emma !

.𖥔˚ 𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐬,

⋆ compound v latches onto your aries stellium first—sun, mercury, venus, and north node all burning in the same sign like someone poured gasoline directly into your identity and handed you a lighter. there is no gentle little entry point here. v finds the anger, the instinct, the refusal to wait for permission, the part of you that feels things immediately and would rather be honest than digestible. your sagittarius moon adds even more heat: bluntness, dark humor, appetite for chaos, and that “if the world is ugly, i’m going to look it in the face” thing. then gemini rising gives it a mouth. sharp, quick, weirdly funny at the worst possible time. compound v does not create rage in you. it finds the rage already sitting there in platform boots with micro bangs and a septum ring, and gives it a body horror budget.

⋆ your manifested ability would be vascular combustion. your power runs through the circulatory system: heartbeat, blood pressure, pulse, heat. when activated, your blood superheats into a volatile, glowing red-black substance that can rupture outward through your skin in controlled bursts—whips, blades, splatter, explosive sprays, or burning ropes of blood that move almost like extensions of your nervous system. very gross. very cinematic. very “vought edited this footage before public release”. your heart becomes the engine, and every surge of adrenaline makes the power sharper. visually, your veins darken under your skin, your eyes get glassy-bright, and your pulse becomes audible in the room, heavy and wet, like a drum under the floorboards. it is not clean fire. it is blood-fire. personal, violent, dramatic, and absolutely not safe for a family-friendly rescue montage.

⋆ your power intensifies through anger, urgency, disrespect, being controlled, or watching someone try to make you smaller. aries placements do not enjoy being told to calm down, especially when the anger is justified. mercury retrograde in aries makes it even more reactive: words can jam in the throat until they come out too sharp, too fast, too honest, and your power would spike right along with them. mars in aquarius adds a rebellious trigger—if someone tries to force obedience, flatten your weirdness, or turn you into a corporate product, your body starts rejecting the script. saturn in cancer is the soft bruise under the bloodshed: emotional vulnerability, family wounds, fear of being unsafe in your own body. v hears all of it. every insult, every restraint, every “be reasonable”, and then your pulse starts ticking like a bomb.

⋆ the drawback is that your body is the weapon and the fuel source. overuse can leave you dizzy, anemic, feverish, bruised, shaking, and temporarily unable to regulate your own heartbeat. the more you push, the more your power demands from your circulation, and there is always a limit before the body starts punishing you back. emotionally, the cost is control. your chart loves intensity, but this power makes intensity visible and destructive. you cannot always hide when you are angry. you cannot always joke your way out of it. people will know when something has gotten under your skin because your skin might literally split with heat. and the scariest part? some days, the violence might feel cleaner than explaining why you are hurt. very aries. very dangerous.

.𖥔˚ 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞, ⌞ 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 ⌝

⋆ vought would name you red riot. it is loud, aggressive, marketable, and just punk enough for them to pretend they understand alternative culture. “red” sells the blood, the anger, the heat, the danger. “riot” sells rebellion in a cute corporate-approved font, which is hilarious because actual rebellion would make them foam at the mouth. they would try to turn you into this edgy, gore-glam anti-hero: the supe who looks scary but “fights for justice”, which is code for “please ignore the leaked footage where the walls were pulsing”.

⋆ publicly, vought would brand you as the horror-girl weapon. micro bangs, septum, sharp mouth, aries rage, body horror aesthetic—they would lean into it hard once they realized they could sell you to the weird girls, metalheads, horror fans, and everyone who thinks blood on a poster is empowerment. you would get midnight movie tie-ins, halloween campaigns, maybe some painfully fake “embrace your anger” merch. the public would see you as fearless, unfiltered, chaotic, and kind of iconic. behind the scenes, though, vought would be terrified of you because you are not naturally obedient. you are too reactive, too visibly angry, too hard to soften for sponsors. they can market your rage, but they cannot fully own it. and that is where the problem starts.

.𖥔˚ 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭,

⋆ your closest friend would be kimiko. not because either of you are soft in the obvious way, but because both of you understand what it means for the body to become violent before the world bothers asking what happened to you. your aries/sagittarius fire would bring noise, jokes, impulsive honesty, and a “fuck it, we move” energy, while kimiko would ground you with quiet loyalty and action instead of lectures. she would not be scared of the blood. you would not be scared of her brutality. there is something weirdly comforting in that. you would probably make her laugh at terrible moments, and she would give you one look when you are about to do something stupid, which would only stop you about forty percent of the time. still. bestie material.

⋆ romantically and sexually, you would feel pulled toward soldier boy. unfortunately, the aries venus wants heat, confidence, physicality, and someone who does not feel easily breakable. your sagittarius moon likes danger with a sense of humor, and mars in aquarius likes people who feel disruptive, difficult, and slightly outside normal rules. soldier boy is a terrible idea with shoulders. obviously your chart would notice. the attraction would be explosive, combative, sexual before it is sweet, and probably full of arguing that turns into standing too close. healthy? not really. boring? never. he would be into the fact that you are not delicate about blood, rage, or fear, and you would be into the fact that he pushes back hard enough to make the room spark. this is not a love story. this is a warning label with chemistry.

⋆ you would clash badly with starlight. not because you would hate her, exactly, but because she would trigger something complicated in you. her controlled goodness, her need to do the right thing publicly, her moral discipline—all of that could feel irritating when you are running on instinct, anger, and brutal honesty. your aries placements might see her restraint as hesitation, while she would see your violence as reckless. she would ask you to think before acting. you would ask her how many times thinking has actually saved anyone in vought’s house of horrors. the conflict would be moral, not petty. and honestly, you would both have points, which makes it worse.

⋆ the boys would use you, but they would not fully trust you at first. butcher would absolutely see the value in pointing you at a vought target and letting the room become a crime scene, but mm would be the one asking whether anyone has considered the consequences. hughie would be scared of you in a very polite way. frenchie would be fascinated by the biology of your power and also horrified by what it costs you. kimiko would probably be the first to treat you like a person instead of a weapon. they would not try to kill you unless you lost control around civilians or started enjoying the carnage too much. but there would always be a contingency plan, because your power is not subtle. it’s a red alarm with a pulse.

⋆ you would not make it into the seven. vought would want the aesthetic, the fanbase, the shock value, the merch, the interviews, the controversy—but full placement would be too risky. homelander would hate you because you are too openly angry, too hard to intimidate cleanly, and too likely to say something insane on live tv just because someone annoyed you. the seven needs obedience disguised as glamour. you would give them blood, jokes, backlash, and a legal department having stress migraines. you are more likely to become an uncontained cult-favorite supe: too popular to erase, too dangerous to promote safely, and too angry to keep on a leash.

.𖥔˚ 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬,

compound v did not give you anger. it gave your anger a heartbeat and taught it how to bite back—⌞ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 ⌝

mm doesn’t answer right away. that is worse than if he had.

annie comes in from the hall tying her hair back, hughie trailing behind her, still adjusting the sweater on his shoulders. kimiko appears at frenchie’s side and touches his shoulder. butcher stands near the counter, arms crossed, staring at the laptop with an expression you don’t like at all.

soldier boy is the last one in. barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, shirt wrinkled, hair still mussed from sleep. he looks annoyed at being summoned, which is his default state, but there’s something watchful under it too. 

his eyes sweep the room once, land briefly on the laptop, then on butcher. “somebody die?”

“not yet,” butcher says.

“so i'm not needed.”

“sit down,” mm says.

soldier boy’s gaze cuts to him. “try that again.”

mm looks up. “please sit down.”

that lands strange, because mm doesn’t say please to soldier boy unless he means something by it.

soldier boy doesn't sit. but he stands. arms crossed over his chest. mouth shut. that's progress.

you push the blanket off your legs and stand, slower than you want to. soldier boy notices. his eyes drop for half a second to your side, then away again before it can become anything.

“what’s on the drive?” annie asks.

frenchie turns the laptop enough for everyone to see. the screen shows a folder. not a video, not a list of homelander’s schedules, not the clean next step butcher probably wanted. just a title.

legacy asset: sb-01

the room goes still in a way that has weight.

soldier boy looks at it. nothing in his face changes at first. “that supposed to be me?”

mm clicks into the folder. there are subfolders. scans. dates. translated russian documents. vought internal memos with black bars cutting through paragraphs. thumbnails of lab rooms. equipment. a steel chamber coated in frost.

you know that chamber. not personally. not the way he does. but you saw it once in grainy footage, heard butcher describe it like a prize found at the bottom of hell.

soldier boy’s jaw tightens.

another click. a file opens.

russian containment site — recovery operation summary

mm reads silently for a few seconds. his expression doesn’t change, but his mouth goes flat.

“say it,” butcher says.

mm looks at soldier boy first. that is the wrong thing to do, because now everyone looks at soldier boy too. his shoulders square like a door locking from the inside.

mm exhales. “vought found the russian facility before we did.”

silence. soldier boy doesn’t blink.

“no,” hughie says, too quickly, like the word might stop the sentence if it gets there fast enough. “wait. before we—”

“years before,” mm says.

frenchie’s fingers move over the trackpad. “there was a raid. they killed the personnel. took the documents, the formulas, the chamber measurements, everything they could move or copy.”

annie’s voice drops. “what about…?”

the words trail. no one wants to look. everyone does anyway. you feel your stomach turn. soldier boy is very still. still in the way the air gets before thunder.

“they found him in the capsule,” frenchie continues, quieter now. “alive. sedated. stable. and vought made a decision.”

mm reads the next line, voice controlled. “retrieval deemed unnecessary due to asset volatility and current strategic obsolescence.”

hughie stares. “strategic obsolescence?”

“old news,” soldier boy's voice is flat. too flat. nobody laughs. nobody even breathes right.

“vought left him there,” annie says, and there’s something hard and sick in her voice now. “they knew where he was, and they left him there.”

soldier boy’s mouth moves into something that might have been a smile if any part of it reached his eyes. “guess i wasn’t worth the shipping.”

the words land badly. worse because he says them like he’s doing everyone a favor by making it funny.

you look at him. he does not look at you.

mm scrolls again. the folder changes, and the next set of documents is worse because it does not deal in betrayal. betrayal is at least human. this is numbers.

subject response logs

sedative tolerance reports

trigger-induced discharge events

chest radiation escalation under stress conditions

nerve agent concentration trials

restraint failure analysis

frenchie clicks one, then another, jaw tightening more with every page. “they translated the russian experiments,” he says. “then made notes.”

“what kind of notes?” butcher asks.

frenchie doesn’t answer right away. mm does. “what hurt him.”

the sentence is simple. yet, the room doesn’t know what to do with it.

“what hurt him,” mm repeats, slower, because apparently the first time wasn’t ugly enough. “what didn’t. how long before he recovered. what dosage kept him down. what sounds made his heart rate spike. what kind of restraint held longest. what conditions made the blast in his chest more likely.”

soldier boy’s fingers curl, release, and curl again. a small movement. almost nothing. but you’ve seen those hands around your wrists, on your hips, correcting your stance, hauling you upright like your weight is a joke. you’ve seen them steady on weapons and beer bottles and doorframes. you’ve never seen them look unsure of what to do with themselves.

frenchie scrolls past a diagram of the chamber. then a table.

respiratory suppression: temporary

pain response: delayed but confirmed

electrical threshold: increased after repeated exposure

isolation response: severe agitation after prolonged cycle interruption

audio trigger correlation: elevated discharge probability

hughie makes a small, horrified sound. “jesus.”

soldier boy turns his head toward him, and hughie shuts up immediately. not because soldier boy threatens him. because the look on his face is worse than a threat. blank. empty in a way that is not empty at all.

annie steps closer to the table. “what's vought angle here?”

butcher answers before anyone else can. “anything that drops soldier boy is worth keeping.”

soldier boy looks at him then. butcher looks back. for one second, the room balances on something narrow.

then frenchie speaks, too quickly. “there is more.”

“of course there is,” you say, voice quieter than you expect.

he clicks another folder.

cryogenic containment replication — feasibility

mm leans in. “they are trying to rebuild it.”

frenchie corrects, scrolling. “improve it.”

the screen fills with schematics. capsule dimensions. reinforced alloy specs. temperature curves. vapor delivery systems. sedation distribution. something shaped like the chamber from the russian lab, but cleaner. sleeker. vought-polished. torture redesigned by a committee with better lighting.

kimiko signs something, sharp and fast.

frenchie nods, face grim. “yes. bigger. stronger.”

“for who?” annie asks.

mm clicks through the file. “doesn’t say. high-value supe containment.”

hughie swallows. “homelander?”

butcher’s eyes sharpen. there it is. the calculation. the immediate shift from horror to utility. from this is monstrous to can we use it. you see it happen across his face like a match catching. 

soldier boy sees it too. that might be the worst part.

his expression doesn’t crack. not loudly. not in a way anyone could accuse him of. he just looks at the screen, at the drawings of the capsule, at the numbers that used to be his pain and are now a potential plan. his mouth tightens around something he doesn’t say.

then he turns. not storming. not knocking over chairs. not throwing the laptop through the wall. he just walks out.

the quiet after him is worse than noise.

his footsteps go down the hall, heavy and even at first, then slower. like every step is something he has to decide not to turn into violence. you stare after him, throat tight in a way that makes you angry because you refuse to feel sorry for a man who would call pity an insult.

the hallway takes him.

butcher looks back at the laptop. “well,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “good to know where the off switch is, eh?”

it happens before you can choose a better version of yourself. “don’t.” one word. hard enough that everyone looks at you.

butcher’s eyes lift from the screen. “don’t what?”

you stand where you are, blanket fallen in a heap behind your ankles, bruised knuckles still half-curled at your side. “don’t say it like that.”

butcher’s mouth twitches, not amused exactly. interested. “like what?”

“like you just found a leash.”

the room goes colder. annie’s face shifts first, something bright and grim moving behind her eyes. hughie stops breathing for half a second. frenchie looks down at the table. mm stays still, but his attention is fully on you now.

butcher’s smile is small. mean. tired. “that thing in his chest could level a city block if he throws a tantrum.”

“then maybe don’t give him a reason to throw one.”

“that your expert opinion, is it?”

“that’s my human one.”

his eyes narrow. “careful.”

“no!” you snap, and this time the word has teeth. “you be careful. because i know that look, butcher. you get it every time you figure out how to turn someone’s worst day into leverage. and i’m telling you now, don’t.”

butcher steps away from the counter.

mm’s voice cuts in. “butcher.”

“what?” butcher says, not looking away from you. “we all suddenly gone soft, have we? forgot what he is?”

“no one forgot,” annie says.

“good, because i remember just fine. i remember the radiation blast. i remember the bodies. i remember what happens when soldier boy gets twitchy.”

“and i remember him giving you his word and becoming an alley without anything in exchange,” you shoot back.

that lands. not cleanly. not enough to stop butcher. but enough that his jaw shifts.

“he keeps his word,” you say, voice lower now, but no less sharp. “with everything on that screen in his face, with everyone staring at him like he was about to go off, he is still here. maybe that should count for something.”

hughie clears his throat. everyone turns to him. he looks like he regrets existing, but to his credit, he keeps going. “i mean… she’s not wrong.”

butcher gives him a look. “course you’d pipe up.”

“no, okay, listen, i know he’s—” hughie gestures vaguely, helplessly, toward the hallway. “he’s horrible. obviously. very horrible. terrifying. deeply inappropriate most of the time.”

“hughie,” annie warns, though not harshly.

“right. sorry. point is, he could’ve left. like, a lot. he could’ve walked out on all of us, and he hasn’t. he’s still here, doing the stupid plans, saving people he pretends not to like, and maybe that doesn’t make him good, but it makes him not… not just equipment.”

the last word hangs there. equipment. you see frenchie’s face tighten. 

kimiko’s hand moves, slow and firm. frenchie translates softly. “she says: no cage unless there is no other choice.”

mm nods once. “that’s where i’m at.”

butcher turns on him with a dry scoff. “you too?”

“i don’t trust him,” mm says, plain and steady. “i don’t like him. i damn sure don’t want him loose if he loses control. but we use that information if we have to survive. not because it’s convenient.”

annie steps beside you. “he’s not homelander.”

butcher laughs once, sharp and humorless. “low fuckin’ bar.”

“still one you keep tripping over,” you say.

his eyes cut back to yours. there’s anger there now. real anger. but beneath it is something else, something almost disappointed, like he expected you to know better than to stand between him and a tool he might need.

“you think he’d do the same for you?” butcher asks.

you don’t answer right away. not because you don’t know. because the question is designed badly. cruelly. it wants an emotional answer, something soft enough for him to crush. you give him the practical one. “he already has.”

butcher’s mouth closes. not for long. but long enough. you don’t look toward the hallway. you won’t. you refuse to make this about whether soldier boy is standing there, whether he hears you, whether any of this matters to him in a way he’ll only punish himself for later. this is not a love confession. not a plea. not pity. it is a line.

“he’s part of the crew until he decides he isn’t,” you say. “not until you decide he’s easier to manage with a freezer.”

“that what we’re calling him now?” butcher asks. “part of the crew?”

“what else do you call someone who keeps showing up?”

in the hallway, soldier boy stands just out of sight, one hand braced against the wall. he had made it past the first turn before butcher spoke. far enough to leave. not far enough to stop hearing. the words reach him, slipping through the cracked-open room, through plaster and old paint and the blood-heavy pulse in his ears.

off switch.

leash.

crew.

his chest is too warm. not glowing. not yet. not enough to send anyone running. just warm in a way that reminds him of the lab, of restraints, of ice, of waking up nowhere with someone else’s hands on the story of his body. he keeps his palm flat against the wall and focuses on the pressure there instead. the wall is real. the hallway is real. the safehouse does not smell of chemical vapor. no blood frozen in the wrong places. no russian voices behind glass.

soldier boy doesn't move. he just stands there, jaw locked, chest too warm, listening to you defend him like he hasn’t spent weeks giving you reasons not to.

not because he’s waiting. he’s not. he’s in the gym because that’s where he happens to be. because butcher is making calls in the kitchen and mm is using the main room table and hughie has that anxious, kicked-dog energy that makes soldier boy want to throw him out a window just to stop looking at it. the gym is empty. quiet. that’s all.

you’re five minutes late.

then ten.

then twenty.

by thirty, his jaw hurts from clenching.

the punching bag hangs in front of him, patched leather creaking faintly on the chain. he hits it once, bare-knuckled, not hard enough to rip it open but harder than he needs to, and the thing snaps back like it’s trying to get away from him. 

he tells himself you’re sulking. women do that. people do that. they get their feelings stepped on and act like the whole damn room committed a crime. you had a bad day, you acted sloppy, he called it what it was. that’s training. that’s life. nobody gets better because someone tells them they’re brave and hands them a juice box.

you don’t show.

the next day, he’s there before the hour. not waiting. still not waiting. 

he’s taping his hands because his knuckles are bored, because there’s nothing good on tv, because mm threatened to shoot the remote if he put on anything “vile” in the shared room again. he runs through a few combinations, slow enough to be clean, fast enough to make the chain complain. 

every time the door shifts in the hallway, his eyes cut over. not you. annie passes instead, ponytail swinging, and gives him a narrow look like she knows something. he stares until she keeps moving. 

hughie appears later to grab bottled water from the storage shelf, freezes when he sees soldier boy, then does that little nervous smile that makes his face look even more punchable. “hey,” hughie says. “uh. training?”

soldier boy doesn’t answer.

