought fully forms, hands shooting out to catch the back of your thigh, fingers splaying over the soft curve just beneath your ass as he drags your forward. One quick tug and there you are, neatly slotted between his legs. 

Your hands land on his shoulders and you giggle, as if nearly toppling over into a concussion is somehow charming rather than precisely the kind of thing that keeps shaving years off his life.

He squeezes once, firm and corrective. 

“Okay, well, what do you say you keep me company for a while?”

He could tell you to sit down. You might even listen, eventually, but not without first delivering a brief theatrical monologue on authoritarianism and oppression and how cruel it is to stifle your sparkle.

So. Better not make it about obedience. Frank has learned this the hard way, or at least the repetitive way.

There are only so many reliable methods of keeping you where he can see you, and most of them depend on reframing the situation until it no longer sounds like containment.

You resent being managed. You respond beautifully to being needed. Especially by him. 

“Mm, okay,” you murmur at once, whatever resistance you had dissolving on contact. 

Before Frank can offer any further guidance, you’re already hauling yourself into his lap with spectacularly poor mechanics, all grabby hands and misfiring limbs, nudging him backward against the lounger.

And after a moment of awkward shifting and a fair amount of readjusting, you finally settle into him in a drowsy little heap, half draped across his lap and half tucked into his side. 

Frank extracts the mojito from your hand just before the remainder can go down the front of his shirt, though not before a bright cold splash hits his chest anyway.

He puts the glass aside and looks back at you.

Brushes your hair off your face. Once, twice, again, until there you are properly visible beneath it.

You blink up at him, visibly straining to keep your eyes open, lashes heavy with the effort. “You know what Parker told me earlier?”

“Hmm?”

“That you’re not supposed to compliment the moon here.”

Frank’s fingers drift through your hair again. “And why’s that?”

“Apparently,” you say, lowering your voice, “it’s bad luck. Like if you say it’s pretty, then something in your life gets ruined out of jealousy.”

Your finger wanders over his shirt, drawing something looping into the cotton, your nail a shiny petal-pink that matches the sparkle dusted over your eyes. 

He asks, “Should I be concerned you’ve already told it how pretty it is?” 

A tiny crease appears between your brows. 

“Maybe a little.” Your nail catches on his shift before drifting on again. “But it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Because Selene is the moon, and Helios is the sun, and they’re siblings, I think, so maybe he gets weird about it… because if everyone keeps talking about how beautiful the moon is, and nobody’s complimenting the sun, that could create resentment. Familial resentment. Which is, like, one of the oldest forces in mythology.”

Frank opens his mouth, halfway to saying that while the ancient Greeks certainly contained enough familial instability to support the theory, he strongly suspects Parker is still just screwing with you, and then he looks down. 

You are asleep. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, quiet enough not to disturb you, and shifts his hand higher along your back, settling you more securely against him. 

This, too, is part of loving you, he thinks. The rare and fragile privilege of being where you land when the night catches up to you.

Around you, the patio goes on glowing. Voices blur. Glass clinks somewhere in the distance. Water shifts blue-black under the moonlight. 

He leans his head back against the lounger and lets himself look out at it for a second. It is a pretty moon.

If Selene is listening, she can be flattered. He’ll take the risk.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

“..just might treat myself with steak and grape juice for dinner. what do you think?”

you sidle up to park and throw in your two cents. “sounds well deserved after the day you've reported to our little sweetheart.”

park doesn't startle. throughout his nightly visits to the nicu, you've become the most familiar face. consequently, he's collected these tidbits that, when glued together, form his picture of you. the ortho surgeon would even privately swear he'd be more concerned if you don't clock in around this time.

his smile—small, its edges worn from a schedule of surgeries that had waned more than just his energy, yet still present—pops up. he shifts his focus, reminds you, “my offer is still on the table. i cook a delectable medium rare with a side of roast potatoes.”

and you laugh, shake your head. “don't worry, i haven't forgotten. it's just been really hectic in here. all hands on deck, you know?”

yeah, he does. park knows from the exhaustion etched in the fine lines of your face, the corner your id badge poking out of your scrub pocket, the singular hair tie left on your wrist. (you usually wore at least seven of them in case a colleague needed an extra.)

park doesn't point those out. maybe some other time, when he successfully aligns a shift with yours and convinces you to let him drive you home, he'll wonder aloud where your love for working the night shift stems from.

for now, he stands to grab another the rolling stool and sits, leaving you no choice but to occupy the comfier seat. silence perches itself between the two of you; accompanied by the kind of wonder that comes from watching over the newborn cooing and shifting around her small bed.