“cool. great. yeah,” hughie adds, then leaves with the water held to his chest.

you still don’t come.

by the third day, he hears you before he sees you. you’re in the kitchen with hughie, laughing at something stupid, the sound quick and tired but real enough to reach down the hallway and hook under his ribs before he can decide what it is. 

he stops outside the gym door, one hand on the frame, listening like an idiot. 

hughie says something too quiet to catch, and you laugh again, softer this time. no shaking breath. no wet, furious silence. no trace of the girl who walked out with tears on her face and didn’t look back.

good. fine. so you’re alive. so you’re not broken. so you’re just done with him.

that should be nothing. hell, it should be relief. one less mouth snapping at him across the room, one less distraction when butcher starts throwing together some half-cocked plan. but then you come around the corner with annie, shoulder brushing hers as she says something low, and you see him standing there.

for one second, your eyes meet.

not long enough for a fight. not long enough for anything useful.

then you look away.

not angry. not sharp. not even dismissive, really. just gone. like he’s furniture in a room you know by heart so don’t have a reason to linger.

soldier boy has been hated before. he knows what to do with hate. hate has shape. hate stands in front of him, raises its voice, swings first if it has the guts. 

this is different. this is nothing. and somehow nothing sits worse.

he goes back into the gym and punches the bag until the top seam gives. it tears open with a dull, ugly sound, sand and filler spilling out across the mat in a heavy rush. the chain swings wild, metal squealing, the bag sagging like something gutted. 

soldier boy stands there breathing through his nose, fist still raised, staring at the mess as if it did something to deserve it.

“that wasn’t cheap,” mm says from the doorway.

soldier boy doesn’t turn around. “send me the bill.”

“you got a problem?”

“you standing there talking to me like we’re friends?”

mm’s silence has weight. it fills the room effectively and soldier boy feels restless from it. after a moment, he says, “whatever you think you’re doing, don’t make it her problem.”

soldier boy looks over then, slow. there are a lot of things he could say. most of them ugly. all of them easy. instead, he looks back at the torn bag and flexes his hand once, the skin across his knuckles not even split. “need a better bag.” 

the days keep moving.

missions come and go in pieces. nothing big enough to pull everyone out, nothing clean enough to make anyone comfortable. butcher gets a name from the deep’s phone, then a location, then a courier who knows someone who knows someone who might have access to files vought forgot to burn. 

it’s all small work, dirty work, the kind that fills the hours between disasters. 

you sit at the table with mm and butcher, eyes on the maps, asking clean questions and making cleaner notes. 

you stand beside annie in the kitchen, hip against the counter, stealing pieces of toast off her plate while she pretends not to notice. 

once, frenchie said something that maked you snort into your coffee, and kimiko grined so wide the whole room warmed around it.

with him, nothing. no “granddad”. no “commie toy”. no glare when he makes a comment about women drivers or modern men being soft or how nobody in this century knows how to cook a steak without crying over the cow first. you just leave the room, or keep reading, or answer butcher like soldier boy hasn’t spoken at all.

it should piss him off.

it does.

only it’s not clean anger anymore. it has something else under it, something sour and restless that follows him into sleep and waits for him in the morning. he tells himself it’s pride. that’s close enough to believable. you quit the second it got hard, and now you’re acting like he’s the problem because he didn’t hold your hand through it. 

fine, you quit. let butcher send you out there with your chin up and your guard down. not his business.

then butcher sends you on a dropoff alone.

it’s supposed to be easy. that’s the word he uses at the table, and you don’t even look up from checking the address on your phone.

“just pass the envelope to the bloke in the red cap,” butcher says, lighting a cigarette he has no intention of smoking outside. “he gives you a flash drive. you come back. simple.”

“your definition of simple usually ends with someone needing stitches,” annie says.

“then lucky for us,” you say, dry and quiet, “i know where the first aid kit is.”

soldier boy is leaning against the counter, arms folded, half-listening in a way that fools absolutely no one with eyes. “send hughie.”

hughie’s head snaps up. “what?”

butcher glances over. “why?”

soldier boy shrugs. “looks more forgettable.”

“thank you?” hughie says.

you slide the envelope into your jacket. “i can do a dropoff.”

he looks at you then, waiting for something. a snap. a glare. any sign that you remember he exists.

you give him nothing.

“course you can,” butcher says. “off you fuck.”

you leave before soldier boy can decide whether he was going to say something else. like it’s not even a concern to you that if he had a rebuttal. 

the safehouse feels wrong while you’re gone. there’s a gap somewhere, a missing point of friction. 

soldier boy sits in the main room with the tv on mute because he got tired of whatever nonsense blurts on screen these days, and more tired of pretending he wasn’t listening for the door. mm works at the table, laptop open, eyes flicking up every now and then with the kind of attention that says he’s thinking more than he’s saying. annie keeps checking her phone. hughie makes tea nobody asked for.

then the lock turns.

you come in on your own two feet.

barely.

blood has dried along your temple and split fresh at the corner of your mouth. one sleeve of your jacket is torn from shoulder to elbow, your knuckles are raw, and there’s a bruise already blooming dark along your jaw like someone tried hard to make a point and failed to make it stick. 

you shut the door behind you with your heel and stand there for a second, breathing like every inhale has to negotiate with your ribs.

the room stills.

butcher is first to speak, because of course he is. “what the fuck happened?”

you toss the flash drive at him. he catches it against his chest.

“fuck you and your fucking easy intel,” you say, voice rough. “i got jumped.”

annie is already moving. “sit down.”

“no.”

“you’re bleeding.”

hughie steps forward, face pale. “are you okay?”

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, look at the blood, then give him a tired little smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “you should see the other three guys.”

soldier boy doesn’t move. he can feel butcher’s attention cut briefly toward him, but he doesn’t look away from you. you’re standing with your weight slightly shifted off your left side. favoring the ribs, maybe the hip. your right hand curls and uncurls once from pain. you have someone else’s blood dried at the edge of your sleeve, too much of it to be only yours, and there’s a scrape across your throat where a chain or a forearm must have caught you.

three guys.

you took on three guys alone and came back with the drive.

you don’t look at him. not once.

“now,” you say, already moving toward the hall, “i’ll hibernate for three days straight. don’t bother me unless the safehouse is on fire.”

annie follows. “i’m bothering you with antiseptic.”

hughie hovers uselessly for one second, then grabs the first aid kit and hurries after them. butcher watches you go, jaw working around whatever comment even he knows not to make right now, then looks down at the flash drive in his hand.

mm closes his laptop halfway. “i’ll check the exterior cameras. see if anyone followed.”

“yeah,” butcher says, quieter. “do that.”

soldier boy stays where he is. 

the hallway swallows your footsteps, then your voice, then annie’s. a door shuts somewhere in the back. 

he looks at the floor near the entrance and sees a small drop of blood darkening the wood. one drop. not enough to mean anything. enough to make his teeth grind.

butcher’s voice comes from the table, too casual to be casual. “not got anythin’ to say?”

soldier boy looks at him. for once, the easy insult doesn’t come.

he pushes off the counter instead, crossing the room in three heavy steps. butcher lifts his chin, ready for a fight that doesn’t happen, because soldier boy stops by the door, bends, and picks up the torn piece of your jacket sleeve that must have fallen when you came in.

he holds it for half a second. then drops it on the table beside the flash drive. “next time,” he says, voice flat, “don’t call it easy.”

The corridors feel colder. The halls darker, even when the days are bright and sunlight streams in from the windows. Laughter is a rare sound these days, and a duller one. A fog of misery looms over the residence, and it’s infected everyone like a deadly disease.

Daeron is so lost in the bottle that sometimes you worry one day he won’t be able to find his way back up. Aerion has become something ruthless, something… terrifyingly uncaring; something that you don’t dare to get too close to. Aegon’s fear of him tears your heart apart, and when you find him in the library – where he hides during most of his free time – you try your best to bring back the childish spark that used to light his eyes.

He wouldn’t feel so lonely if Aemon were still home, but he’s not come back for a while now, and you’re not sure if he ever will. The maester business, Aegon told you once. You should take that as a blessing – maybe this plague won’t touch him, away from Summerhall – but part of you misses that small child running around the corridors with his younger brother with wooden swords and screams of joy filling the halls. You just hope he doesn’t feel too lonely at the Citadel.

The two girls don’t seem to be yet affected by this curse – if you forget the incident with Rhae and the love potion… – and you try your best to keep it so.

And Prince Maekar…

Well, you don’t see him much these days. Not that you ever saw him much more before.

He’s always been a pretty private person, and nowadays he’s often locked in his chambers. Probably tending to his responsibilities, possibly still in mourning. Everyone in the household knows better than to disturb him when the door is closed shut. After all, despite the hard times that the Seven Kingdoms are facing, you all still have an appreciation for life.

However, in those rare moments you see him in the corridors of the residence, it’s hard to ignore the heaviness that weighs on his shoulders, heavier that the name he gained during the Blackfyre rebellion. Sometimes, when he strides past you, hands behind his back and eyebrows constantly furrowed in a stern expression, you forget that he’s younger than his brother.

The heir to the throne was the first one who had managed a smile on his younger brother’s face, after the death of Lady Dayne. In his presence, the weight on his brother’s shoulders seems to ease ever so slightly. However, he doesn’t often stop by Summerhall. His duties as Hand of the King keep him in King’s Landing, as they should.

Lucky him…

“Miss?”

You look up from your book open in front of you and immediately realize it’s gotten quite late.

The candles’ flickering flames dimly light the room in which you normally spend your evenings. Daella sits in front of you, her needlework forgotten to the side while she gently caresses Rhae’s white hair, her head resting peacefully on her sister’s lap. Eyes closed, her chest rises and falls regularly, her limbs limp hanging from the edge of the couch. How long has she been asleep?

“I think it’s time for bed,” Daella says with that telling tone of voice that shows her regal birth, but that still holds some of her youth.

“Indeed,” you agree, closing the book and taking Rhae in your arms.

She’s getting heavier, you ponder when your back aches as you pick her up. Or I’m getting older.

You hold her close to her chest, her small body breathing softly against yours, and, with a candle in your empty hand, head to the chamber of the girls with Daella close by your side. She’s started to walk with her chin up at all times, back straight and a fierce look in her eyes.

And yet, when you look at her, you still see the little girl who used to play with dolls under the table of the Great Hall.

You dread the moment she will become a woman, but it eases your worry knowing you will still be by her side when that moment arrives.

The chamber of the girls, unlike the dark and freezing corridors, is warm – lit by a dancing fire that covers everything in the room with a golden light. While Daella starts to get ready for bed on her own, you quickly change her sister into her nightgown. Her half-asleep body and your experience aid you in the struggle and Rhae is soon tucked in bed with her favourite doll.

You pause to look at her for a moment, at her peaceful face that’s already started to drool on the pillow. You tuck a few strands of white hair behind her ear and leave a quick peck on her temple.

Then you walk to Daella and help her out of her daydress.

As you brush her hair, you notice a slight frown in her expression. “What’s on your mind, my lady?”

“Father says he’ll be leaving soon.”

You nod. “I heard something of the sort.”

“For a tourney, in Ashford Meadows.”

Her small fists clench around the fabric of her nightgown. You gently pass your fingers through her hair to untie any knot.

“A tourney such as this is not something that a young girl like you and your sister should witness yet.”

“Gwyn Ashford is not much older than me and I bet she’ll be in attendance,” she bites back, pouting her lips.

“Well, the tourney is in her honour…”

The face of the girl suddenly lights up. “Maybe I could ask Father to have a tourney in my honour!”

You smile gently. “In a couple years, perhaps.”

She turns to you, eyes wide and brimming with hope. “Do you think he would say yes?”

Knowing the prince, you doubt he would. Even when the news of the tourney at Ashford Meadows had just reached Summerhall, you heard the other servants whispering… how Prince Maekar despised the idea, how he had begged both his father and his brother not to go, how abrasive he’d become since then.

But who were you to crush the dreams of a little girl looking at you like that?

“I’m sure he would do anything for you.”

Before Aemon was sent to the Citadel, you remember the long discussions in Maekar’s chambers. The screaming and yelling that seemed to reach every corner of the house.

I will not force my son to leave his home!

And yet…

Daella jumped out of her stool and into bed, tucking herself under the wool blankets as best she could with a bright smile on her face. You walked near her bed and your hands, out of habit, fixed the blankets right under her chin, like you had to do for so many years – first with your younger siblings, then with all the children that followed.

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” she points out, pouting her lips.

“I know.” You hesitate for a moment. “Sometimes I forget you’re almost a grown-up now.”

Her smile gets even wider and that’s enough for the dull pain in your chest to ease up, ever so slightly.

“Goodnight, then.”

You take the candlestick on her night table and make your way to leave the room. But a tug at your skirts stops you. When you turn back around, Daella’s hand holds you in place with the stubbornness of a ten year old.

“What about the lullaby?”

A small smirk pulls your lips. “Oh, so you’re not too grown-up for lullabies?”

She shakes her head – hiding a shy smile under the blankets. With a soft giggle, you sit on the mattress next to her. “Very well.”

Closing your eyes, you hum the melody that’s written in your bones, that’s part of you like the blood running in your veins. You may not know many things about the future – what’s to come? What awaits you tomorrow? – but in all this uncertainty, you’re sure that this melody – and the words that you now softly sing to Princess Daella as her eyelids grow heavier and heavier – will always stay with you, no matter what.

You watch as her body falls deeper into the bed, her breathing becomes regular and her hand finally lets go of your skirts. When it does, you tuck her hand back under the blankets. It might be your imagination, but you feel her fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours for a moment, before they relax against the pillow.

As your heart wells with love, a smile grows on your lips.

“Sleep well, princess,” you whisper, as you stand back up with the candlestick in your hands.

Its single, small flame is the only light in the dark room. In the fireplace remain a bunch of dying embers amidst the ashes, on which you throw a small log that should keep the room warm for the night. As you scout the room, you put away a couple of dolls and toys forgotten on the floor.

“These girls would probably forget their head if it wasn’t stuck to their necks…” you mutter with a smile while you’re stepping outside the chamber, closing the door behind you.

“Like their brothers.”

“Fuck!”

The startled word escapes your mouth before you can stop it; before you can realise who’s standing next to you in the dark corridor, his white hair and beard almost glimmering in the dim light of the candle you hold in your hand.

“My Lord.” With your heart still racing in your chest and drumming in your ears, you quickly bow, keeping your eyes stuck to the floor beneath your feet. “I didn’t see you there.”

You wait for a reproach, or something worse. After all, you did just curse in front of one of the princes of the realms. Accidentally, of course, but still…

However, nothing comes.

The prince remains silent.

After a few moments, as your fear slowly subdues, you dare to look up. His gaze is focused on the door you just closed, as if he could somehow look past the wood and see into the chamber. His usual frown’s abandoned his features, leaving behind a pained expression that fills your own heart with ache.

“They’re both asleep now,” you say with a small smile.

He nods but doesn't move.

You hesitate before speaking again: “Did you want to go in, my lord?”

“No,” he quickly utters, shaking his head. “I heard someone singing and I thought–”

He stops himself before he can finish the sentence. Nevertheless, what he meant to say is not lost on you. It's easy to see it in his eyes, fixed on something that's not there – a ghost of a memory you can't see.

“It was just me, my lord.”

“Of course,” he quickly nods. His gaze stops but a moment on you before he turns away and starts striding down the corridor.

As he walks away, the image of Daella's frown comes back to you like a punch in the gut. And so does all the pain you've seen growing on the children's faces for the past few years.

All this grief they have to face… alone.

Before you can stop yourself, before he turns the corner, you open your mouth.

“The princesses would be very happy to see you tomorrow, my lord!”

For a mere moment – so brief you might've imagined – Prince Maekar falters his stride at the edge of the circle of light created by your candle. Then, without a word, he turns right and disappears into the darkness.

You stand still for a moment, pondering how could a father simply forsake his blood like that, until a drop of melted wax falls on your fingers.

“Fuck…”

—

“Lady Rhae, be careful with those plants!”

A few feet away in the garden, the young princess nods silently as she carefully takes some purple berries from a thorny bush and throws them in her basket, almost overflowing with all kinds of small, colorful fruits.

“Aren’t those poisonous?” Daella asks as her sister tries to sneakily put a handful of black berries in her pocket and fails miserably.

“I’ll confiscate them when we go back in,” you assure the princess next to you.

“If she doesn’t eat them before that,” Daella mumbles, her attention moving away from Rhae and going back to her embroidery.

You take a deep breath and stifle a laugh. Sitting on a stone bench in the gardens, your focus shifts between the series of red stitches that the older princess next to you is monotonously sewing into a piece of black linen, and the younger girl sprinting from one wild berry bush to the other, leaving a trail of smashed pink and blue behind.

Every now and then, when Daella’s lost in her work enough not to care for conversation and Rhae isn’t watching too keenly a poisonous plant, you close your eyes and revel in the warm rays of the sun. These past few weeks, the weather has been a mystery – more than usual, that is. Warm days follow cold nights, clear nights follow rainy days, in a confusing sequence that it seems has also left the maesters puzzled. So, whenever the clouds open up, you try to enjoy the sunlight as best you can.

Sunny days remind you of a time in your life you have almost forgotten.

A time when you and your siblings ran in gardens just as beautiful as the ones of Summerhall. A time when the world smiled on your family, when the future still held hope for all of you.

Before everything was destroyed, and you were left alone in the ashes of a house no one dared to speak of. A house whose name you don’t even remember.

“Father!”

When Rhae’s voice reaches your ears, your gaze immediately goes to her. The young princess’ basket has been thrown to the ground, berries scattered all over, as she’s sprinting to the tall figure dressed in black that stands under one of the entry arches to the gardens.

The surprise of seeing Prince Maekar there – outside, nonetheless – is enough to freeze you for a moment or two. Thoughts start filling your head: did he truly listen to you? Or is this just a coincidence that he’s there after your brief conversation – even though you’re not sure you can call it that, given how little he had spoken?

It’s only when his gaze stops on you that you manage to pull yourself to your feet and curtsy with your head bowed, before sitting back down.

Rhae throws herself against his legs, hugging them tight, and you see the prince slightly falter in his stance under the mighty force of the small impact. You press your lips together, trying to restrain a smile.

“Father, I’ve picked so many berries!” Rhae’s eyes shine when she looks up at her father. “Do you want to see them?”

Even though he doesn’t smile, his expression softens as he places a hand on his youngest’s head and gently caresses her hair. “Of course.”

With a smile that could light up the entirety of Summerhall, Rhae takes his hand in her two small ones and drags him strenuously to the spilled basket. She’s not bothered by the mess; she simply starts picking back up the berries, telling her father the name of each and every one of them. The prince crouches next to her – the hint of a pained look crossing his features as he does – and listens carefully, every now and then furrowing his eyebrows when she shows him a poisonous berry that he is quick – and yet ever so gentle – to take out of her hands.

Still sitting at the bench, you notice a hesitation in Daella’s stitching. Her attention has left the embroidery in her hands, her focus on the scene in front of her instead.

“Why don’t you go to your sister?” you whisper in her ear when she misses another stitch. “The embroidery can wait until tomorrow.”

She looks up at you, a pleading look that slowly shifts into a grateful one. “Really?”

As soon as you nod, Daella’s just as quick as her sister to leave behind everything to sprint next to her father. When she appears at his side, Maekar doesn’t say anything. His hand, however, reaches for his older daughter’s and pulls her into his side.

From the bench, you watch for a while the three of them. The smile on Daella’s face, the laughter coming from Rhae as she crushes some berries in her hands. The soft look in Maekar’s eyes, the hint of the faintest smile on his lips.

As a feeling of warmth fills your chest, you avert your gaze. You shouldn’t be the one watching this. You take Daella’s embroidery and, carefully, undo her mistakes. However, you can’t help but steal a couple glances.

And every now and then, when you look up, you meet Prince Maekar's gaze. There almost seems to be a certain softness in his eyes even when he looks at you.

You quiet down the traitorous jump in your chest.

My eyesight must’ve gotten quite worse lately…

—

Surprisingly, Maekar spends the rest of the day with his daughters.

You keep away as best you can, trying to leave them to enjoy each other’s company, still keeping a watchful eye as you’re used to.

He’s not very talkative, but he doesn’t need to be: Rhae talks enough for all three of them, and when she’s busy munching her dinner, Daella seizes the opportunity to inform him of her embroidery works and her studies. A couple times she tries to start a conversation regarding the tourney at Ashford Meadows, but each time the prince answers with a mumble or a grunt.

Daella’s pouting expression, luckily, doesn’t ever last too long when that happens.

At one point, the two princesses start to bicker over the size of their desserts – Rhae’s quite convinced hers is smaller than Daella’s, while her older sister considers that only logical since she needs less food, given her younger age. You promptly settle the quarrel, and when peace is brought back to the table, you notice Maekar watching you from his chair.

In his ever present frown, there’s a certain degree of amazement in his expression.

You hide a smile behind a spoonful of pudding.

He stays even when the girls head to their bedchamber, helping to tuck Rhae in while you take care of the older princess. When the two girls ask for their usual lullaby, Maekar moves away. You expect him to leave – there’s not much else for him to do there and, having spent most of the day with his daughters, you imagine he’ll have a lot to do to catch up on his duties.

However, his steps halt in the doorway.

As you sing, you can almost feel his silent presence looming behind you, distracting just enough for you to lose the rhythm a couple of times, but not enough to ruin the melody. It doesn’t take long for the two princesses to fall asleep, and when you finally turn to head to your room, you find him still standing there, watching you closely. You lower your head, ignoring his attention as best you can, and take the lit candlestick on Rhae’s night table.

He moves away when you leave the room, just enough so you can pass through, and carefully closes the door behind.

When the latch clicks, the silence stretches for a moment. Maybe it’s just an impression, however – in the darkness lit only by the candle in your hands – the prince seems to be standing close to you, closer than he should.

“I’m…” – you clear your throat, suddenly dry – “I’m glad you took some time to see the princesses today, my lord.”

He nods, his hands behind his back as his eyebrows furrow slightly. “I had no idea Rhae was so keen on plants.”

“Yes, she’s had me read A collection of plants and roots of the Seven Kingdoms to her at least a dozen times, before she was able to read it by herself.” You smile softly at the memory. “But she still prefers dolls to other books.”

A small smile pulls Maekar’s lips upwards. “Understandably so.”

Another moment of pause. The candle flickers between the two of you, slowly burning away.

You should go to your room.

It’s been a long day.

And it’s quite late.

And yet, as the moments pass, you stand still.

As does the prince.

There’s something hanging in the air, something that needs to be said – or done – and that holds you in place.

“I…” Maekar stops – a certain hesitation in his voice, so unlike him. “I will visit them more often.”

You smile, keeping your gaze low.

“I don’t know how much time I will have with the preparations for that bloody tourney… and Daeron’s so adamant on not participating–”

He stops once more, taking a deep breath. When he speaks again, the hints of anger in his voice have faded. “But I will try.”

“I’m sure they will appreciate your presence in any case, my lord.”

He nods and a relieved sigh escapes his lips. The flame in front of you flickers erratically for a second. As it does, a thought crosses your mind.

“My lord–”

The two words escape your mouth before you can stop them. You hold your tongue before you can continue, but you can feel the way Maekar tenses next to you. The way he straightens his sloching posture and pulls his shoulders to gain back his height. Almost as if he knows that, whatever you're about to say, he won’t like.

You hope he will let the matter drop, given you have said nothing that could earn a reproach. You hope he will simply bid you good night and let it go.

“What is it?”

How foolish of you to think he’d do that…

You tighten your fingers around the brass of the candlestick, the metal just as cold as Maekar’s voice.

You could always lie: say the first thing that crosses your mind and hope for the best; hope that he will believe you. He might be a prince, a Targaryen, blood of the dragon and all that, but he’s not a mind reader…

You’ve never been a good liar though, not even when it meant hiding from the people who wanted to see your house burn, or saving your own skin.

And the unuttered words burn in your throat, needing to be let out…

So you take a deep breath, bracing for the impact as you look up at him. “Will you find some time for Aegon as well?”

Maekar stares at you, his eyebrows more furrowed than usual.

“After Aemon’s been sent to the Citadel,” you continue in the silence that follows, swallowing down your fears as best you can, “I worry he’s been left quite alone. Perhaps too much.”

“He has his brothers.”

“They’re much older than him, my lord,” you point out as gently as you can. “And they–”

You stop yourself once again and his eyes sharpen with rage. “They what?”

Shaking your head, you lower your gaze for a moment.

And they’re either drunken or cruel fools; those are the words that dance on the tip of your tongue. A harsh truth, one that you’re sure Maekar’s already well aware of… he doesn’t need you to remind him of his sons’ failures.

You take a sharp breath and meet his gaze with a pleading look. “He could use his father, every now and then.”

“Aegon’s no longer a boy,” Maekar quickly replies, turning his head to the side to avoid your gaze but you’re quick to move back in his line of sight, a bewildered expression on your face.

“He’s but nine–”

“He’s to squire for Daeron at the tourney,” he interrupts you, with a tone that brooks no arguments as he starts walking away. “He’s old enough and it will be good for him, toughening up on his own.”

“But–”

“He’s my son!”

His voice echoes loudly in the corridor and your first thought goes to the two girls in the nearby room, hoping they aren’t woken up by the commotion. Seeing the way Maekar closes his eyes for a moment and clenches his jaw, you imagine he’s had your same thought.

Only when you don’t hear any noise coming from the princesses’ room do you allow yourself to really take in those words.

He’s my son.

Meaning, he’s not yours – a reality that in brief moments escapes your mind.

Therefore, it’s not your place to advise on how to raise him.

“Of course, my lord. Forgive me.”

You bow your head, taking a step back and feeling something cold spread from the depths of your chest through your entire body. The corridor is suddenly freezing, the candle almost out. You’ve stalled long enough. “I shall bid you good night.”

You curtsy as quickly as you can and turn away, heading to your room a couple of feet away. As you open the door and are about to step in, you give in to your weak heart’s request and glance down the corridor.

With the light of the moon coming through the window, you see Maekar’s silhouette in the shadows, right standing where you left him.

A statue as dark and cold as obsidian.

Ignoring the tugging in your chest, you enter your room and close the door behind, just as the candle gives out.

—

Prince Maekar might not be many things.

Kind.

Patient.

Pleasant.

These qualities are not in his nature.

But he is a man of his word, and in the weeks before the tourney he manages to spend a little time every day with the princesses, time that spans from mere minutes to hours on end. The girls are obviously delighted by this sudden care from their father.

You’re… not as delighted.

Your nightly discussion is still fresh in your thoughts, a cold sting in your chest that hits you again every time Maekar appears. So, you keep to yourself whenever he's around – even more than you did before.

Worry fills you every day, thinking about the moment Maekar will go back to his usual ways – forgetting his children even exist – and how that will tear Rhae and Daella’s hearts to pieces.

But that’s not the only reason your stomach churns: the blatant attention Prince Maekar is paying to his daughters might go unnoticed for a while, however in the long run it could grow from a seed of resentment into a fiery hatred from his other neglected sons, especially the younger ones…

Sometimes, you catch glimpses of Aegon, hidden behind a hedge or a wall, spying on his father and sisters spending time together. Waves of emotions run on his young face, ever shifting when he looks at them. Envy, anger… But most of all, heartache.

That same expression twists his features when he’s told he and Daeron will have to leave for the tourney a couple of days before the rest of the family.

“They’ll have more time to settle in,” you heard Maekar a couple of days before – probably talking to the designated escort – while passing in front of his chambers, his voice clear even through the closed door. “And I don’t want to hear Daeron’s grievances all the way to fucking Ashford.”

It’s no surprise that, when they’re all ready to leave, neither of the princes can be found anywhere.

While Maekar shouts orders that reach every corner of Summerhall, you silently slip away, leaving Daella in charge of her sister for a short while. The corridors are filled with knights and Kingsguards, looking everywhere for Aegon. Passing them by with your head bowed, you head to the library. The old wood creaks when you push the door open and the smell of dust and old paper fills your senses.

You’re not surprised to find Aegon under the long table, a book in front of him and a dragon egg in his lap. You crouch, despite the slight pain in your knees, and wait silently next to him.

“Daeron’s a shit knight,” he mumbles after a while, pulling the egg closer to his chest. “He’ll do a shit job, get thrown off his horse immediately and I won’t be able to squire for him for more than one joust.”

“Perhaps he’ll do better than that.”

“Not with all the wine he drinks.”

You smile softly.

“I should stay home,” he continues, lowering his head and his long white hair falling in front of his eyes. “It’s not like father will notice if I’m not there.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” he replies with a decisive tone that reminds you of Prince Maekar. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

A moment of silence falls between you as you can hear the guards still running outside, their metal armours clanking along the corridors.

“Aegon?”

He turns his head to you ever so slightly, just enough to see you through his white strands, eyes starting to well up with tears. You swallow down the growing lump in your throat.

“Your father…” you pause for a second, gathering your thoughts, “is a difficult man. A harsh one at times. His life hasn’t been easy, and that’s sharpened his edges, more than he cares to admit. But he’s still your father, and you should never doubt his love for you.” You push a strand of hair behind his ears. “He’d be ready to go to war with you.”

“Really?”

You nod with a smile. “Really.”

There’s doubt in Aegon’s eyes as he searches your face. But as the moments pass, you can also see a glimmer of hope. And in this house of gloom, that’s more than you could’ve wished for.

“Now,” you pull yourself up, which earns another crack from your knees, “you have a tourney to head to, don’t you?”

Aegon sighs, closing the book and pulling himself up with the egg still in his hands. “If they managed to find Daeron.”

“I’m sure they did. Unlike you, he’s not very ingenious in his hiding places.”

“But you found me,” he points out as you both leave the library.

“Well,” you give him a playful push, “I know you very well.”

Finally, a smile opens up on his face and, while you walk down the corridors of the house, he takes your hand. You try to play it off, to silently treasure this moment that won’t last for long, but a smile escapes your control and pulls your lips upwards.

When you step outside, Daeron’s on his horse, a tired expression on his face and a wineskin to his lips. The Kingsguards are talking to Maekar, probably to inform him that they found his first-born in the cellar, given the stains of wine on his otherwise clean travelling clothes. As soon as his father appears in his line of sight, Aegon’s hand quickly lets go of yours.

“Please,” he says as he then hands you the dragon egg. “Take care of it while I’m gone.”

You take it with a nod, the scales that glimmer like metal in the sunlight cold to your touch. “Of course, my lord.”

As he runs back to his father, something shatters in your chest.

You want to run after him and take him back inside, to safety; the need to stop him is like a call to war impossible to ignore. And yet, you can’t do anything but stand still next to the princesse while Maekar puts a hand on his shoulder and says something that brings a small smile on Aegon’s face; as he’s helped onto his horse and, together with Daeron and their escort, rides away as the day starts burning brighter.

Taking a deep breath, you try to ease the fear that seems to have taken hold of you; the feeling something awful will happen.

He’s going to be fine.

It’s just a week’s journey.

Nothing could ever happen to him.

You keep repeating that to yourself, but it’s no help: dread has its claws dug in your chest and no intention of letting go.

Looking around in a desperate attempt to find something that could ground you, you meet Maekar's eyes. You hold his gaze for a few moments, seconds that seem to last a century, as you finally manage to breathe again.

If something does happen, he will tear the guilty party to pieces and burn their bones to ashes.

That cruel truth, somehow, manages to calm you down more than any other gentle lie you could’ve told yourself.

—

That night, you can’t sleep.

It doesn’t surprise you: worry has never aided your slumber. Your mind seems set on picturing the most terrible possibilities that await Aegon on the road to Ashford, from plausible encounters with thieves to impossible encounters with dangerous creatures that only exist in books and your morbid fantasy. Trying to focus on the good memories doesn’t help either; it only heightens the absence that you feel in your chest.

You’re not sure, however, what pushes you to your feet and out of your room.

Restlessness, perhaps. The need to do something – anything – when you have no control whatsoever on what could happen far away from where you stand.

You walk aimlessly through corridors and halls in the day dress that you didn't find the strength to take off, cold feet on cold tiles or soft carpets or rough bricks, your way lit only by the moonlight streaming from the windows. Another clear night. A good omen, one can hope.

But wasn’t there a clear night when your family was slaughtered?

You wrap yourself tightly in your shawl, shivers running down your spine. You’re not sure what scares you most: the memory of all that blood and violence – so vivid even after all these years, the taste of iron still stuck at the back of your throat; or the fact that some details of it are starting to slip away from you.

What colour were your mother’s eyes?

Which one of your brothers had the loudest laugh?

How old was your father when he was killed? Older than you are now? Or younger?

As you head back to your room, trying to outrun those questions that your memory is unable to answer, your steps take you past Prince Maekar’s chambers. A light shines through the open door, a knife of warmth cutting through the cold that stops you in your tracks.

You haven’t seen this door open in years.

Curiosity pushes you closer, but self-preservation stops you on the edge of the room. From the open crack, you can’t see much: the dying embers in the fireplace, fine carpets and the hints of an even finer collection of furniture, lit candles in silver candlesticks above the carved wood. You should probably – no, most definitely! – leave.

You knock on the door.

“What is it?”

“It's me, my lord.”

Silence is the only reply you hear.

He doesn't tell you to come in... but he doesn't tell you to leave either.

You push the door and slip inside. The chamber is smaller than you expected for a prince of the realms, but still larger than your quarters. Most of the fabrics in the room are in shades of black and red, giving the entire space an almost funereal look. What really draws your attention is the ceiling: even in the dim light, you can see a large fresco of brightly coloured dragons soaring in the sky.

It seems almost cruel to you, that he has to stare everyday at what the follies of their ancestors lost them.

“The door was open,” you simply say, closing it behind you and looking around for him. “I wondered if there was something wrong, my lord.”

“Wrong?”

The voice reaches you from a poorly lit corner, but you can make out his silhouette in the dark, slouched on an armchair, still in his black tunic with a glass hanging precariously from his hand. “Many things, I suppose…”

“Such as?” you ask, taking a small step into the room.

“My sons…” he sighs, head sunk between his shoulders. “They are lost. One to the dreams and the bottle, one to his own vanity and cruelty, and one to the King’s wishes.” He shakes his head, gaze lost as he taps a finger on his glass. “No matter what I try, I’ll never be able to reach them again.”

Have you truly tried?

You torture the hems of your shawl, biting your tongue. “What about Aegon?”

“Aegon…” He scoffs softly, a small smile pulling his lips upwards. “He’s a smart boy, smarter than I was at his age… And I’ve forsaken him too.”

He gulps down what remains in his glass before placing it on the ground with a shaky cling. He runs a hand over his face, a long sigh escaping his lips, and you realise just now how tired he looks; how hopeless. Part of you, the part that understands his pain and can’t help but feel it, wants to reassure him – to tell him that he did his best and that there’s still time to be a better man for his sons.

Another part of you – the one that loves his children as if they were your own and knows what it truly means growing up alone – burns with outrage.

“So you’re simply going to give up,” you take another step in the room, “when he needs you most?”

“He doesn’t need me.”

Maekar states that with such ease, such resignation, that makes you scoff in bewilderment. At that sound, he tilts his head to the side, a combative glint back in his eyes. “You find that funny?”

“My lord, I beg you to stop being so blind.”

His eyes widen in surprise for a mere moment before his brows furrow and he leans forward in his chair.

“You have a family,” you continue with a firm tone, despite the beating heart in your chest – that threatens to jump out of it in fear, “a torn one but a family still. And they all need you. They need you to help them work through the pain you all share. I know Lady Dayne's death was hard on you,” – he clenches his jaw but you try to ignore it – “but so was on the children.”

“You think I don't fucking know?”

His voice is but a whisper, low and menacing like the growl of a wolf ready to attack. And despite the urge that begs you to run away, you straighten your back and stand still.

“I don’t dare to try and guess your thoughts, my lord… But I lost people I loved as well, and when I did, I was left alone and it almost killed me.”

Memories flow in your mind, past the violence you know all too well. Days of running through the woods as far as you could to the meadows and woods you once called home, weeks of solitude on roads you barely knew where they would take you, months of begging whoever you crossed paths with for a piece of bread and a roof.

Sleepless nights filled with nightmares, contemplating if being alive was even worth it.

Feeling as if you could slip into those memories, back into that endless pain, you close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.

“I would've given anything,” – your voice cracks, but you swallow down the tears – “to have someone by my side, someone else to share my pain with. You have that. And your children need someone to lean on.” You pause, looking back up at him. “Why won't you see that?”

Silence follows, and all you can hear is your heavy breathing and the blood pumping in your ears as a jumble of relief and terror swirl in your stomach.You feel as if a certain heaviness has been removed from your chest, however shivers run down your spine as you wait for Maekar to say his piece. After this speech he clearly didn’t ask for, you don’t expect that the prince will keep you in his staff any longer – you’d be surprised if he doesn’t immediately send you to the stocks – however you don’t regret speaking up.

He needed to hear that, even if it’s going to be your ruin.

After a few more moments, Maekar stands up. Holding your breath, you watch as – step after step – he gets closer to you until he’s less than a foot away. Only then his face is finally caressed by the candle light. Only then you notice the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Do you think they will still have me?” he asks softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “That they will forgive me?”

The pain that tears into your heart when looking at the broken man in front of you resembles nothing you’ve ever felt. Your fingertips itch with the need to comfort him, to take his hand into yours or gently caress his cheek. To hold him close until the sun makes his appearance through the windows of his chambers.

Instead, you grip your shawl, physically restraining yourself from reaching out.

Remember your place.

So, all the comfort you wish you could give him with your touch, you mold it into your voice.

“I can't assure you that they will, my lord,” you murmur gently, a hopeful smile on your lips. “But they're still young. And forgiveness comes easy with youth.”

He nods, lowering his gaze for a moment. “And you?”

“Me?”

“Will you forgive me?”

The question takes you aback, but you quickly answer as you’ve learnt to in a prince’s household: “My lord, there’s nothing to–”

“Don’t,” he quickly stops you, shaking his head. “I know I hurt you, I meant to hurt you. I didn’t want to admit that you could know my children better than me… but you clearly do.”

A fierce pride warms your chest, making you stand ever so slightly taller.

“So… will you–” Maekar stops, then looks up and meets your gaze – a silent plea in his eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

You take a moment to really ponder his question – if you can truly forgive his words, and as you do you drink in that begging look on his face. When you finally nod, relief washes over him, relaxing his features into a calm expression.

There’s still a line in between his eyebrows though.

If only I could just kiss it away…

A traitorous warmth climbs your neck. You lower your gaze and take a small step back. “I should go now.”

You turn around to leave, but a hand wraps around your wrist before you can take another step.

“Please don’t.”

There it is again...

That deep, pleading tone, that blesses your ears and shakes you to the bone.

Your breath escapes shakily your lips. “The hour grows late, my lord.”

“Don’t call me that…”

He’s closer now, his words soft blows of warm air that caress the back of your ear when he speaks again. “Not while I’m begging you to come into my bed.”

Fuck.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

His grip stops you, it’s true, but it’s loose enough that, with one pull, you’d be able to free yourself…

And yet, you don’t.