“june's rarely been one to catch some sleep early.” you comment, fondness mellowing out your tone.

and park nips, “hm, it sounds like her favorite nurse has an influence on her.”

when you nudge him (tap for him, considering his physique), he rolls his seat back by a couple centimeters. theatrics aren't typically in park's functions, but if it elicits the giggle that falls from your lips, he might as well put on a whole show for you.

“come back here, tumbleweed. can't have you rolling into anyone else's attention.”

so he does. but as park rolls back into place, his mind remains snagged on what you said. not the nickname—you've called him plenty ‘worse’ without facing his brutal snark—but the implication. the essence of jealousy that might have been poured in the waters.

for someone who preferred a clean cut, park doesn't have a clear view of where you stand. he knows he's left the platonic state; he's come to terms with that.

meanwhile, you, in spite of your comebacks and the fleeting physical brushes, haven't said it. haven't written the words on the lines; more often than not, between them.

and park, persistent yet patient, doesn't try to lure the confession out of you. instead, he adjusts and waits; quite the feat for someone his size (emotionally, of course).

the minute it's clear mr. dozy has come to visit june, brendon knows his visiting hour is up. his storytelling, featuring your thoughts occasionally spoken aloud, had done its trick again. seems like he has to snag more tea tales from the nurses during his next shift.

he sets his hand atop of yours and quietly announces, “i'm gonna go. if i'm going to treat myself, i need to do a stopover for the grape juice.”

you nod, acknowledge his goodbye with a invisible touch of wishful thinking. park rises to his feet and presses his palm against the cover of the incubator, those ocean eyes taking in the newborn's steady heaves of her chest as she gradually lowers into sleep's cradle.

right as he sets one foot out the door, you call out to him. he turns, half worried something happened to you or one of the patients during that minute. but when he looks at you, all he can see is your hands tucked behind your back, presumably fidgeting; a habit of yours when you got nervous over something. something like..

“this saturday evening. i'd like to see if your cooking's as good as your bone mending.”

for a moment there, park thinks he misheard you. although you aren't cruel, not intentionally at least, he still waits for you to reel the bait back in.

when you don't, the surgeon breathes out something between a laugh and a sigh. he gives your answer a moment to marinate before nodding, tacking on for confirmation, “i don't care where you want me to pick you up. text me the location, okay?”

true to his word, park picks you up in front of dennis and trinity's apartment. having been a bundle of nerves for this date (oh god, you're going on a date with the man who clearly hasn't only been visitng the nicu to check on the patients), you'd run to the two people who'd been your closest confidants throughout your ptmc arc.

trinity had done stellar work on prepping you, supporting your nervous self throughout the steps. dennis had done the same.. but more on morale, because it hadn't been until ten minutes before park arrived that everything had sunken in for him.

“so.. wait.. you're going on an actual, dining at his home date with park the shark?”

“no, he's going to give gorgeous a house tour.” trinity scoffed. “of course it's a real date, huckleberry. the guy's already living a med student's dream, makes sense he's looking for someone to spend those debt-free rewards on.”

park doesn't honk for your attention; partially for consideration for others, mostly because he knows you startle at abrupt loud noises. and with that in mind, he pings your phone with a heads up that he's waiting outside.

upon exiting the building, the first thing you notice is park's hands; the firm but still careful grasp he clasps around the bouquet of lavenders and sunflower set in the middle of the blooms. he steps forward to greet you with the bouquet, the corner of his lips ticked in an endearingly awkward smile.

“so you know, i hadn't envisioned the sunflower. but when the florist noticed i was only getting you lavenders, they added that to balance out the purple.”he tells you, deliberately withholding most of the actual anecdote. “now that's in your hands, i realize they were onto something here.”

flustered by his words, you bow your head and feign focus on admiring the bouquet. and the smile on park's face widens just a little more, just visible enough for anyone who was peeping from a distance (like a third floor window).