You can think of a thousand reasons why this is a horrible idea, but none of them feel as good as Maekar’s hands roaming on your body.

The one on your wrist moves along your arm, his fingertips leaving a warm trail along your skin, while the other finds your hip and grabs a fistful of heavy fabric of your gown, pulling you closer. Your shawl falls to the ground and his chest meets your back – a soft gasp escaping your lips, and he drowns his face in your hair, inhaling deeply.

“Stay with me tonight,” he pleads in a whisper, his lips moving against the back of your neck. “And I'll make sure to eat every last part of you until there will be not one breath left in that pretty mouth of yours.”

Suddenly, the cold you felt while wandering through the castle is far gone.

Your skin burns with every touch as his left hand moves from your hip down your thigh – taking and grasping all the fabric he can find in the hopes of a hint of flesh – and then back up again, leaving a painful ache between your legs.

You throw your head back against him and close your eyes as his hand moves up your body, pressing into your flesh to pull you even closer. It stops just below your breast, his teasing thumb caressing the curve of it through the fabric, in a motion that drives a soft mumble of desire out of you.

His mouth shifts against your skin, a smile pulling his lips upwards as they press against your neck. “I can tell you’re hungry…”

Hungry?

You turn your head to him and see the ravenous look in his eyes. There’s a promise of ruin in his gaze, one that should scare you, bring you back to your senses and make you leave.

Instead, your right hand – forgotten like its left twin by your sides – reaches up behind you and grabs hold of the back of his neck.

“I’m starving.”

Maekar leans in right as you’re pulling him in. Your mouths crash together, devouring each other’s lips with the desperation of the people haven't eaten for years.

His beard is rough against your skin, but his tongue and teeth are no less ruthless. He takes your lower lip into his teeth as his left hand finally cups and squeezes your breast. As a gasp of pleasure leaves your mouth at the friction of the fabric against your nipple, your fingers grip his hair and pull them with more strength than you wanted to.

A low groan rumbles in his chest and through your bones, an execpeted sound that pulls a smile to your lips.

His right hand pulls down the sleeve of your dress, exposing your naked shoulder. You hear the stitching rip under his grasp, but that's the last thing that bothers your thoughts at this moment. His mouth leaves your tormented lips – much to your dismay – only to dip on your bare flesh.

Teeth, lips, tongue, all move against your skin, leaving not one inch untouched from his torture. You throw your head back, one hand still holding on the back of his neck and the other hanging onto his forearm.

There's something addicting in being needed like the very air you breathe. Everything feels too much, and at the same time not enough…

Almost as if he read your mind, Maekar starts walking backwards, dragging you both to bed.

As he does, he turns you around and dives once again into your mouth. While your hands run through his hair – gaining soft groans of appreciation whenever you feel like pulling them slightly – his fingers dig into your hips, gripping your dress so desperately that for a moment you think he wants to tear it apart.

Then, the fabric held tight in his hands, you yelp in surprise when he lifts you up and drops you on the softest mattress you've ever laid on. You didn't expect such a hard man to appreciate these kind of comforts, but it seems Maekar still has many ways to surprise you.

“Damn these bloody skirts…” he mutters, as he crouches at the end of the bed and reaches for the hem of your dress.

Laid back on the bed, you can't help the laugh that leaves your lips. You prop up to your elbows to see his relentless fight against your gowns and undergarments. “Impatient, are we?”

His gaze meets yours – hungrier than ever – as his fingers trail the length from your ankles to your knees. “Can you blame me?”

Your breath catches in your throat as he brings the fabric up to your waist. His mouth meets your skin, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses and teasing bites on your things. His touch is just as ravenous, fondling the flesh of your legs as he pushes them open and hooks them around his arms before pulling you closer.

Until his warm breath blows shakily, desperate, against your aching core.

His eyes have never left yours as he moved, and they still look at you.

Waiting.

Taking the last deep breath you know you'll be taking in a while, you nod.

And that's all he needs before plunging in.

Bliss.

That's the first word that comes to mind as his tongue revels inside of you. Unrelenting shocks of pleasure run through your body, in a crescendo that builds in your abdomen and renders you completely limp in his hold. You grip the sheets, your dress, his hair, anything you find in your reach as you swallow down the moans that threaten to spill from your mouth, worried that someone outside the room could hear.

However a few wayward ones escape your control, and every time you try to bite them down.

The bliss, suddenly, comes to a quite unfortunate halt.

Flushed and annoyed, you look down. Maekar looks at you, his lips swollen and glistening in what remains of the candle light.

“You like to express your opinion, darling,” he groans against your thigh, his beard grazing against your sensitive skin in a painful pleasure. “Don't be shy now.”

You throw your head back as his mouth covers your folds once again and a loud moan leaves your lips.

May the Seven above assist you in this folly.

—

The pavilion of Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a riot of yellow and black, draped in the ostentatious display of a more than a hundred stag antlers.

You did not wait for an introduction; you simply pushed past the startled guards and stepped into the amber glow of the lanterns.

The very first sight that greeted you as you pushed open the curtains of the entrance was the bare chest of the The Laughing Storm, holding a flagon of ale in one hand and a whetstone in the other as he danced to the loud cheers and applause of his guests, all of whom were equally drunk.

He froze, his black brows arching upward e as he sensed the sudden, heavy hush that fell upon the revelry. And he turned toward the entry, his lips curling into a grin as he glimpsed the flash of pale, moon-silver hair beneath the shadow of your dark hood. He recognized you right away.

“By the Gods!” Lord Lyonel roared, his face flushed with wine-heat as he stumbled toward you, his pace weaving. “A Targaryen princess in my tent at the witching hour? Your Grace, if this is a marriage proposal, my lady wife might have words— but I’m certainly tempted!”

“I come for your help, Lord Lyonel,” you said as you stepped forward, finally pulling your hood back to reveal your face. “My cousin Aerion has invoked a Trial of Seven. He has turned a matter of simple justice into a slaughter.”

Lyonel’s grin faded. He set the flagon down and beckoned you toward the shadows of a private alcove, a pair of scurrying servants hastening to drape a golden cloak around shoulders as he strode passed them, far more concerned than he was about presenting a favourable impression for you.

“I heard the rumors,” Lyonel declared. “They say the hedge knight took liberties. They say he stole your honor in the woods,” he exhaled a sharp, huffing breath and shook his head, a prideful smirk gracing his lips. “That tall man, lucky fucking bastard! Heh, I knew there was something special in him.”

You chose to overlook that, clearing your tightened throat as you tried to cover up your blush.

“You— you know him, my lord?” you asked with some curiosity.

Lyonel affirmed it with a nod of his head, still all smiles, “Aye. We've had drinks together—we're friends.”

Friends? With Lyonel Baratheon?

But that was no surprise to you, since Duncan was the kindest, lovable, and most easygoing soul you had ever encountered. He could undoubtedly melt his way into the coldest of hearts.

“Then you must know that Ser Duncan is a man of honor. He treated me with more respect than any lord in my father’s court. The things they're saying are nothing but malicious rumors.” You held his gaze firmly, letting him see the fraying, desperate edges of your state. But Lyonel knew well enough that only the direst of straits would bring a Targaryen princess to seek the aid of a Baratheon in the dead of the night. “And you, my Lord, I know you love a fight that means something. Will you—”

“I am in,” Lyonel chirped in, the words cutting through your plea before you could even speak of rewards or gold.

You stood there, mouth agape, the carefully prepared promises dying in your throat. “O-oh...”

He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh at your stunned silence. “You have a dragon’s fire in you to defy your own kin! I’ve always liked your father, Princess, but you? You’ve got the dragon's temper he lacks.”

“My Lord, I—I can not thank you enough,” you stammered, finally finding your breath as you bowed your head in gratitude. “Plaese, name your price. Whatever you desire of my personal stores—jewels, lands, favors, it shall be yours. I swear.”

Lyonel threw back his head and laughed once again, a sound like crashing thunder that made you flinch. At that, he reached out, clapping a reassuring hand onto your tense shoulder.

“Keep your courtesies and your promises, my Princess,” he grinned, his eyes gleaming with a fierce, wicked light. “I should require naught but the chance to plant my fist in the face of a few Kingsguard! It has been too long since I tested my mettle against those white-cloaked beauties. Count me in, little dragon.”

The air near the cider press was thick with the scent of crushed apples and woodsmoke. And as you approached through the heavy rain, you could hear the sharp exchange of voices long before you reached the golden pool of light spilling from the pavilion.

“Maybe the gods figure this is what I deserve,” you managed to discern Dunk’s muffled, deep voice, his words breaking with a hollow disappointment.

“For doing what you were supposed to do?” asked a voice you presumed to be Raymun Fossoway’s.

“For not knowing my place,” Dunk replied.

You stepped just as Egg and a disheveled, very drunken Daeron had made their entrance as well.

The moment Dunk saw the prince who had lied about him and his grief turned to a sudden, violent flash of rage. He lunged, pinning Daeron against a table.

“Stop! Please!” Egg cried out.

“Are you mad coming here?” Dunk’s voice was a low, menacing hiss. “I should drive this through your neck.”

“I’d sooner you pour me a cup of wine,” Daeron drawled, his voice thick with the apathy of a man who had already given up on himself.

“Fuck your wine!” Duncan sneered. “You lied about me—”

“Dunk, let him go!” you called out frantically, stepping into the tent. “P–please, Ser, do not hurt him”

Raymun’s jaw dropped and immediately straightened upon your unexpected appearance, momentarily entertaining the notion that his tent had become a gathering spot for straggling Targaryens. At least the three of you appear to be the sanest of the younger lot.

Dunk’s grip on your cousin slackened as he turned toward you, his eyes wide with a mixture of emotions—above all, an unadulterated terror for your safety. “Princess...”

Daeron blinked his bleary violet eyes, a slow, relieving smile spreading across his face as he observed you, knowing in his heart that you would protect him against all things. It had always been like that, even though he was older, he would turn to you for a sense of comfort and protection.

Ever since he was a little boy, Daeron often would longed for you to be his older sister, it not, even to be your brother, born from Baelor's blood. Many times he found himself belonging more to your side of the family than his own. He would dream for that, too, to have a father as gentle and patient as Prince Baelor.

Instead, Daeron had to live the rest of his lifetime carrying the weight and guilt of Maekar's disappointment.

“Seven hells,” he wheezed, his gaze—clouded by wine and agony—flickering with a faint spark of affection. “The Princess herself... come to witness the mess we’ve made.”

You shot him a stern, scolding glare that made him swallow hard. His gaze drifted away to seek the cup his fingers were already fumbling for on the table, but before his hand could close around the pewter rim, you moved.

With a swift, practiced grace, you reached out and snatched the flagon right from under his nose. Daeron blinked, his mouth hanging open in a silent, drunken protest, but you ignored him. You raised the cup to your own lips and took a long draught of the sour, cheap red wine, feeling the burn settle the frantic fluttering in your chest.

Dunk stared at the sway of your throat as you swallowed, his sky-blue eyes intently observing you, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions that were sweeping through his heart. But the moment you appeared, all the noise seemed to fade away.

“Daeron,” you spoke his name with tender sorrow and when you looked at him again, your gaze softened just a fraction. “It gladdens my heart to see you alive, cousin. Truly, it does. But do not mistake my affection for forgiveness. You have played the coward's part tonight.”

“Forgive me, dear cousin,” Daeron offered with a faint voice, his eyes wandering distractedly toward the ground, leaning still against the table with visible weakness. “I never intended for you to be hurt by any of this.”

You sighed softly, setting the cup down upon the table and helping him right himself so he might sit upon the bench. He gave your arm a small, appreciative squeeze in return.

“Your Grace,” Dunk ventured at last, interrupting the bittersweet reunion with your cousin, bowing low as you both turned to face him. “You should not be here. I—I can not have your reputation destroyed for my sake.”

You let out an exhaustive sigh, shaking your head. “Fuck my reputation.”

Raymun let out a laugh at your words, surprisingly pleased by your honesty; and even Daeron, slumped and weary on the bench, managed to raise an amused eyebrow at you. Sitting next to his older brother, Egg raised his eyebrows, his face lighting up with amusement.

Dunk exhaled a sharp, tethered breath as a smile finally tugged at his lips—a fleeting grace his features seemed to have forgotten for hours.

“She always was the best of us, Ser,“ Daeron commented, aware of the awe-struck look the hedge knight kept fixed on you as you sipped another gulp of wine wholeheartedly, feeling way too sober to be coping with all of that. “If a girl like her said such things to me, I’d fight the Stranger himself with nothing but a wooden spoon.“

“Is that all you came here to say?” Dunk asked, unimpressed, his voice low as he blushed, finally dragging his loving gaze off your beautiful face to stare at your cousin.

The air in the space turned heavier with an oppressive tension as Dunk loomed in front of him like a threatening thunderstorm, worn out and too frazzled to stand any more taunting from another prince.

“Because if you're only here to drink and weave pretty words about her while she carries the weight of your family’s mess on her shoulders,” he continued, his voice lowering menacingly, “then you’ve said enough.”

Daeron let out a weak, wheezing chuckle, holding up his hands in a mocking surrender.

“Seven hells,” the Prince breathed out, a tired smirk playing on his lips as he glanced at you. “He’s got the bite of a dragon and the height of a giant. You certainly know how to pick them, cousin.”

“Daeron...” you scolded him, exhausted.

And at that, Dunk took another step towards Maekar's firstborn, but before he could bark anything to him, Egg sprang to his feet.

“My father has commanded the Kingsguard to fight as well!” he announced loudly, shifting the emphasis of the conversation back to what was crucially significant.

“Only the three that are here,” Daeron added, taking a long, desperate draught of his wine, from the same cup you had been drinking from, snatching it from your hands to prevent you from drinking to excess. You just gave him a dirty look.

Aegon looked up at his tall friend, with despair overflowing from every fibre of his small frame. “Who do you have, Ser?”

“Raymun’s cousin,” Dunk replied, sighing.

You cleared your throat, looking up at him as well. “And Lyonel Baratheon”

“The Laughing Storm?” Daeron nearly choked on his wine, his eyes bulging as he lowered his cup. “You brought the Stag into this? Gods be good, cousin, you don’t play at half-measures, do you?”

Duncan looked back at you, his heart visible in the pained line of his mouth. “Princess...”

“If I must walk into every tent in this meadow to find your seven, I shall do it.“ You tilted your head back as you spoke to meet his gaze, your eyes softening with a quiet, sweet devotion. “You are my friend. I will not let you die for lack of knights, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk exhaled a heavy sigh, nodding slowly. He offered you a gentle smile, though it did not reach his eyes—the weight of his guilt was a shroud he could not yet cast off. Sensing his struggle, you reached out and sought his hand, giving his rough, calloused fingers a small, reassuring squeeze and he didn't shy away from your affection, but held on to it firmly.

Ignoring the gesture of his dear friend Raymun looking down at your intertwined hands and then back up at his face, raising his eyebrows in an obvious teasing fashion.

And then he broke the silence, his voice bright with renewed spirit. “She’s right, Dunk. We have the Stag and the Apple. We need but three more. My cousin must be looking for more knights.”

“I can bring people too, Ser. Knights. I can!” Egg chirped in, stepping in enthusiasm.

Tears of love and pride welled up in your eyes as you looked at your little cousin, wrapping your unoccupied arm around his little shoulders to hold him close to you. “Aegon...”

He embraced you back, gazing up at you with a timid little smile. “I can do it!”

Dunk shook his head, looking pained. “I’ll be fighting against your family, Egg.”

“My father will be well guarded,” Aegon responded firmly, “and you won’t kill Daeron. He told me he’d fall down.”

Daeron let out a soft, broken chuckle at that. “It is the one thing I do with any grace.” He raised his cup in a mock toast after, the wine sloshing against the rim. “To the hedge knight and the princess. A tragedy in the making, or a song for the ages. I suppose we’ll know by noon.”

He wiped a stray drop of wine from his lip, his eyes suddenly sharp and unsettlingly lucid.

Daeron gestured loosely with his cup. “A private word, Ser Duncan?”

Dunk's hand hesitantly let go of yours, following the prince as he lead him outside the tent. The heavy canvas flap fell shut behind them, leaving the three of you in a sudden, suffocating silence.

Raymun stood awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked at you, then at the small, bald prince still hugging you with a protective reassurance, then down at his own boots.

The social gap between a squire and a woman like you had never felt wider or more uncomfortable than it did right now, in the quiet aftermath of a royal outburst. Suddenly, he understood everything Dunk had described feeling in your presence. Small as a mouse.

“You did the right thing, cousin,” Aegon reassured you, his hand seeking yours beneath the fabric of your cloak, and he squeezed it—a tiny gesture of emotional support.

Raymun cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. He reached out and picked up some tray, holding it out toward you and Egg with a stiff, jerky motion. “Does.. either of your Graces... like apples?”

He gestured vaguely at the fruit when you turned to look at him; your powerful violet gaze seemed to swallow him whole, his face turning a deep shade of red. “They’re from the Reach. Very... crisp. Good for the n–nerves, they say.”

Egg shrugged, reaching out a hand to gladly accept the bright red apple, bringing a little smile to your face.

By the time you stepped out from the pavilion, Daeron was already gone, leaving Dunk standing alone beneath the soft rain that had begun to weep from the night sky once again.

He merely looked at you when he heard your approach, reaching out once you stood at his side; his hand hovered in the air for a heartbeat before he found the courage to tuck a rain-dampened lock of your silver hair behind your ear.

His fingers were so light, so careful, so reassuring even as tears began to well up in his own eyes.

Your hand rose to his face at once, brushing away the salt-tears that mingled with the raindrops tracking down his skin.

“Don't cry,” you cooed. “Everything will be fine.

Duncan bowed his head then, leaning down so he could fold you into an embrace, finally breaking within your arms.

He was only a boy who had been born in Flea Bottom with nothing but hunger in his belly and fear in his bones, who had climbed his way into knighthood with blistered feet and blind faith—and who now stood on the edge of losing it all. A boy who had learned, far too early, that the world did not care if he lived or died.

He did not dream of crowns, did not crave glory, he just wanted a full belly. A dry place to sleep. To be a knight. A good man.

That was enough, it had always been enough.

Until you.

Because you were warmth, and he had lived his whole life in the cold. He could feel your voice in his veins, your touch on his skin, your kiss on his soul, he felt like he was made for you. To love you and be loved by you.

Duncan didn't want a day to go by without that feeling, he wanted you, in the sunlight, in the stars at night, in his silence, by his side, in every breath he took and every beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely into your hair, repeating your name over and over under his breath like a prayer.

You drew back just enough to see his face, rain clung to his long lashes, turning his bright blue eyes glassy and unbearably young. To think that he was so young and had to go through all this made you want to weep yourself too, but you held strong for him, to contain him.

“For what, love?” you asked gently.

Love.

Love he did not believe he had the right to feel.

But he could not pretend it was not right there. In your violet, gentle eyes, in your lips pronouncing his name so beautifully, in your hands caressing his skin.

Duncan knew he couldn't die.

Because, to love you was to be alive.

And he was so scared that it made him tremble in your arms.

“For—for being so... so bloody s–stupid,” he sobbed, his lips trembling, bitter and ashamed. “I’m... I’m so afraid of dying— in the dirt like I was born,” he admitted. “Afraid it’ll mean nothing. That I’ll mean nothing.”

Your hands held his face in a gentle embrace, stroking his cheeks with your fingertips, blinking out the tears that were forming in your eyes. “Oh, Dunk...”

“I’m afraid of never seeing you again—”

You rose up on your tiptoes, sliding your fingers from his cheeks to the nape of his neck, bringing him down closer to you. Dunk let out a choked, quivering gasp; his big hands lingered in the air for a beat before finally searching your waist, clutching at your flesh and pulling you closer to his body.