“well, sounds like this florist has scored another regular.” you cheekily quip as payback. “not to sound greedy, but i wouldn't mind receiving more of these in the future.”

now it's park's turn to iron out the high skips in his pulse. he chooses to cope by gesturing to his car, then asks, “ready to go?”

you nod, exert effort in following while he tries his best to shorten his strides so you won't have to chase so far. and of course he opens the door for you, holds your bouquet so you can safely get on the passenger seat, then carefully perches the flora upon your lap before shutting the door.

from the apartment, trinity snags a glimpse through the window of how park treats you. dennis had been too nervous to eavesdrop, already past the realization stage but not quite ready for protective era. unlike trinity, the ortho surgeon still plucked more fear than respect from the first-year resident.

“have they left yet?” dennis asks from the safety of the sofa.

trinity shuts the curtain for a second to answer, “not yet, they're still flirting on the sidewalk.” before returning to peeping.

only when park's car pulls away from the curb and drives down the main road does trinity back away from the window and plop onto the other side of the sofa. she immediately picks up her phone, probably to text you.

“so.. what do you think?” dennis carefully pokes for her thoughts.

trinity smirks, presumably sending you something that isn't safe to read in the presence of others.

(park raises a brow when you shield your phone from him, but doesn't pry. he'd rather drive you over to his house in a whole, safe piece than audibly wonder what had you toying with the ribbon tied around the bouquet's stems.)

satisfied to see the read receipt, trinity looks up from her phone and muses, “i mean, it's still unexpected. but i can tell park's gonna make sure they'll have a good time.”

later on, right before the roommates retreat to their bedrooms for the night, trinity belatedly adds, “oh yeah, i also reminded gorgeous not to have too much fun. ‘told them we're not ready to be supportive aunt and uncle yet.”

..yeah, baby steps is best for everyone.

especially dennis.

A chiming bell assaults your ears.

Your head jerks up, an instinct to see who just came through the front door.

Your breath stops.

There, in all of his daylight glory, is Pretty Blue Eyes.

You know it’s him; remember him like a blurry painting. Strong hands and a bruising mouth and—

He’s got a stethoscope around his neck today. And a backpack over his shoulders. He walks to the front counter without even glancing in your direction.

It’s a small relief. You’re not even sure if you want to acknowledge him.

It’s been a week, long enough for you to fully accept that you wouldn’t see him again, much less in a coffee shop.

You hear him order his drink. You think about how you probably exchanged less than twenty words with him that night. He sounds like he laughs a lot.

He lingers near the counter as he waits. You don’t stare directly—but you don’t look away immediately. You decide that if he sees you, you’ll say something.

The barista calls his name—”Frank!”—and he grabs the drink with thanks.

You duck your head, the open notebook looking back at you. Not Pretty Blue Eyes anymore—Frank. The hot guy from the bar, here again, with a stethoscope and kindness to the barista.

Before you look up, there’s a sound of ice shifting and a thump of a cup sitting down on your table.

You look up.

He has dimples.

“Hi,” says Frank. “I don't think I caught your name."

You tell him.

He repeats it. It sounds like he’s testing the syllables. He makes it sound nice. Frank glances at the empty chair across you. “Mind if I sit?”

“You already put your drink down.”

There are 60 to 100 heartbeats in a minute, and in the elapsing of them, he hears every single one of yours in endured, melodic fashion. When the two of you pace the perimeter of your shared apartment, he relies on the metronomic passage of them to ground him in the moment. He uses it to luxuriate in the loveliness of your presence.

They document the moments enjoyed together as you rise in the early hours of morning for work—as the two of you return home to this safe haven—as you both make dinner crafted by combined efforts—as you return to bed to begin the cycle anew—

Your heartbeats demarcate every moment, lulling, encompassing—comforting. It reassures him that you are here, that you are with him. When he is summoned across the world to parts unknown for services yet rendered, if he focuses—

He can hear the rhythm of a heart that beats in anticipation for his return. And it reminds him of the necessity of his return.

And he appreciates it now, sonorous and mediated as you doze on the couch besides him. In the honeyed amber of this sterling moment, with soft dusky rays that stream through curtained window, with low ambience from the TV playing in soundtrack. Your heart sounds clear and true as it ever has, as he watches you sleep.

As he watches you in rest, the struggles of the day, the burdens of yesterday, and the promises of tomorrow vanished as you dream. You sit beside him but you are worlds away, the only piece of you tethered to him the pace of your heart.

You are so small in the vastness of the universe he is housed by, but contain multitudes that are so valuable to him beyond vocabulary. Beyond emotions.

He watches you sleep a moment longer before he turns back to the sluggish ticker-tape trail of the screen. Then it happens. Everything can endure in slow-motion to him, but he is distracted by the lull so it's less sluggish for him.

As you fall against the implacable slope of his shoulder in the doldrums of your sleep. As you take comfortable perch against him in the safest of havens—and he turns to look at you—

And your heartbeat, which is of invariable comfort to him, speeds up at the contact made between you. A sigh, tuneless and restful, hums through as you mumble something inaudible to anyone without accentuated sense—

"Love you, baby—"—You murmur through the veil of sleep—and then you are lost again, a quiet snore vocalized in addendum.

And your heartbeat restores back to homoestasis, reverberating in the walls that mark your home with him.

Clark doesn't realize the tender smile that breaks over his face as you recline on him. All he is aware of is the magnetic pull you draw him into, summoned into your orbit as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Baptizing you with tangible enunciation of his fealty to you.

"Love you too, honey," he whispers. In answer, through the slumbering mists—the rhythm of your heart affirms the affection given. And all is well once more.

just needed a little pick-me-up to cheer myself up after yesterday, hope you all enjoyed :)

dividers and banners made by me :)

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @timetothirst @luvmailing @newangelle @iridescentlightshow @ella-rowen @ladamari68 @alyenna @pixie2k5 @leonieies

You ordered the food at 7 pm. Sat down on the couch at 7:30. Watched the first episode alone at 8. Picked at cold noodles at 9. Texted him "you okay?" at 9:15. Got "still here." at 9:45. The second episode ended at 10. At 10:30, you put the leftovers in the fridge. At 10:45, you took a shower. At 11 pm, Frank walked through the door.

Eleven. PM.

Instead of being a reasonable boyfriend, he thought it'd be smarter to be a reasonable doctor. Which you understood. God, you understood. You understood that Frank's job is literally about choosing other people over himself, and over you, every single day.

You would have understood if it hadn't been today.

"Night shift was already there, Frank," you finally said, and your voice came out more upset than angry. That was worse, probably. He could handle anger. Anger he could fight back against. But this was just hurt and you could see him not knowing what to do with it.

You walked past him and didn't touch him or look at him.

Frank would have preferred it if you had pushed him, because then at least he could feel like he got what he deserved. But you wouldn't do that, because you knew it would hurt him, actually physically hurt him.

He stared at you in the bedroom as you brushed your hair.

"It wasn't my fault," he finally said. "There was a car crash. I couldn't just—"

"You could have left at 7," you said quietly, still not looking at him. "You could have left at 8. You could have left at 9. Night shift was already there, Frank. They had it."

"They needed—"

"They needed a doctor. They didn't need you."

That landed. You saw it in the mirror and you finally turned around.

"You came home at 11 PM, Frank," you said, and your voice cracked just slightly on the number. "Eleven. PM."

You might sound silly to other people. Some of your coworkers, the ones with normal boyfriends who work normal jobs, they'd probably roll their eyes. Oh no, he was saving lives and you're mad about takeout?

"I'll make it up to you tomorrow." his voice softer now.

You looked at him standing in the doorway and you felt the fight drain out of you. "Yeah, yeah, sure," you mumbled, dropping the hairbrush on the dresser.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly and for a moment you almost believed he meant it, but then he kept going. "Really, but they really did need my help."

There it was. The but. He just couldn't help himself. Even now, he still felt the need to defend himself.

You stared at him. The silence stretched between you and you could see him wanting to fill it. Finally, you shook your head. "Good night, Frank."

You walked out of the bedroom, behind you, you heard him take a step forward, but you pulled the door shut between you.

Stay on your side.

Frank stared at the door. The guilt hit him tearing at all the walls he'd built. He felt sick to his stomach.