When your lips finally found his, the taste of rain and the salinity of his tears swirled on your tongue. It was a kiss that was desperate and meaningful, a profound pact sealed in the darkness of the night with the gods as silent witnesses. It brought the comfort of a warm fire on a stormy winter's night.

A hoarse groan rolled from Duncan's throat as he kissed you back with a longing and despair so overwhelming that your knees buckled under the weight of it.

To kiss, he was a neophyte, hardly experienced in such intimate matters. Yet, for reasons beyond his comprehension, his lips knew exactly what to do, joining yours in a way that felt natural, like they had been meant to be together ever since the dawn of existence.

He had kissed you before, he just knew it. Somewhere else, in another world, another time, in his deepest dreams.

Your taste, your touch, your body pressed against his. It was all so familiar.

You broke the kiss when your need to breathe made your body start to falter, a faint smacking sound filling the space as your lips finally detached from his.

You both stood in each other's silence for a moment, holding the other, your foreheads leaning together, sharing each other's gasping breaths. The rain kept falling all around you both, soaking your hairs and clothes. But cold was the farthest sensation from your senses.

“Look at me,” you ordered him softly.

And Duncan followed your command without hesitation, opening his eyes, darkened by a shadow of yearning and submission.

“Tomorrow you will fight,” you started, tracing the outline of his lower lip with your thumb, making sure to hold his gaze. Your voice held the authority of a princess and the tenderness of a lover. “And you will win. And I will take you as you are.”

Duncan tilted his head down to capture your lips in another gentle kiss, lingering there, savoring your taste and breathing you in once more. He lingered there as if he could live inside that kiss, inside your body, inside your soul, in your warmth.

He nose nuzzled yours affectionately as he pulled away.

“I am already yours,” Duncan promised. “All of me. Always have been. I’m your man.”

You just couldn't hold it in any longer and fell back into his strong arms, hugging his broad shoulders with all your force. You buried your face in his neck, feeling how fast his heart was pounding right by your ear, hoping you could just sink there forever. In every beat.

Thump, thump, thump.

You, you, you.

“Take this with you,” you told him before heading back in your quest to recruit more knights to fight on his side.

You rummaged into your dress's pocket for a silver silk ribbon, of the exact shade of your hair. “I had intended to grant you this at the tournament. I was so thrilled to do it,” you paused, your lips curving into a sad smile. “But circumstances have changed, I suppose.”

Duncan glanced down at your outstretched hand, breathing tremulously as he reached out not for the ribbon, but for your fingers, raising your hand to his lips to touch your knuckles with a delicate kiss.

His gaze fell then, at last, to the ribbon. Silver. Soft. Like moonlight. You.

“Do you know,” he asked quietly, a faint teasing smile appearing on his lips, “how many men would kill for this, Princess?”

You actually managed to pull off a genuine smile this time as you shrug your shoulders. “Fuck them. It belongs to you alone, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk smiled as well, chuckling quietly as he accepted the token, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Fuck them,” he concurred, pulling you close to to steal one more kiss while the world still was at peace.

Dawn rose with a merciless coldness, casting Ashford's sky in an ominous ash-grey shade. The camp was a hive of tense activity.

The trial was moments away from starting, and Duncan still lacked one knight to complete his set of seven.

Your brother Valarr's armor was a magnificent piece, polished until it gleamed like a night sky, with the three-headed dragon rising in crimson pride upon the chest, but seeing your father in it made you understand the enormity of the act he was about to commit.

“You did well to seek out Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Ser Humfrey Beesbury. I am proud of you, my love,” he smiled, his lips twitching with a grimace of effort, as the squires struggled to fasten the straps of your older brother’s black armor. “But Ser Duncan needs a seventh man. Who else will fight for him?”

Just moments earlier, a pale-faced servant had arrived, his voice shaken, to inform you that Ser Steffen Fossaway had withdrawn from his position as Duncan's knight. Aerion's gold and the promise of a lordship had outweighed the honor of the red apple; now Raymun's cousin would ride with the accusers, leaving Dunk with a deadly void in his ranks.

“Not you, Father, obviously,” Valarr stated, as he stood beside you, glancing apprehensively at Prince Baelor, his sharp eyes aware that the armor was too small for his father to wear. “You can't. All of this over some hedge knight?”

“He is not just some hedge knight,” Baelor sent a disapproving look at his eldest son for his choice of words. “And this is much bigger than that, Valarr. As a knight yourself, you surely will understand.”

When he saw the two of you staring back at him with big, frightened eyes, your mouth pursed into a pout and Valarr's jaw tense with unease, Baelor sighed and took a step closer to you so he could lay a gentle hand on each of your faces.

His gaze was reassuring, and his smile even more so. “Fear not, my children.”

“Father...” your voice broke, shattering the pretense of strength you had been trying to hold onto.

“We will win this morning, my sweet dragon. Do not fear,” Baelor affirmed in his characteristic gentle voice. His two-toned eyes shifted to your brother, his hand falling to his shoulder to give him an affectionate squeeze.

He just gazed at both of you for a moment, Valarr standing strong and protective, and you, with your heart in your mouth, but still standing so firm. A shadow of melancholy crossed his face. In that brief moment, he seemed to be memorizing your features for the journey ahead.

The blood of his blood. His children. Such a part of himself that no one could ever deny it.

“You've grown so much…” your father whispered, mostly to himself, with a heart-wrenching tenderness. “Valarr, take care of your sister. Make sure she doesn't get too close to the railing.”

Valarr nodded, gripping his forearm as Prince Baelor stepped away from him to give you one last kiss on the forehead before putting on his helm.

Seated in the royal pavilion, your fingers fidgeted with apprehension and concern as the crowd's cries erupted into a roaring ovation: Prince Baelor was joining the trial and taking Ser Duncan's side.

The initial clash was deafening, a collision of steel and flesh that made the wooden stands beneath your feet shake.

The battle quickly descended into a blur of chaos: you caught sight of Lyonel Baratheon living up to his name; the Laughing Storm’s boisterous roars echoed over the clash of steel as his mace battered down shields and men alike. You saw him drive his weight against the Kingsguard, laughing with wicked delight as he slammed his fist into a white-cloaked helm, testing their legendary mettle with every bone-crushing blow.

Amidst the carnage, your father moved with lethal grace as he parried blows with effortless precision, swinging his weapon with the mastery of a true warrior-prince.

But your eyes always wandered back to him, naturally.

Aerion, with his gleaming menacing armor and madness burning from behind his visor, resembled a hellish fiend, slaying men and cutting flesh as if he had been born for that purpose, to wreak bloodshed and death in his path.

Your cousin, naturally, was more agile, better trained as a warrior, his cruelty lending him an inhumane upper hand. Dunk was bleeding, his movements had become slow and heavy for all the wounds inflicted upon him, and the exhaustion was threatening to close his eyes.

Valarr held your hand tightly, sensing your helplessness as you rose to your feet, too paralyzed to look away from the horrific scene.

Then, in a burst of ferocious determination, Dunk lashed out at Aerion's legs, knocking him down into the mud. It became a brutal, animalistic fight.

Indifferent to the agonizing pain of his broken bones, the slashes and the blood blurring his vision, Duncan immobilized the prince down, slamming Aerion's steel with his own shield in such frenzied rage that seemed to have drained him of all other emotion. All he knew was the instinct to strike.

And strike he did, blow after blow, again and again.

Aerion shrieked and struggled to break free, but Dunk was impossible to break through in his rage.

“Yield!” Duncan roared, smashing the already crumpled shield into Aerion once more. “Say it! Yield!”

Aerion could offer no response but choked, gurgling coughs that bubbled through his visor. Gasping for air, Duncan pushed himself to his feet and—with a strength born of pure desperation—dragged the Prince through the mire toward the main pavilion.

“Tell him!” Duncan threatened, pushing Aerion’s head up to force him to look at Lord Ashford, but his eyes searched only for you, leaning over the railing, looking down at him with a face contorted with concern and dread.

Even there, when you had chosen the man who had snatched you from his side, when you sided with the same man who was crushing him, Aerion thought you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Even there, broken and humiliated, Aerion’s heart beat only for you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you beheld his ravaged, bloodied face, and a wave of horror swept through your bones.

Behind the gore, you saw him, the boy who had chased you through the summer gardens of the Red Keep, his laughter bright and bright as his hair. The Aerion who would hide in the library just to surprise you with a stolen sweet, the boy whose hands were once gentle as he wove wildflower crowns for your head. He had been your sun, your first love, a beautiful, wild thing before the madness and the fire took root.

And now he had been reduced to a miserable, broken shadow of what he once was.

Dunk gave him another violent shake, his shadow looming over the fallen prince. “Tell him!”

In his eyes, all that mattered was you, holding onto the railing, an angel of sorrow witnessing his fall.

You had always been that to him: his beginning and his end. His unquenchable hunger. Aerion knew no other way to love you than by destroying everything around you so that only he could remain. You were the ruin he relished, the poison he craved.

And he knew he would never get to indulge in it again.

“I...” Aerion strained to find his voice, coughing up blood, his gaze locked on you. “I withdraw my accusation.”

As the last syllable of surrender left Aerion’s blood-slicked lips, a herald’s trumpet blasted through the arena, signaling the end of the trial. The crowd roared in triumph.

Dunk didn’t wait for a formal dismissal. With a guttural growl of exhaustion and disdain, he released his grip on Aerion’s gorget. He gave one final, forceful shove, sending the Prince sprawling backward into the filth to recover his breath.

Aerion hit the mud with a heavy, wet thud, his limbs tangling uselessly in his ruined armor.

“Sister—” Valarr tried to stop you, but you were already rushing toward the stairs.

Aegon was right behind you, smiling with joy.

You came in stumbling, your heart pounding in your chest, desperately searching among the faces of the men who had lifted him out of the arena. And then you saw him.

Dunk was slumped on a rugged wooden bench, his massive frame trembling as the adrenaline of the trial was slowly wearing off his senses, leaving only raw exhaustion in its wake. He was gasping for air, his lungs burning with every breath.

“Dunk!” His name tore from your throat, more a sob than an exclamation.

At the sound of your voice, he lifted his head. His face was a map of violence: a deep gash split his eyebrow, sending a steady trail of crimson down his cheek, and his lip was swollen and purple. Yet, when his sky-blue eyes found yours, they didn't reflect the pain—they reflected love.

He called out your name so earnestly, his voice choked with the pain that ravaged his flesh. He followed you with his gaze as you knelt in front of him to examine his injuries, which was a difficult task due to your vision being blurred by your unshed tears.

“I—” He grunted and choked in his pain, struggling to make sure you could actually understand what he was trying to tell you. Those words he had longed to say ever since he first saw you. “I love—”

“Shhh. Don't talk, sweetling. You'll be fine,” you reassured him, nodding with your head lightly. “I'll—”

“I'll send Maester Yormwell to take a look at him,” Prince Baelor's voice interrupted you, using the exact words you were just about to say, “when he's done tending to my brother.”

You turned toward the sound of his calm voice, relief flooding your chest as you saw your father standing just a few feet away.

“Father,” you breathed, a fresh wave of tears escaping your eyes. “You're safe. Thank the Gods, you're safe.”

He still had his helm on and limped a little as he walked towards you, which is why you jumped up and rushed over to his side to hold him steady.

Your father placed a hand on your own around his forearm, squeezing it gently before turning his gaze down to Dunk in front of him. The hedge knight had pushed himself to his knees and bowed.

“Your Grace,” he announced reverently, looking up at him with a grateful and devoted demeanor. “I am your man—I am your man.”

Baelor smiled at him, laying a hand on Duncan's shoulder, “I need good men, Ser Duncan.” His hand moved to his cheek in appreciation as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone that felt private, almost fatherly. “And my daughter... she has always had a keen eye for the true heart of a man. It seems she found the best of them. Keep her safe, Duncan.”

Your heart swelled at his words, feeling a fluttering sens of hope—but your smile faltered almost instantly as you noticed the way your father suddenly staggered at your side, his weight shifting unevenly.

“Are you okay, Father?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, thick with a caution you couldn't quite name.

“Fear not, child,” he dismissed with a reassuring wave, though his movements seemed heavy, as if he were wading through water. He gestured toward Raymun Fossoway. “Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would be so kind. I feel... rather suffocated.”

You hesitated, a cold knot forming in your stomach, before stepping back to allow Raymun to approach. Baelor kept his eyes on you, offering a gentle, tired smile as he noticed the deepening worry on your brow.

“Don't look at me like that, daughter,” he teased softly. “The visor is cracked, that is all.” His gaze flickered down to his own hand then; he began to flex his fingers in front of his face, his movements slow, jerky, and disconnected. “Strange... my fingers feel like wood.”

Raymun moved behind him, his breath catching as he spotted the jagged dent at the rear of the helm.

His voice wavered. “Goodman Pate. A hand. Quickly.”

“Your helm is crashed down the back, Your Grace,” Pate cautioned, his hands trembling as he reached for the steel. “It’s smashed right into the gorget.”

Beside you, Dunk’s hand sought yours, his rough fingers lacing through yours with a desperate need for anchor. Baelor’s gaze softened even further, a final flicker of paternal peace crossing his face as he saw your hands clasped together.

“My brother’s mace, most likely,” Baelor noted, his voice growing faint, though his smile remained. “He's strong.”

Pate gave a sharp tug and the helm came away with a sickening, wet sound.

The breath died in your lungs. You tried to scream his name, but the sound perished in your throat as you watched your father’s face change.

He was still smiling at you, that same gentle, paternal smile, but his eyes were no longer seeing you. They had turned glazed and distant, shifting toward the sky as if following the flight of a bird you could not see in the stone.

“Father?” you managed to utter at last, reaching out to him. “Your Grace—”

But Baelor didn't answer to your call this time.

As the helm was removed, the only thing keeping his shattered skull together vanished. A dark, thick slurry of blood and smashed brains began to spill from the back side of his head and down his armor.

“No,” Dunk roared, the sound torn from his soul as he lunged forward to catch the Prince. “No, no—no!”

Your father collapsed and Dunk caught him in his arms as best as he could, cradling the heir to the Iron Throne as if he were a child. You fell to your knees beside them, your hands hovering over your father's chest, terrified to touch him.

“Father! Look at me!” your voice rose into a shrill, desperate wail. “Father? No—”

Baelor’s hand gave a final, pasmodic twitch in the dirt, perhaps reaching for you one last time. His lips parted, a silent word forming— perhaps your name, perhaps your mother’s—and then the light in his eyes simply... went out.

“No! Help him!” you sobbed, turning to the open doorway. “Someone help him! P–please!”

“No, no, no— Your Grace. Get up, Ser. Please... get up,” Dunk pleaded, cradling your father’s body as sobs racked his massive, wounded frame. “I'm sorry— I'm so sorry...”

Your throat choked into sobs as you leaned down to press your forehead against Baelor’s, looking for his gaze, but his eyes were cold, so cold, so uncharacteristic in him, they neither followed your face nor warmed.

You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping that it would somehow snap you out of the nightmare.

Broken prayers slipped from your lips amidst the weeping. “I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not— this is not fair. P–please, please.”

Duncan kept repeating his apologies in a desperate litany, his pleas reaching you like distant echoes.

Aegon, who had been watching from the doorway with bulging eyes and a face as pale as the moon, was unable to bear the silence of death and clung to you, crying quietly on your shoulder. He was shaking as violently as you were, and his small frame was racked with sobs that made it difficult for him to breathe.

“He is not waking up,” whimpered Egg, his voice breaking with the raw, innocent panic of a child. “Why is he not waking up, cousin? W–why?”

Your wails pierced through the world with the omen of death.

word count & rating: 30k, M (18+! minors get out or i will verbally beat ur ass) warnings: still slow-burning, eventual SMUT, you know i love a little porn with plot, protected p in v, oral (f receiving), hints of a handjob, lot of kissing, tons of dirty talk (langdon cannot shut up to save his life), the rivals become friends and then lovers, major sexual tension and slightly awkward flirting, afab!reader, dana stays (!), frank gets divorced (!), mentions of addiction and sobriety, lots of swearing, banter, angst, descriptions of a previous, inappropriate but consensual workplace relationship, brief mentions of another tough, previous relationship the reader had, patient gets into a minor altercation with the reader, likely inaccurate medical talk (i am a woman with google, reddit, and a dream), not beta read please do not roast me for typos i missed author's note: well, this is part two. for those of you who missed the previous note, this was all supposed to be one fic but it's a 44k word fic and tumblr apparently has a 1,000 paragraph limit (who knew). this was the only logical way for my brain to break this one up, sorry for the weird difference in word count. if anyone wants to read it all in one part, you can find that on my ao3 linked above! hope you enjoy, i love ya all tons! -mags

MARCH 23RD, 2026. (4:30 PM)

You don’t see Frank Langdon for a long while after that. It’s like he was an illusion— something out of a nightmare that had come to life. He was back in your life for a year and then gone in an instant. The whiplash hurts just a little bit.

Despite his absence, the ED returns to normal for the most part. The new residents and med students find their place, each day a bit easier compared to their first. You find yourself drawn to each of them in a specific way, much like your friends and fellow older residents.

Whitaker becomes your shadow. He grows more confident under your supervision, often turning to you for advice when he feels he needs it. He gets closer with Robby, and you watch as your attending takes him more under his wing each day. Robby tells you that he’s glad the kid picked right when it came to looking for a mentor in his senior residents. You have to pretend that doesn’t make you want to hug him in the middle of the ED.

Santos slowly but surely turns into one of your favorite people to work with. It’s something you should have expected, but after that first day, you didn’t know what to do with her. She comes to work the next day with her head a bit tighter on her shoulders, showing you a level of respect that had been missing hours before. 

(She tells you months later, when she’s more comfortable with you, that she also had no idea what to do with you after you gently told her off. She was used to being embarrassed in front of everyone when she made an error. You hadn’t done that. She knew she had to get on your good side after that.)

You find yourself calling for her to tag along for more complicated procedures, giving her a bit more leeway than you give the others to do more high-risk things. You know exactly why you do it, and so does Collins. For the sake of your sanity, she doesn’t bring him up— she just gives you a look each time you play favorites.

Javadi stays below your radar for the most part. She continues to stick with McKay when she returns, but she warms to you when she finds out about Langdon’s nickname and why the rest of the doctors call you Risky. She’s competent when she’s not second-guessing herself and continues to surprise you when she pulls solutions for cases seemingly out of nowhere. You’re constantly telling her to speak up more.

Mel is a bit of a different story. She’s incredible at what she does. She’s a second-year resident and doesn’t require as much of your coaching or supervision. But, even though she doesn’t need it, you can’t help but keep an eye on her. It almost feels like an obligation.

In doing so, you grow to love that girl. She’s compassionate, she’s sweet, and she leaves a piece of her heart in each case she takes on. When she tells you she’s trying to get better at compartmentalizing things, you have to refrain from scolding her. She’s a breath of fresh air, and you’re excited to work with her each time you’re paired together.

Things are the same, but they feel completely different. His absence is felt. It’s something you have to keep reminding yourself of. You had always wanted to get rid of him, but now that he had left? You can’t believe you ever wanted him gone. 

However, in due time, you get used to it. You stop looking for him when things go to shit, you stop expecting to argue when you clock in, you stop it all. And it’s fine. It’s just fine.

Other things take precedence. Work overtakes your life. You date around a little. You continue to apply for fellowships. You get rejected from a lot of them despite how great they tell you your application is. A lot of them don’t like the fact that you transferred. It doesn’t matter how glowing your letter of recommendation from Robby is. 

You’re good at what you do. You know that you are. These programs are telling you so. But some of them want more from you. Those that you favored certainly seem to. You ignore the anxiety that floods your body when Robby recommends that you reach out to Klein to see if he’d write you another letter.

It has you reconsidering your career path. It was something that had always been super cut and dry in your mind. Medical school, residency, fellowship, attending. That was the path, particularly for someone as research-intensive as you were. But maybe it didn’t have to be.

It’s something you think about constantly as you continue to hear back from the programs you’ve applied for. It’s something you’re thinking about as you run your errands on your day off. 

It’s something you’re thinking about as you see Langdon for the first time in almost eight months. 

You run into him at the grocery store, of all places. And it’s about as awkward as you expect. 

He’s over by the produce, inspecting each apple he picks up with the same level of intensity he used to operate with. You’re in your own little world, headphones on and plugged into an episode of a podcast that had just been released that day. As sad as it was to say, these errands, these places you went to, and the little shops you looked around at were your time. It was your space outside of work to block out everything else and to only focus on what you needed. And you didn’t like that time being interrupted or that facade being broken.

Especially not by Langdon of all people.

You're not expecting to see him here, and you’re certainly not expecting to see him as you look up from your handwritten list to reach for a carton of berries that are diagonal from him. When you lock eyes, you feel your stomach drop and then immediately come back up your throat. You swallow what you’re feeling back down, but remain frozen in place. 

Why was he here? You’d never seen him here before. You assumed he was still in the city, but you didn’t know he lived in your neighborhood? Or did he not? Was this just a trip over to your neck of the woods for fun? Or…

Your racing mind does nothing to ease your stomach. After your last conversation with him, you don’t know where you stand. After everything that happened over the course of his last shift, you’d be surprised if he even remembered it. The only thing that gives you any sort of comfort is the look on his face and the shade of ghostly white he’d turned the second he’d seen you. At least you were on the same page.

“Hi,” you say, voice curt and slightly panicked.

His comes out the same. “Hey.”

As you completely freak out and you flash your eyes from him to the bag of fruit in his hands, the only thing you can think to say is, “That’s a fuck ton of apples.”

It’s not what he’s expecting in the slightest, and he quite literally has to blink at you to make sure he heard you right. “Uh… Oh. Yeah,” he stammers, looking down at the bag. He seems to find his way as he says, “I’m, uh… hoping if I eat one a day, you’ll stay the hell away from me.”

It’s your turn to blink at him. That comment snaps you back to reality, and the scowl you’re more used to wearing around him finds a home on your lips. “I’m assuming it’ll have the same effect if I start chucking them at you, too.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Only one way to find out.”

The tension between you doesn’t completely dissipate, but it becomes easier to work with. However, you still don’t know what to say or how to go about talking to him. So, you sigh and decide to go with, “What are you doing here?”

He lifts the basket in his hand. “I needed food?”

“No, I mean, you don’t live around here,” you say with an eye roll. “Why are you here?”

Langdon presses his lips together and looks away from you, as if he’s figuring out exactly what to say. The action has you narrowing your eyes. “There’s some cookies Tanner likes that they only sell here,” he seems to decide on. The basket lifts again. “Trying to get dad points.”

“Well, the kid’s got good taste,” you say, nodding in approval as you eye the cookies.

You want to ask more. You know there’s more to whatever’s behind his hesitant expression. You want to ask how he’s doing, what’s going on in his life, and why he’s actually at this grocery store. 

But you can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it. At least not here. Perhaps not with you. He’s stiff, uncertain, awkward— you’ve never seen him awkward. You’ve also never seen him outside of a work environment. You’ve been out with coworkers and your cohort back in school or and have hung out in the park after a shift, but that was always with your colleagues. Never outside of that and never on your own.

You don’t know what to say. It’s hard to know what’s off-limits or what he’d actually want to talk to you about.

So, you say, “Well, it’s good to see you,” you try. “You look good. Or, uh, better.”

His brows pull together for a second, then he nods. “Thanks. It’s, uh—” It’s like he doesn’t know how to talk to you like this. He’s shifty, bouncing back and forth on his heels, as if he’ll bolt at any minute. “It’s good to see you, too.”

You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s because you feel bad for him, maybe it’s because you don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s because you know that if you were in his position, you’d want someone to do it to you. 

Whatever it is, you find yourself grabbing the small notebook you had written your grocery list in and flipping to a blank page. You can feel his eyes on you as you quickly write something, rip the piece out of the book, and then fold it up. Your hand almost skims the berries below as you hold the paper out to him. “Take this.”

The confusion on his face only grows. “What is that?”

You push it at him. “It’s my number,” you say. “You don’t have it. And it’s clear you don’t want to talk to me in a grocery store, if at all, which I get.” You shrug. “But if you ever want to talk to someone about, I don’t know… work, life, anything. Text me.”

He’s looking at you like you’re handing him a bomb that’s about to go off. “I have some— I have people to talk to.”

“I’m sure you do,” you tell him. “And you don’t have to talk to me. But if you need to… talk to someone with better bedside manner than you, who, I don’t know? Already knows all the worst parts of you? I’m here.”

Langdon stares at the piece of paper, then at you, then back down at the paper. He’s frozen, and the moment that passes between you feels like a month. Just when your arm begins to get tired from being outstretched, he takes the paper from you. 

He nods after he does so, slipping it into his pocket. “Uh. T-Thanks,” he stammers. “I… I appreciate that.”

You’re not going to get any better than that. Not right now. So, you nod back at him and grab a container of berries in front of you to put into your cart. “Take care of yourself,” you tell him, then glance down at his basket. “And good luck with the cookies.”

You’re gone before he can say thank you, too taken aback by your conversation to verbalize anything coherent. One short interaction with you and he feels like a tornado just ran through the grocery store, and he’s the only one left standing.

He feels the corner of the piece of paper sticking into his leg slightly, and the weight of your words weighing him down.

He’d never get you. But he was no longer resigned to that idea.

APRIL 2ND, 2026. (2:00 PM)

You meet him for coffee on one of your days off.

He texts you approximately three days after your encounter, apologizing for any awkwardness and letting you know that it was, in fact, good to see you, even if he didn’t act like it. He takes you up on your offer, letting you know his schedule so you can work it around your own. 

You’re not sure what to expect when you walk into the shop. You don’t know what he’s going to be like, what he’s going to want to talk about-- what he wants this to be. Does he just want to make amends? Does he want to talk about his rehabilitation journey? Does he want to hear about work? All of the above?

You know you’re overthinking it, but you can’t not. You’re getting coffee with Langdon. You didn’t do things outside of work. You never saw him out of scrubs unless the team was going out. It was just a bit odd, and you couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t.

It’s something he addresses the moment you sit down with him. He’s arrived before you, having grabbed a table in the corner that has two mugs on it. Your brows shoot up in surprise as you realize he’s remembered your coffee order, and you exchange niceties as you sit down. 

After a beat of awkward silence, he sighs. “This is fucking weird, isn’t it?”

You shrug and bite back a smile. “Only as weird as we make it.”

He shoots you a look, one you haven’t seen in a while. It almost makes you nostalgic. “So, how do we make it not weird?”

“Well, typically, conversations start with questions,” you say slowly, and you find that he’s already rolling his eyes. “These can be anything from ‘how are you’ to ‘what’s new?’”

He shuts his eyes, though you don’t miss the humor in them when they open. “How are you?” he asks. “What’s new?”

“I’m good,” you reply, and it’s honest. Because you are good. You’re much better than you were the night you left him on the curb. “Everything’s pretty much the same. My residency finishes up in a couple of months, so… I’m just prepping for Boards and then for the transition.” You feel a bit bad talking about the residency he should be finishing up with you, so you quickly move on. “How are you?”

He reaches for his mug, a sigh heaving from his chest as if he were dreading the question. “Oh, you know. Recovery is great. I’m loving every second of it.” His voice drips with sarcasm, and his shoulders sag at the look you give him. After a moment, he quietly says, “I’ll be nine months sober tomorrow.”

Something akin to pride warms your chest. “That’s huge, Langdon,” you say earnestly, and when he tries to shrug it off, you shake your head. “No, I’m serious. That’s a big fucking deal. You should be proud of yourself. I mean that.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. You don’t expect him to. Instead, he decides to ask about something that you hope had escaped his notice. “You said you’re prepping for the transition?”

You glance at him, sighing as you reach for your mug. You know the exact reaction you’re going to get when you say, “I’m attending starting in July. Me and Collins. Boards willing.”

Taking a long sip of your coffee, you can’t help but note that he got your order exactly right. Asshole. Because now, you can’t complain as he starts to laugh. “No fucking way.”

“I’m in charge of you next year,” you mutter. “So, I’d choose my next words very wisely.”

“I’m not—” He shakes his head. “I’m not laughing at you. I just can’t believe it. You were so set on the fellowship. You were making me feel bad about not being prepared for it.”

You sink back into your chair. “My applications came off a little… unfocused? That was the word that was used, I think.” His brow furrows. He’d never call anything you did unfocused. You continue, “I’ve found that I’m really good at a lot of things. I just don’t know what I’m best at. I’m going to do my fellowship when I’ve figured that out. Whenever that is.”

You’re expecting him to make fun of you. To laugh again or do whatever it is that he does to get on your nerves. But he doesn’t. All he says is, “I don’t think that’s a bad choice.”

The look on your face is weary when you ask, “No?”

He shakes his head, grabbing a sugar packet from the container on your table. “Not at all. It’s mature. Don’t do something or settle because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do.”

It’s a strangely sage piece of advice from someone you rarely get it from. It’s also something you think you desperately needed to hear, but you’d never tell him that.

With a small smile, you nod at him in thanks. “How’s Abby? The kids? Did you get ‘dad points’ or whatever for the cookies?”

The grimace that pulls at his lips morphs his whole face, and suddenly, you feel like you’ve made a major misstep. It’s another question he was dreading. “Abby and I… uh—” He fiddles with the sugar packet in his hands. “We’re… separated. In the process of filing for divorce.”

Well, now you feel like the asshole. “Oh, fuck, man,” you say, another heavy sigh leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Langdon shrugs, and it’s a pathetic attempt to act like he doesn’t care. You don’t call him out on it. He rips the packet and dumps the contents into his coffee. “It was a long time coming.”

Quiet settles between you, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond to that. Then, like a reflex, you say, “Was it because of the—”

“It wasn’t because of the fucking dog.” It’s as if he anticipated it, and there’s a piece of you that hates that he can predict you so well. The other piece of you is pressing your lips together to refrain from laughing as he shakes his head in annoyance.

But then, he does something he’s never done before. He looks at you— at your face, at the smile you’re poorly concealing, and the glint in your eye that he always noticed but had never admired. And then, he starts to laugh.

It’s not loud or boisterous. It’s a soft chuckle, one that lasts as he continues to shake his head and grins softly as he hears you do it too. 

“You can tell me I was right, it’s okay.” Your voice is lilting, and the humor written into your expression makes him shake his head. “There’s a first time for everything. I’m not stoked that it’s over a dog, but I’ll take what I can get.”

A long and heavy sigh leaves him, and he wipes a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he replies. “You were right. He’s cute as hell, but it... it was a bad idea. The kids love him, though.”

“I’m sure they do,” you say, then nod at him. “She made you keep the dog, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That thing’s mine. She passed him off to me right when I got out of rehab.”

You snort. “Good for her. And what a sobriety present.”

“You’re telling me.” He makes a face. “It could be worse, though. Gives me something to focus on other than how fucked up my life’s become.”

Your lips purse, and you push them to the side. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” he asks. “It has. And I’m not saying that to get you to pity me. It fell apart, and it’s my fault.”

“Maybe,” you say lightly. “But you don’t have to torture yourself over it. That’s not going to help anyone involved.” Langdon sends you a half-hearted glare, and you throw your hands up. “I’m serious. You make it everyone’s problem when you’re miserable. You’re fixing yourself. Be kinder to yourself about it.”

He takes another long sip of his coffee. Then, after a minute, he says, “Thanks.” It’s the best you’re going to get from him. You’re just happy he’s finally, actually acknowledging your attempts at encouragement. “How’s The Pitt?”

His attempt to shift the conversation is not subtle, but you go along with it. “It’s less chaotic than when you left it,” you say. “The newbies are pretty much acclimated now. Everyone else is doing well. We miss you.”

His expression is skeptical when he asks, “You miss me?”

“Some days,” you admit with a shrug. His brows rise higher. “It’s boring having no one to argue with. I like Collins and Mohan too much to yell at them.”

A small smile graces his features. “Well, if it makes you feel any better,” he begins, “I miss it too. Arguing and all.”

It does, in fact, make you feel better. But still, you say, “You can’t fight with me next session, though. I own your ass.”

“Oh, no,” he sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna go full-metal despot. I can’t handle that.”

“Only for you. Half-metal despot for everyone else.” You shrug. That glint in your eye has returned. “I’m gonna be your nightmare.”

He sighs ruefully into his mug. “Like you weren’t already.”

“I’ll be nice,” you assure him, resolving the act. “But, yeah. You have to at least pretend like you respect me.”

“I’ve always respected you,” he states, and the immediate honesty in his voice catches you by surprise. “That was never the issue. The issue is that you’re a pain in the ass.”

You hold your fingers up like a phone despite the feeling that’s twisting your stomach. “Hey, Kettle? I’ve got pot on the line telling you to go fuck yourself.”

There’s humor in his expression as he shakes his head. “I’ll keep everyone in line.”

“Be nice about it,” you warn. “I don’t want any of the newbies shitting their pants because you start bullying them in July.”

“I would never,” he scoffs.

“Santos would say differently,” you chide.

He rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “She was different.”

“She is,” you say. “She’s also different than you left her. She’s probably my favorite resident to work with.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. She’s good, Langdon.” He shakes his head. “If you get over yourself, you might realize it, too.”

He has nothing to say to that. For a minute, you think you’ve made him mad. But then, you realize he’s thinking. 

He’s not looking at you when he asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” you say.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” He motioned between the two of you. “You don’t need to be doing any of this. I don’t deserve it. But you are.”

His question stumps you, because honestly? You don’t quite understand it yourself. Given your past, you should be leaving him to rot. You should make his life a living hell the second he returns to the ED. He doesn’t deserve the kindness you’re extending to him.

But you still do it. There might be some part of you that pities him. Maybe it’s because it’s not all his fault. Perhaps, it’s the fact that it hasn’t all been bad. 

But you think it’s more of the fact that, regardless of your best efforts to get rid of him, you know Langdon. You spent four years of med school with him and have a year of working together under your belt. You know him.

And despite the nickname he’d given you, you don’t give up on people you know. Especially when you know they might just need you.

“I don’t… really know why either,” you tell him, and your blunt words have him huffing a laugh. “But I think… I think it’s going to be hard for you to come back to work after everything. Even if you’re doing everything right. And I think I’d want someone in my corner if I were in your spot.”

Langdon stares at you in disbelief. “I’m…” He blows a breath through closed lips, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t fucking understand you.”

You shrug. “Join the club.”

“No. I mean it. I don’t get you,” he says. “You realize that I don’t know if I could do the same for you, right? I don’t know if I would be able to be this… nice.”

You eye him. “You’ve never been able to. That was kind of our whole thing.” He’s still looking at you like that. The sigh you release is laborious, and it almost hurts going out. “Not everything’s a contest, Langdon. We don’t always have to compete. There are no winners or losers anymore. We work together now. We’re in the same boat, and that boat doesn’t move unless every single person’s rowing. Stronger in numbers and all that.” You grab your mug, coffee almost lukewarm now. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re going to need someone to be nice to you in order for the boat to keep going. If I have to be that person, so be it.”

He scoffs. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

“No, but you’re going to need support,” you respond. “And we both know that I’m a little more forgiving than Robby is.”

That shuts him up almost immediately. He knows you’re right. More than right, actually. He’s barely spoken to him since July. Langdon’s antsy to get back to the floor, but dear God, he does not want to face Robby. 

Not after everything he owes him.

He watches you take a long sip of your coffee— the way you gently put it back down onto the table and shift the handle to face yourself. Then, he watches the way you meet his gaze, staring at him as if you’d just said the simplest thing in the world. 

Of course, you were going to help him. Of course, you were going to be nice to him. Why wouldn’t you be? Why wouldn’t you help him? Simple questions like that had simple answers to you.

He gives it another second before he looks away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and he hopes he sounds as genuinely grateful as he feels. “Really.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “I got into this field to help people. It’s kinda what I’m good at.”

Langdon chuckles. “I still don’t get you, though.”

“Well, you can figure me out better when you get back.” You point at him. “But not too well. I don’t want you telling the other residents what my weaknesses are. I can’t take all of you at once if you revolt.”

“The other attendings would help out,” he offers.

“Yeah, but the only ones that I’m confident can fight are Abbot and Ellis. They won’t be there to help.”

“Robby can throw a punch.”

“Sure, but would he?” you argue. “Before he could, he’d get called to like, do a Craniectomy with his eyes closed and tell me I’m on my own.”

As he laughs, you launch into another hypothetical, hands waving enthusiastically as you explain yourself, you find yourself falling into an easy sort of conversation with him. He keeps up with you as usual, but his typically sharp words are replaced with something a bit more loose. Kinder, even. It’s a change that you don’t immediately notice, but when you do, you can’t help but feel a little strange.

What’s even stranger, you realize, is that to anyone else in the shop, you two might look like you were actually friends. 

It doesn’t unsettle you as much as you thought it would.

JULY 4TH, 2026. (6:45 AM)

You keep in contact for the next couple of months.

It starts out slow— a text here and there, mostly questions about work, asking when you two were free to meet for coffee next, and talking about how things are going for each of you. A video that you’d like the other would like thrown into the mix. It’s not a lot, but it’s consistent. You know his Type-A brain could use some consistency.

As the two of you got more comfortable with each other, it became even more consistent. You’ll text him a photo of a gnarly or crazy injury in the middle of a shift (a month an a half ago, an eighteen year old girl came in with a pencil through her cheek after the kid she was tutoring threw a tantrum, and a photo went to both the ED group chat and Langdon), he’ll send a picture back of his dog in the park. 

It becomes almost like an instinct. Anytime something out of the ordinary goes down, you feel like you have to update him. Your text chain from last Monday looked something like this:

7:34: code security just called on a twenty-five year old guy who escaped his bed and just tried to stab mckay with his rugrats pocket knife. starting the day off strong!

ahmad should have let her handle it. i’d put my money on mckay any day.

10:12: first foreign body of the day. want to guess what it is and where?

who’s the patient?

fifty-seven year old guy

give me kitchen utensil up the ass for $400, alex

ooooh half credit. shaving cream bottle up the ass

holy fuck. how does that even fit up there? 

he saying he fell on it?

you know it

okay my turn

15:17: just picked tanner up from day camp. inside day because of the rain-- he told me one of the kids got one of those counting bears stuck up their nose. he might be on his way to you

javadi’s on triage today, will tell her to look out for it

didn’t even know those things still existed

this camp is old school. only tech allowed is movies

no cocomelon?

i told you i’m not raising an ipad baby, risky.

16:56: anti-vax couple is currently trying to convince mel that their zinc supplements and prayers are enough to protect their high-risk kid that has chicken pox

tell mel she has MY prayers.

she’s handling them well

one of these days she’s going to snap and i’m gonna parade her around like rocky

i’ll play the theme music

also are we still on for coffee on thursday?

obviously. it’s your turn to buy

You continue to get coffee with him every couple of weeks. At first, you tell yourself, it’s just to keep him in that aforementioned routine. But, each time you meet up, it becomes that much easier to talk to him, and you can no longer pretend like you don’t enjoy his company. 