He knew following you wouldn't help. So he swallowed his guilt, grit his teeth and turned off the bedroom light. He laid down on the bed. The sheets were cold on his side as he stared at the ceiling.

The shadows from the streetlight outside made patterns up there. He'd memorized them months ago, back when you'd fall asleep with your head on his chest and he'd stay awake just to watch your pretty face.

He knew he shouldn't have stayed. Of course he knew. He wasn't stupid. He knew it the moment he watched Donnie grab his jacket at 7:30, clap him on the shoulder, and say "Night shift's here, Langdon. Go home to your girl."

He'd nodded, said he would and then he'd walked back inside instead. He knew it at 8 PM, when Samira gave him a weird look and asked if he was picking up an extra shift. He knew it at 9 PM, when his phone buzzed with your "you okay?" text and he typed back "still here." instead of "I'm sorry, I'm leaving now, I'll be home in twenty."

He knew it at 10 PM, when Abbott found him reviewing charts that didn't need reviewing and said "Langdon. Go home. That's an order."

But he couldn't help it.

Sometimes he just worried about spending too much time with you, especially ever since he'd come back from rehab. It was almost like he felt terrified to be with you. He brushed a hand over his face, groaning at his own stupidity.

It sounded horrible because he loved you so much. That was the whole problem. He loved you so much that the thought of losing you made him spiral and ever since rehab, that fear had gotten more insistent.

What if he wasn't the same as before? What if the version of him that came back from rehab wasn't the version you'd fallen in love with? What if you preferred the old Frank?

What if you didn't like him sober?

The thought had been eating at him for months. He'd convinced himself that you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to prove that rehab hadn't really fixed anything.

So yes, after seeing your sweet smile this morning at breakfast, he got scared. He got scared of being the reason it disappeared, so he backed off.

Guilt simmered in his stomach all night at work. He felt it with every patient he checked on and every minute that ticked past 7pm.

Frank felt sick. He felt sick at 10:15 and he especially felt sick when he'd walked through the door at 11 pm, already rehearsing apologies that he knew wouldn't be enough. He'd found you sitting alone on the couch, some movie playing on the tv that you clearly weren't interested in. You barely looked at him when he came in.

He felt sick then and he still felt sick now.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars wondering why he was the way he was.

An hour must have passed at that point. The clock on the nightstand glowed 12:47 am when he finally turned his head to look at it, and the numbers blurred for a second before he blinked them back into focus.

Finally, he got up out of bed. His back seized as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He'd been standing too long at work. His own fault, he shook his head. Karma for what he did to you. He stood up slowly, one hand braced on the nightstand, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

When it did, he opened the bedroom door quietly, just in case you were asleep.

You were curled up on the couch with your back toward the tv and your face pressed into the back of the couch. Your knees were tucked up toward your chest, dead asleep.

There was no blanket, just your sleep shorts and his old hoodie.

He stood there for a moment watching you before finally going back to the bedroom as quietly as he could, grabbing the blanket you both fought over when the apartment got cold and came back.

He unfolded the blanket and laid it over you. You stirred slightly but didn't wake up.

He hesitated, then settled down on the couch behind you, lowering himself slowly because his back was screaming at him now, every movement sending new complaints up his spine. He fit himself against the curve of your body anyway, his chest to your back, his knees tucked behind yours.

You didn't move, until he gently, put an arm under your waist and pulled you back to his chest.

You woke up startled. Your head lifted over your shoulder, hair falling across your face, eyes squinting in the dark. You finally saw his face properly, but Frank already had his eyes closed.

He didn't want to know if you looked angry or tired or disappointed or worst of all indifferent. He didn't think he could handle you looking at him like he didn't matter anymore.

"Frank," you mumbled groggily.

"I can't sleep without you," he whispered. He wasn't sure he meant to say the words at all.

He slowly opened his eyes. You had turned to see him properly now, your hair was a mess and you were staring at him as if saying that's it?

And then, like you couldn't help yourself, you pressed closer. Your hand came up to brush over his back, the way you always did before bed. He'd told you once that you helped with his back pain, made it disappear.

You weren't actually healing him. He knew that, but somehow, in some way he couldn't explain, it helped, even if it was only in his head.

"I'm really sorry for missing dinner," he whispered.

His blue eyes stayed fixed on yours, even though everything in him wanted to look away. He took a breath as his arm pulled you closer, his fingers pressing into the curve of your waist because he was getting nervous now. The kind of nervous he hadn't felt since rehab, when he'd had to sit in a circle of strangers and admit out loud that he wasn't okay.

His other hand came up to toy with your waistband, pulling at the elastic. It was a nervous habit you'd noticed months ago and never mentioned, because you knew pointing it out would only make him more self conscious.

You let him, smiling softly and that smile encouraged him to keep talking.

"M'worried about you spending time with me," he finally breathed out. Once he started, he couldn't stop. "I don't know how to act properly around you. What if I hurt you? What if you don't like me sober?" His voice cracked slightly on sober, the word feeling weird in his mouth. "What if all— my— what if all my charms gone?"

He grimaced at that. Charm. What a ridiculous word. What a ridiculous thing to worry about, like he'd ever been charming, like he'd ever been anything other than a mess in scrubs who happened to get lucky enough to find someone willing to put up with him.

"What if we spend so much time together and you realize there's actually nothing good about me?"

Yeah, there he said it.

He didn't think he was good.

He didn't think he was a good person. He thought he was someone who'd done good things, but that wasn't the same as being good.

Maybe that was why he overworked himself. Maybe that was why he stayed past his shift, because by forcing himself to save lives, he could pretend he was a good person.

Not a guy who stole meds from his own patients. No. A guy who saved lives. With every life he saved, that somehow had to be proof that he was good. Right?

You stared at him. The silence stretched between you for a moment, before you finally spoke.

"Frank, you could've told me all of this," you whispered gently as you kept brushing one hand along his back. His eyes flickered with surprise and shame, but he didn't look away. "You could've told me this the moment you came back."

You were slightly shocked, honestly. You didn't want to believe that he felt like this for so long. It made your chest hurt.

Frank dropped his hand from your waistband, instead he turned onto his back. His hands moved to his face, brushing up and down, fingers pressing into his eye sockets like he could push the thoughts out physically. He groaned lightly, while your hand moved from his back to his stomach, brushing softly there.

"I know, I know," he mumbled, voice muffled behind his hands. He dropped them finally and met your eyes. "And I know I hurt you by not telling you. And I'm so sorry." His voice cracked slightly on sorry. "God, you have no idea how sorry I am."

"I think I have some idea," you whispered after a while as you met his guilt filled eyes.

Frank swallowed hard and he had to blink a few times to keep his vision from going blurry. "I'll make it up to you. I swear to you—we'll do anything you want all week. I'll even—I'll even take the week off." He paused and then desperately added. "A month, even."

He wasn't sure if he could actually take a month off. The hospital would probably have something to say about that. Robby would definitely have something to say about that, but he'd try.

You giggled and the relief he felt upon hearing this sound, almost knocked the wind out of him. Your giggle was his favorite sound in the world and he'd been terrified tonight that he'd never hear it again.

"Frank, slow down," you smiled, brushing a hair strand out of his face. Your fingers lingered there for a second and he closed his eyes at the touch like a cat leaning into a pet. "First of all," you said gently, "you do not need to take the week off. It's fine. You'll make it up to me on your day off."

He opened his mouth to protest, because it wasn't fine, but you kept talking.

Your hand came up to his chest and you rubbed your thumb softly. "And you never ever have to worry about that other stuff." You knew he was too vulnerable right now for you to state everything explicitly again. You tilted your head slightly, making sure you had his eyes before you continued. "I love you, Frank. And that's never going to change. No matter what."

You could swear there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, but then his chin dropped toward his chest, and he nodded slowly.

"I love you too." was all he managed to say.

You smiled softly, and then you put your head on his chest and let your leg hook over his hip. He pressed a kiss to your head. His lips lingered there for a second, warm against your hair, and you felt the slight tremor in his breath.

"We'll grab breakfast tomorrow again," he whispered. "I'll wake up early. We can go to the diner a bit further away. Your favorite." Yeah. He'd shed a tear or two. You could hear it in his voice.

"And I'll come home early tomorrow," he continued, pressing another kiss to your hair. "I promise." He pulled you even closer to him. "And I'll even bring chocolate cookies with me."