You learn more about him— about who he really is. It’s more than just his base level likes and dislikes that you’ve picked up on: you learn about where he’s from, his family, and how he grew up. What he likes to do on his days off, how he’s started coaching his Tanner’s U-6 soccer team in his free time. You learn that he’s just a bit too into it, something you make evident by the subtle side-eye you give him when he mentions how they’re not getting a play he wrote up for them.

You also learn just how nervous he is to return to work. He’s slightly more withdrawn in the week leading up to it, and despite how much you reassure him that things will be fine, he doesn’t seem to listen to you. 

(Things change, but they don’t. You’ll take what you can get.)

Last night, before you fell asleep, you’d made sure to send him a text, figuring that he’d be on his phone. You knew there was no way he’d be sleeping tonight.

before you come in tomorrow, i just want to tell you 

i tried to tell robby that the fact that your first shift back is a fucking full moon fourth of july shift is cruel and unusual

but despite our circumstances i am 100% sure that you’re going to kill it

You watch as the three little dots at the bottom of the screen appear and then disappear. You can picture him typing at his phone and deleting every self-deprecating thing he’s thinking, knowing you’re not going to respond well to it. But, in a surprise turn of events, he chooses to be honest with you.

thanks. i’m freaking the fuck out.

take a breath. you’re going to be fine

easier said than done

i’ve got your back, dude. we all do

please try to sleep a little

i can’t have you being both anxious and exhausted tomorrow i can only deal with one of those things

It took a minute for him to respond, but when he did, it was a short, heard. thank you.

That took you to today, in the PTMC parking lot, where you stood outside of Langdon’s car, waiting for him to notice you. 

He’d been switching between listening to something and hyping himself up, unaware of anything around him. There’s something inherently sweet about it, and you almost don’t want to ruin it for him.

But you two need to be clocked in within the next fifteen minutes, and you don’t trust him not to throw his car in reverse and drive away.

So, you beat on the passenger side window.

You think his entire soul leaves his body. He practically jumps out of his seat, hands flying up like he’s reaching for something above. You have to press your lips together to hold in your laughter as he glares at you, rolling his window down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks, still trying to catch his breath.

“Good morning to you, too,” you say. You lean your elbows on the ledge of the now-open window. “Happy comeback season.”

He huffs, looking away from you. “Couldn’t you see I was like, in the middle of something here?”

You nod in understanding. “In the middle of deciding whether or not you should go in, right?” When he scowls at you, you can’t help but smile. “Can I come in?”

Langdon stares at you for a second before muttering to himself and slapping the unlock button on the driver’s side. You’re greeted by the AC that’s blasting in his car and slump into the seat. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Well, at least you’re awake,” you reply. “The five Red Bulls you’re gonna shotgun today will only carry you so far.”

“Yeah, but I could have gone without the jumpscare. Way too early for that shit,” he says.

You shrug the comment off, glancing around. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in your car before.”

“And after that, you won’t ever be invited back.”

You send him a look. “Good morning, Langdon,” you repeat, and your tone has him shutting his eyes and turning away from you. “How are we doing this morning?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, and for a moment, you think he’s giving you the cold shoulder. But then he mutters, “I can’t go in there.”

“Sure you can,” you say. 

“No,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

“Completely disregarding the fact that the future of your career relies on you walking through those doors in thirteen minutes,” you start, catching him rolling his eyes out of the corner of yours, “you’re on the schedule and don’t have coverage. People are going to be more mad at you if you leave than if you go in.”

You didn’t think that your attempt at a joke was going to help in any way, but somehow, it has him seriously considering your point. He pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning his elbow on his door’s armrest. “What if it’s awful?” he asks.

You don’t recognize the person beside you. You’ve never seen him like this. This nervous, this scared. He was always the pinnacle of confidence, for better or for worse. He was self-assured, cocky, and completely in control of himself.

This wasn’t that guy. And it freaked you out enough to decide that you weren’t going to stand for it.

“Okay,” you begin, turning your body in the seat to face him, “as you so eloquently and gently said to me when I was freaking out this time last year, ‘get your fucking head on straight. You are not Flight Risk-ing it right now.’”

A surprised laugh escapes him as he rubs a hand down his face. “We’re going there?”

“Oh, yeah. Been waiting to use your horrendous bedside manner on you for a year. It’s time.” You point at him. “We need you in there, and we need you to be on it because no one can do what you do.” You take a moment, and in that moment, he meets your gaze. Involuntarily, you find that you voice gets softer as you say, “I fucking need you, so get the fuck out of your head and let’s go.”

Langdon just stares at you in that way that he does. He’s always staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. It’s as if you’re some impossible equation to some cosmic disturbance. Like everything in his life makes some sort of sense but you.

He could say something sentimental, tell you how he really feels about all of this, and let you know exactly what everything you’ve done for him leading up to this point means to him. He really thinks about it.

But, instead, he chooses the comfortable route and says, “I’m surprised you remembered all of that.”

You scoff. “How could I not? It was the first time I’ve ever been yelled out of a panic attack. Only you could do that.” You mumble that last part, but he still hears it, evident by his soft chuckle. You lean your shoulder into the backrest, lips curling upward. “You with me?”

When he sighs, he practically inhales all of the air in the car. But still, “Yeah. I’m with you.”

“Good,” you say. You grab your go-bag at your feet and go to open the door. “Breathe. I told you. I’ve got your back.”

Before you can make your exit, Langdon grabs your wrist. The action has you staring at him in surprise. “I know I keep saying it,” he begins, “but… thank you. You’re— you’ve been… just--” He slows himself down, and when he’s collected himself, he squeezes your wrist. “Thank you.”

You’re still caught off-guard by the fact that he’s willingly touching you, but find yourself nodding at him with a small smile that you hope is encouraging. “I’ll see you in there,” you tell him.

He follows you inside five minutes later, anxious, antsy, and unsure. But when he catches your eye and you give him that same smile, some of the… everything he’s feeling evaporates.

It’s a small thing that feels like a victory in his book. Maybe everything will be fine.

JULY 4TH, 2026. (11:34 PM)

i can’t move, he texts you that night, when you’re finally tucked in bed, eyes barely staying open. that was so brutal. it might rival the pittfest shift.

i’m still recovering from getting shoulder tackled by that lady in the sexy uncle sam costume, you respond. she should play for the fucking steelers when she gets released from jail.

they could use her. her form was incredible

perlah already has the security cam footage of that btw

i know. she sent it to the group chat already (remind me to add you back to that)

i’m glad my bruised ribs could spark joy

You watch through partially closed eyes as those three dots appear and disappear. 

we should go to game this year, he finally says. they’re so bad that it could be fun

pitt outing to the steelers? i’m in

get abbot on a blackstone STAT

There’s another pause in your conversation. Then, it might be hard to get all of our schedules to align.

It’s then that it clicks for you. 

frank langdon 

are you asking me to hang out outside of work

you say that like we don’t do it already

that’s just coffee. you’re asking me to like HANG OUT and DO SHIT with you

shut up

ooooooo you want to be my friend so bad

i never thought we’d get here

i’m going to bed

You snicker to yourself, fingers flying across your screen as you type out, let’s do an october game or something. get the PTO in early.

A minute passes before your phone vibrates again. i’ll start looking at tickets tomorrow.

You’re about to turn your phone over and go to bed for the night when it buzzes again. i couldn’t have done today without you.

you could have, you respond. but i’m glad i was there. hell day and all.

me too.

 i’ll see you tomorrow for day two.

SEPTEMBER 24TH, 2026. (5:00 PM)

The change in your relationship doesn’t go unnoticed.

The second Langdon returned to work, each person on the floor had clocked that something was different between you two. You still argued. You still made fun of each other on an hourly basis, and you still occasionally disagreed about the right way to approach a case. But there was something less malicious about it now.

You’d insult him, but it was accompanied by a soft nudge on the arm. He’d snipe back at you, only to smile to himself when you walked off. More often than not, you’d walk in for a shift with him or head out together. He knew exactly how you liked your coffee and would make it when he had a free moment, handing it off to you while you were moving from case to case. 

You weren’t just working together anymore. You weren’t amicable for the sake of the smooth operation of the ED. You were friendly. It looked like you actually liked each other.

Three weeks in, Princess tells the nurses that she saw the two of you actually laughing together in the break room. Something about med school cadaver labs and peanut M&Ms. It doesn’t make any sense to her, but then again, none of this does.

It’s a straight-up Twilight Zone episode for everyone who isn’t you and Langdon. You two don’t really question the change. It’s just something that happened.

After that text on the Fourth, you start hanging out outside of work.

While a lot of your days off don’t always align and your personal life schedules aren’t always in sync, you find yourself with him on the days that do. It’s never anything overly exciting: you tend to run errands together, you’ve gotten lunch-- you’ve even gone to his apartment once.

It’s nice. It’s easy. It’s… what having a friend should be like. 

But then, he shows up with a pizza on one of those rare days you both have off. 

It starts with a short, What are you doing tonight? text. It’s not uncommon for him to check in now, especially when he knows you’re off work. Even more so when he’s also off. But he’s never texted out of the blue to ask about your plans for the day.

You reply with a simple, nothing. why? All you get is an ominous :) in response.

About an hour later, there’s a sharp, three-beat knock at your door. You shoot up from your couch in confusion, whipping your head in the direction of the sound. Was he—? No. No way. He didn’t know where you lived. Or did he? Had you told him?

You pause the episode of the reality show you’re catching up on and make your way to the door, shaking your head in disbelief. When you look out your peephole, you see him rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, holding a thin box in his hands. Oh, my God. He was here. And he brought a fucking pizza.

After you get over your brief moment of shock, you reach down to open the door. Langdon’s eyes immediately meet yours, and a smile grows on his lips as he sees what you’re wearing. “Cute shorts.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, fighting the urge to pull your oversized sweatshirt down further to hide your PJ shorts that are accented with little stethoscopes. “It’s my Bravo rot day. I wasn’t expecting company.”

His grin gets wider. “I like to surprise you.”

You hum a noise that sounds something like agreement. “Guess those apples aren’t working, huh?” you say, leaning up against your doorframe.

”Well, I got a pizza,” he replies, lifting the box up and shaking it lightly. “How do you like them apples?”

You stare at him blankly, allowing the absolute bomb of a joke he just threw out there to stew in its awfulness for a moment. Langdon’s smile falters, and he shifts awkwardly. “Good Will Hunting?” he says, as if he has to explain the reference for it to land.

“I know what it’s from,” you state. “I just can’t slam the door in your face because I’m frozen by the shock of how bad that was.”

“Oh, c’mon, that was—“

“Nope. I lied, it’s not shock. It’s rigor mortis. You literally killed me and now I—“

“Just take the pizza and shut the fuck up,” he mutters, shoving it out in front of him. 

Reflexively, you hold up your hands to accept it and laugh to yourself. You step back and hold the door open to let him into your apartment, and the sigh of relief that leaves his lips is audible. “How the hell did you get my address?” you ask.

“The Pitt directory is incredibly detailed.” He hangs his coat up amongst the many you keep on hooks in your tiny entryway. “My God, you have a lot of jackets.”

“They each have their own purpose,” you reply automatically. Dana’s constant ribbing about you showing up in a new one each shift has trained you to do so. “My home address is in the public directory?”

He at least has the decency to look just a bit sheepish when he turns around. “Not the public one.” 

A scandalized gasp escapes you as you put two and two together. “Fucking Lisa.”

“I told her I had to drop something off at yours,” he reasons with a shrug, then motions to the pizza. “I wasn’t lying.”

“And that traitor was just willing to give out my home address to you of all people? What, is she gonna leak my social next?”

Langdon chuckles softly, shaking his head. That familiar smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. “She told me she’d only do it for me. I told you she’s got a thing for me.”

“That thing is aiding and abetting,” you mutter, and you bite back a smile as he snickers again. 

That smile stays hidden as you turn to take the pizza to your kitchen island and set it down. Langdon’s already opening it the second you turn away to grab some napkins. He clocks the look on your face as you stare at him and the slice that’s already in his hands. 

Your lips start to curl in disgust when he says, “Oh, relax. I only got olives on my side. Your shit’s on the other.” He rolls your eyes and takes a bite as your scowl turns into something more satisfied. “Freak.”

“You’re the freak,” you mutter. You open one of the cabinets next to your stove to grab two plates. “Use a plate, you heathen. Let’s have a society, alright?”

“I’m not taking etiquette lessons from a girl I’ve seen do multiple body shots at Lucky’s,” he says, mouth full. You scrunch up the napkins in your hand into a ball the second you hear ‘body shots’ and chuck it at his head. He catches it effortlessly. “I’m just saying.”

You pull a piece of pizza from your designated side. “That was med school. I’ve basically aged twenty years since then. I’m much more mature now.”

“Right. You only do one now instead of multiple.”

You nod. “Exactly. And then I’m in bed, hungover for twenty-four hours the next day.”

Langdon laughs, then that laugh turns into a sigh. “We used to be out until three in the morning and then wake up at seven for class. What happened to us?”

“We’re old, is what happened.” You take a bite of your slice. “Speaking of old, where are your kids today?”

He rolls his eyes at your comment, but answers despite it. “They’re with Abby visiting her parents. I’ve got them for the three days I have off next week, but it’ll mostly be me and Penny. Tanner has school.”

“And the dog?” you ask.

“At my apartment. I took him to the park this afternoon, and he knocked out the second we got back. Woke up to eat, then fell right back asleep.”

“It’s genuinely insane to see how domestic you’ve become.” The sweet tone of your voice has him scowling at you. “I’m serious. Also, feel free to bring him next time we hang out.”

Despite the casual way he nods and despite the fact that you guys hanging out has now become commonplace, he has to pretend that your use of the words ‘next time’ doesn’t excite him a little. “Thanks. Tanner says I should start bringing him to work.”

You make a sarcastic sound of agreement. “We’ve had rats in the ED. Why not dogs?”

“Exactly,” he says. “Maybe I’ll file with HR for a therapy animal.”

“I still can’t believe Lisa gave you my address,” you mutter. “That has to be like, three different types of illegal.”

“Oh, c’mon. I knew the neighborhood you live in. She was just helping.”

“Yeah, but what if you were like a total fucking weirdo?” Before he can say anything, you continue, “I mean, more than you already are? What if you were stalking me? I know she’s in love with you, but man, you’ve been in HR for forty years. Do your job.”

“She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter since she heard about the divorce,” he tells you. At your confused look, he explains, “Lisa. She’s got a twenty-something-year-old daughter who just left her husband. Thinks we’d be good together.”

Your brows raise. “And you’re not jumping at the chance to do that?”

“Uh, no.” He shakes his head. “I don’t do set-ups. Or blind dates.”

“You make it really easy to forget you’re so conceited sometimes,” you mutter, dodging an olive that he throws your way. Your mouth drops at the sound of it plopping onto your rug. “Pick that up now. If you ruin my runner with your gross fucking olives, I’m gonna get Robby to switch you to nights and I’m telling Ellis to bully the shit out of you.”

He rolls his eyes but does as he’s told, shaking his head. “It’s not about looks,” he tells you as he walks over toward you and crouches down. “I just… I don’t like being surprised. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

You eye him carefully as he rounds your island to get to your trash can. “Okay? Then join an app?”

Langdon looks physically repulsed by the idea. “Because no one ever lies on the internet.”

“Jesus, man. I don’t know, then you can wander around a farmer’s market with your dog and Tanner and Penny looking lost.”

He eyes you for a moment, then pretends to consider it. “That might not be a bad idea. I’ve never thought about pimping out my kids to pick up women.”

The sarcasm in his tone isn’t missed, and you throw your hands up. “Fine. I tried. You can die a miserable old man. You’re already halfway there anyway.”

“I just don’t know if I’m ready yet,” he admits through a chuckle. He reaches at his plate to grab his half-eaten slice of pizza and takes a bite. With his mouth full, he says, “Getting back out there with someone is just…” He grimaces, swallowing. “That sounds fucking awful.”

“Why?” you ask. “I think it sounds kind of exciting. It’s good to meet new people.”

“I don’t want to meet new people,” Langdon tells you. The way it comes out makes it sound almost like he wasn’t even thinking about the words before he said them. You notice the way his eyes flick to yours for a moment and then immediately flick away. Your heart stutters, and you can’t even explain why. “I mean, I—“ His cheeks tint the slightest shade of pink, and you pretend you don’t see it. He forks a hand through his hair. “The idea of getting to know someone like… that again is just so…”

You know what he’s trying to say. You also know what he’s not saying, too. 

You understand him so well, yet you don’t at all. He was so puzzling. He’s someone who always came off to you as relatively straightforward. He was self-assured; cocky, even. He was someone who’d been told one too many times that he was good at what he did, maybe even that he was better than everyone around him, so he’d started to believe it. Maybe a little too much.

He gave his time to those he thought were worth it. He was confident, and he knew who he was. He didn’t care if he was an asshole or who hurt along the way. It didn’t matter what anyone thought about him as long as he knew that he was in the right. 

But as you watch Langdon— watch him be shy and unsure and uncomfortable in front of you, you realize that you barely knew who he was outside of your career. Sure, you knew loads about him. You knew about his personal life and his likes and interests. But you didn’t know him. You’d never talked with him like this or had him admitting things like this. 

You wanted to hate the fact that it totally endeared him to you. But, for some reason, it didn’t. 

That would never stop being weird.

“I get it,” you say. “I didn’t want to meet anyone after I called off my engagement with Jamie. I shut myself off to everyone for like, a year.”

“I remember,” he mutters. “Watching Donovan try to hit on you every other week during labs was painful.”

“Oh, God. That was painful for me, too.” The smirk that slides onto your face is both sarcastic and involuntary. “I saw on LinkedIn that he just started a neurosurgery fellowship. Maybe I should have given him a chance.”

Langdon rolls his eyes. “The world does not need two Doctor Donovans.”

You can’t help but snort. There’s a beat of silence before you admit, “You know I didn’t get into another real, serious relationship until about three months into my residency in Boston?”

His brows rocket to his hairline. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Nobody really… piqued my interest until then.”

“That’s almost impressive.”

You shrug him off. “I’m exceptionally picky.”

He makes a noise of agreement. “So, who was he?”

“Huh?” you ask, fully hearing him but not at all expecting that question.

“Who was the guy that finally ‘piqued your interest?’” he clarifies.

He’s not expecting the silence he’s met with. You stare down at your plate, biting the inside of your cheek, and Langdon knows he’s asked the wrong question. 

“He…” You swallow and tear a piece from the crust that’s left on your plate. “He’s irrelevant,” is what you finally decide on. 

You say it because he is. Truthfully, up until this conversation, you hadn’t thought of him in weeks. You know it doesn’t seem like it, and it definitely doesn’t seem like you’re anywhere close to being over it, but you are. 

It doesn’t mean it isn’t still hard to talk about. 

Langdon stares at you. “Is he?”

You meet his gaze with a heavy sigh that takes a lot out of you. “No. He’s not,” you admit. You keep your voice light. “But every day, he becomes more irrelevant. And every day, I come to some new realization about him and know that what happened was for the better. And that’s all I can ask for.”

Thankfully, Langdon doesn’t have any more questions for you regarding that. Relief washes over you as you realize he’s moving on, but you know he’s not going to forget it. Unfortunately, it’s not like him to forget things.

“New topic,” he says quickly, like he’s trying to get your mind off of whatever you’re thinking about as soon as possible. “Because I need to know. Does that work?” You lift your brows, cueing him to continue. “That stuff you were talking about. That… farmer’s market, kids stuff. Does that actually work?”

A small smile tugs at your lips, and you shrug once more. “Dude, women eat that shit up. At least, y’know. Some of us.”

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “A hot dad asking if we’d recommend the blackberries or the raspberries more?” You shake your head with a faux longing expression. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

The smirk that suddenly glides over Langdon’s lips is something lethal, and it makes your stomach flip. He leans up against the counter. “A hot dad?”

Your eyes roll so hard you think they’ll fall out of your head. “Circumstantially and hypothetically.”

“Of course,” he says, nodding as if he understands. But that look stays on his face. “But I’m curious. Would that be something… that would work on you?” At the surprise that morphs your expression, he shrugs. “Hypothetically.”

You look at him with suspicion. “I don’t know?”

“You don’t know?” he parrots. It’s clear he doesn’t believe you. “You just posed a very specific hypothetical, and you don’t know?”

“Oh, my God, okay. Hypothetically, you loser,” you repeat, hoping everything you’re about to say sounds casual and not as weird as you’re suddenly feeling. “The independent variable would have to be… I don’t know? My type? Looks like he actually cares about the kids he’s pimping out?”

“The independent variable being the guy,” he clarifies. 

“Yes, Doctor Langdon. Very astute,” you say. “Validating your ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ award status with each day you live and breathe.” 

He leans over your counter, placing his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. His brows furrow in mild interest. “And what exactly is your type?”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks almost instantly. Never, in a million years, did you think you’d be standing in your apartment with Frank Langdon, chatting about your type over a pizza he bought for you. “When did we start talking about me?” you ask. “This was supposed to be about you and how you’re too afraid to go on a date.”

“And now it’s about both of us,” he shoots back. “Because you talk a big game for someone who isn’t dating either.”

“I am,” you say, and the admission obviously catches him by surprise. You almost feel bad about the way his face drops. 

Langdon blinks at you. “Seriously?”

“Is it that hard to believe?” you ask with a teasing smile.

“No,” he says, the word rushing out of his mouth. “No. You know that you’re— You’re— y’know. It’s not hard to believe. I just…” He trails off again, but continues to look at you in surprise. “Seriously?”

“I’m serious,” you chuckle, because it’s all you can do. “I mean, it’s not serious, but yeah. We’ve been on like, two dates, and I’ve been texting him a little. I met him online. He’s cute, he’s nice, and he works in Finance—” The face he makes at that has you scowling. “What?”

“Nothing. I just didn’t think you were the Finance-Bro type.” Before you take offense or respond to that, he asks, “So, it’s going well? You like him?”

“It’s going fine,” you say. “He’s nice. Fun to talk to. He thinks that me being a doctor is ‘super dope,’ which is, y’know, an upgrade from the last guy I dated.”

“But you don’t like him,” Langdon presses.

You make a frustrated sound. “I don’t know yet!” you say, exhausted by this sudden interrogation. “Isn’t that the whole point of dating? To figure out if you actually like them?”

“I typically decide if I’m interested in someone before I start dating them, but that’s just me—”

“Well, I’m not you,” you say, while your voice is soft, there’s an edge in it that tells him it’s final. “And I actually like to get to know people. I like to take my time when it comes to this shit, alright?”

“To feel things out?”

His words catch you by surprise, and you’re sure it shows on your face. “Yeah.”

Langdon nods after a moment. “I guess we’ll agree to disagree.”

You snort. “Nothing we aren’t used to.”

He huffs a soft laugh and takes another bite of his slice. You’ve disagreed plenty of times before. More than you probably should have (sometimes the two of you just liked to argue for the sake of it, but that wasn’t a crime). But this one lands differently. Something feels off. There’s this unusual, unfamiliar tension that you can’t shake but want nothing more than to get rid of. You can tell he feels the same.

“When are you seeing him again?” he asks, his previous line of questioning back on course.

You refrain from rolling your eyes. “Next Saturday, when I’m off. We’re getting brunch.”

“Oh, man,” he chuckles. “He likes you.”

“What?” you whine. “We’re getting brunch. We’re not ring shopping.”

“No guy is going to brunch with someone he’s casual about. Drinks are casual. Maybe even dinner. You get brunch with someone you like.”

“Or,” you say, shifting uncomfortably, “you get brunch because you’re dating a doctor and her schedule is horrendous.” Langdon simply shakes his head with a chuckle. “You told me you haven’t been on a date in years. How would you even know that?”

“Because I do,” he states, and it is exactly that— a statement.

(What he wants to say is that the reason he knows is because he can’t imagine anyone not liking you, but with your history, he also knows it may come off as a little hypocritical or unreliable. So, he bites his tongue and keeps it short instead.)

“Well, if you know this so well,” you say, “maybe you should start finding girls you want to take to brunch.”

The sound that comes out of him is something between a sigh and a groan. “I told you, I’m not—”

“I meant when you’re ready,” you cut him off, putting your hands up in surrender. “I don’t think it’d be a bad idea for you to get back out there.”

It’s then that he looks at you. Like, really looks at you, with that intensity you know so well. “You think so?”

“I mean, why not?” you ask. “You’ve been officially divorced for like, three months, right? Separated for longer? You’ve had your mourning period. And you’d be a hot commodity. It’s okay to have some fun if you want it.”

Nothing. He says nothing to that. He just continues to stare at you. And then, when you think you can’t take it anymore, he turns away. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

The awkward turn this conversation had taken was something that you weren’t anticipating. Why was he so weird about this? If he didn’t want to date, that was fine. This was you attempting to offer him some encouragement. You couldn’t care less if he started seeing people. That was up to him. You were just trying to be a good friend.

Because that’s what you two were, right? You were friends now, or whatever your version of that was. You talked like friends, acted like them, and now you were hanging out outside of work. That was the definition of friends.

You swallow the bite of pizza you’ve been chewing and, because you can’t think of anything else to say to break this sudden tension, you glance at your paused TV and ask, “Want to watch some girls fight about some really awful men?”

Langdon looks up from his plate, hesitancy written across his face. “I’m really not into that stuff.”

You’re barely listening to him as you move to the sofa to grab the remote. “That’s what they all say.”

SEPTEMBER 26TH, 2026. (9:45 PM)

“So,” he says, pointing at the women who are currently on-screen, “just to clarify. She was her friend. And she slept with her boyfriend of nine years.”

“Correct,” you reply.

“And she and the boyfriend lied about it for seven months because they thought they weren’t going to get caught?” He glances over at you, and you nod in confirmation. “And they’re still lying about it, despite the fact that they have cameras on them at all times?”

You motion to the boyfriend who’s now talking. “Look at him. Look at that stupid fucking outfit and his god-awful moustache. Do you think he’s capable of understanding long-term consequences?”

Langdon laughs. “That’s actually kind of insane,” he says. “Are these shows always like this?”

“When they’re good, yeah. I love drama that doesn’t involve me. Sue me.”

“Well, I would have joined the cohort Bachelor night if I’d known they were like this.” He says it as if he’s joking, but you know there’s a part of him that means it.

You snort. “Well, you were always slow to learn what was right.” Before he can refute that, you point at him. “Also, I wouldn’t have let you join. That was for the girls. It was my safe space away from your bullshit.”

“Inclusivity means nothing to you,” he scoffs, chuckling as you reach over to kick his arm with your foot. He nods up toward the TV. “And okay, the two of them were married?”

“Yeah. But they were never, like… on the same page about shit,” you say. “It almost seemed like they weren’t sure about getting married when they did it. It was kind of weird.”

A huff of a laugh escapes his lips. “It’s like that sometimes. Happens more than you’d think.”

“Does it?” you ask. When you don’t get an answer, you shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m dramatic or overly romantic, but I just can’t imagine agreeing to marry someone I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.”

You see him nod slowly out of the corner of your eye. After a beat, he responds, “I did.”

That has you looking at him. “What?”

He tries to play it off, similar to how he acted when he was talking about his separation. He doesn’t fake the whole casual thing very well. “Abby and I… we were in a rough spot before she got pregnant. Neither of us did anything or whatever. But we were growing apart. I think we started to realize that while we loved each other, maybe we weren’t completely… compatible.” He meets your confused stare that’s burning a hole in the side of his face. “She wanted kids and wanted to get married earlier than I was ready for. I wanted that later, when I was deeper into the whole residency thing. I didn’t know if I could be a doctor, a husband, and a father, at that age, at the same time.” 

You do know. You might know it a little too well.

“That’s a normal thing to want,” you tell him instead. “On both of your ends.”

“I know,” he says. “Then, right before we graduated from med school, she told me she was pregnant. And while it didn’t… y’know, go with my plan, I was still excited about it. We both were.” He sighs, wiping a hand down his face. The action makes you wonder how many people he’s actually talked to about this. “So, we got engaged, we moved in together, just the two of us, and it was great for a while. I had come to terms with the fact that I was going to be that doctor-husband-father trifecta. But then, we started fighting again. And I started thinking about the future, and I had this moment where it was like, ‘the only thing the two of us have in common is this kid. And if that’s all we have, that’s not what I want.’”

You weren’t expecting this level of vulnerability from him. Despite his obvious discomfort, it’s clear he’s wanted to get this off his chest. It’s nice that he trusts you enough with it. 

But still, you can’t believe some of the stuff he’s saying. “There obviously had to be some love still there,” you reply, hoping to make him feel at least a little better. “You still married her. You stayed with her.”

“We got married because it felt like the right thing to do.” He says it like it’s a fact. “We stayed together and had another kid because it felt like the right thing to do. And, yeah, I loved her, and I don’t regret it at all, because we raised two incredible fucking kids. We did that together. But I also think… I think she deserves better than the person she got. Who I was during our marriage, I mean.” You watch as his face morphs into something like shame. “She deserved better than to be married to an addict.”

You feel your chest tighten slightly. “Langdon…”

“I mean that,” he says, looking you directly in the eye. You can tell he does. “And, yeah, I love her. I still do. And I like to think that I’ve changed. That I’m better, and I’m still trying to do right by her. But I…” He sighs, and it almost sounds like it’s being forced out of his chest. “I love her as if she’s family. Because she is. I love her because she’s my children’s mother. I don’t think I… I don’t love her the way I…”

“...The way you should love your wife?” you finish, because he doesn’t seem to have the words to. 

Langdon throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. “God, I’m such an asshole.” His voice comes out muffled against his hands as he says, “I’ve never said any of that out loud. I must sound fucking awful.”

He doesn’t sound great, you agree, but he sounds honest. He sounds fair. He… 

“You sound like a guy who’s divorcing his wife,” you state, unsure of what reaction that’s going to elicit. He just looks at you between his fingers. “You sound like a guy in a relationship where nobody… fucked up beyond repair, or whatever, but you just grew apart. I’m sure you both could point fingers, her more than you—” You shrug when he shoots you a look. “—but growing apart from someone doesn’t make either of you an asshole. You both were trying to do your best and do what you thought was best for your kids.”

He takes a moment to sit with this. You can see him absorb it. Then, “And you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

A long, heavy sigh escapes your lips. Reflexively, you find yourself glancing down at your left ring finger, and you bring your knees to your chest as you think on this. 

“Maybe a little,” you say after a beat. “Jamie and I were not… compatible, as you said.” You shrug, tension growing in your shoulders. “I didn’t realize it until, like, months after I left him, but yeah. Looking back now, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I know we wouldn’t have made it. Even if—” You stop yourself, throat clenching and catching your words. “Even if certain things had been different.”

He wants to ask. You can tell that he does. You pray that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready to talk about that.

Luckily, Langdon seems to get the hint. But not enough of a hint to refrain from saying, “If it makes you feel any better, I knew you two weren’t going to last.”

A surprised laugh erupts from your mouth. “How the hell is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Because he was a dick,” he replies, a small smile pulling at his lips as he watches you. 

“You met him twice,” you argue, eyes narrowing. “We ended things four months into my first year of school.”

“Yeah, and both times I met him, he was a dick.” The insistence in his voice makes you laugh again. “I’m serious. Even back then, I knew you deserved better than that. He was miserable. It didn’t even seem like he liked you.”

Your smile dips at that, and while you hope he doesn’t notice, you know he does. “I’m not sure he did at that point,” you admit, then shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. That’s all in the past. What I’m trying to say is, there were reasons that we grew apart. We both played a part in it. And most of the time, that’s what causes people to end things. I don’t want to say it’s normal, but it’s… in that instance, it is. Normal. People outgrow each other.”

He casts his eyes up at the ceiling with a heavy breath. “I guess they do.”

It’s quiet then. The sound of your favorite reality show characters arguing fills the now-empty space, and for whatever reason, it all compels you to say, “For what it’s worth?” He turns his head to look at you. “I like to think that you’ve changed, too.”

You watch his face as your words hit him— how it changes into something foreign. Something unreadable. It’s as if he’s trying to figure you out, but there’s something more behind it. You want to tell him to join the club. 

As you try to decipher it, he swallows, never breaking eye contact. “Yeah?” he asks. “You mean that?”

“I do,” you say. “And I think it’s all for the better.”

Once again, all you can hear is the sound of the girls on TV fighting about who’s in the wrong. However, this time around, there’s a new tension in the air. It’s something unspoken, but it’s something tangible. You wonder if he can feel it too.

As he continues to look at you like that, you think he might just be able to. It makes you chuckle uneasily and scrunch your brow. “What?”

Langdon shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says.

You kick him with your foot again. “That look’s not nothing. What?”

He presses his lips together, hesitating just a moment longer than he probably should. “I’m just… really glad you came back into my life,” he tells you. Your stomach flips, not expecting anything like that to come out of his mouth. But he’s not done. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time not knowing you like this.”

The words hit you like a freight train. They almost have you immobilized. Because you can’t think of anything else to say, you manage to say, “Only took you eight years to realize it.”

He turns back to face the TV, pieces of his hair falling into his eyes. “Well, you said it yourself,” he says quietly. “I’m slow to learn what’s right.”

And, regretfully, as your cheeks blaze and your chest starts to tighten in that way that’s become so common around him, you come to an absolutely horrid realization. 

You can no longer pretend that you don’t know what this tension between you two is.

You know exactly what it is. 

And fuck, it is awful. 

OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (2:08 PM)

You get a call from Dana halfway through your date, and it’s unbelievably well-timed. So well-timed, in fact, that your Finance Bro date is convinced that it’s a staged excuse to leave.

No matter how many times you try to look apologetic while you’re on the phone or how many times you explain to him that sometimes, on extremely busy days at the hospital, this happens, he genuinely doesn’t believe you. You take that to mean that he’s on the same page as you about how well this date’s going.

It wasn’t that it was bad. It really wasn’t. That spark had just… died out. Whatever bit of interest that you had in him had faded the more that he only spoke to you about… well, anything. About his job that you didn’t care about. About his ever-important life and his family that summered in The Hamptons. About his interests, what he was reading, the golf he played, and the places he’d traveled. Or, maybe it was how he notably neglected to ask questions about you and yours. 

The mask had been ripped off, and the shiny newness of it all had dimmed. You’re not completely sure how or why it happened so quickly. You suppose that sometimes it just happened that way.

You arrive at PTMC with the go-bag you keep in your car on your shoulder, filled with a pair of backup scrubs and other miscellaneous items. You’re still in the clothes you’d worn on the date. It wasn’t anything fancy or out of your wheelhouse, but the eyebrows you raise give you pause. The majority of these people had only seen you in scrubs or sweats with zero to no makeup on. The rare occasions that you’d go out together were the only exception. The first time you’d forced Mohan to go out for drinks with you, you’d told her that seeing her out of them was like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs. Maybe this was the same.

Dana lets out a low whistle. “Look at you, all dressed up with nowhere to go,” she says. There’s an air of approval in her voice. “Where are you coming from?”

You heave a heavy sigh as you plop your bag on the counter. “A date,” you reply shortly, and you feel Collins’ gaze immediately on you. You point at the two of them as both of their eyes light up. “Don’t get excited. He sucks.”

“They all do,” Collins says, your fellow attending now looking slightly apologetic. “I’m ready to give up.”

You pump a fist at her. “Right on.”

Dana deflates in front of you. “I’ll pretend like that doesn’t completely bum me out. But, I guess it was good timing. I was feeling bad that I’d called you.”

“No, I’m glad you did. He thought you were bailing me out, actually. Didn’t stop bitching about it until I paid for brunch.” Collins blinks at you in surprise, and Dana’s jaw drops. You sigh once more. “Yeah. So don’t feel bad.”

With the shake of her head, she says, “Where the hell are you finding these guys?”

“Hell,” you say. “Hinge. Pittsburgh. It’s all the same thing.”

“Shit-talking the city is never a good way to start a shift,” you hear a voice say as they approach to hand a chart to Dana. By the time you look at him, Langdon’s already given you a once-over, but something in his expression falters as he meets your eyes.

Dana’s already scolding him before he can say anything. “Risky Business over here was on a date, idiot. I wouldn’t have called her in if I’d known that,” she tells him, motioning to you. “You told me she’d be free tonight.”

You glance away from him to look at Dana in confusion. “What?” you ask, then motion to the doctor beside you. “He told you I was free?”

Langdon goes rigid. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters. “That was today?”

It’s said in such a way that you almost believe that he forgot. That it was so incredibly busy that it had completely slipped his mind, and he’d thrown out your name when it was decided that reinforcements should be called in. 

But there’s something in your gut that tells you that that’s not quite the case.

You see Dana and Collins exchange a knowing sort of glance before looking back at Langdon. They seem to be riding the same wave as you. 

Instead of saying anything to him, Dana huffs a soft, disbelieving laugh and then turns to you. “I’d scrub up. We need you out here.”

“Heard,” you say slowly. A strange mixture of annoyance and confusion graces your expression, and you shoot a look at Langdon before walking away.

Had he purposely sabotaged your date? Sure, it had been going poorly, but there was no way he could have known that. Even if it had been the perfect third date, he knew you well enough to know that there was no way you wouldn’t come in if asked. He knew. He fucking knew exactly where you’d be and—

God, this was so like him. Here you were, thinking there was some sort of blossoming friendship between you. You were even foolish enough to think that there was a moment (more than one fucking moment, actually!) between you two back at your apartment. That he might actually like you, not just respect you.

But no. There would never be. Even after everything you’d been through over these last couple of months— even after everything you’d done for him. Because at his core, he was an asshole, and that’s what assholes did. He was still trying to ruin every potentially good thing in your life just to play some little mind game for his own entertainment and benefit.

You hear his footsteps trying to catch up with you as you make your way to the on-call rooms. “Hey, hey, slow down,” he says, falling into step with you. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t remember that that was today.”

“Yeah, you did,” you snap. “Because the last time I checked, you don’t forget things. So don’t pull that shit.”

His head rolls in aggravation, but you can’t tell if it’s because he feels caught or if it’s because he feels bad. “I forgot this time. We’re slammed here, and you were on my mind and—”

“I was on your mind?” you repeat in disbelief, go-bag slamming against your side as you whip around to look at him. “What the fuck does that mean? What, were you thinking about me on this date that you and I both know I was on, and you thought, ‘hmm. What perfect timing. Let’s ruin this thing like I’ve ruined everything else in her life.’”

He has the audacity to shake his head. “You know, you missed your calling as a drama major,” he scoffs. “You’d be killing it in a local production of Waiting For Godot.”

Your hands clench into fists at your sides. Your voice is laced with a quiet sort of fury, making sure not to attract any attention as you say, “First of all, there are no women in Waiting For Godot, so that’s another shitty reference, you fucking idiot. My God, man, crack a book every once in a while.” At that, he smiles in disbelief, like he can’t believe that’s what you chose to focus on. “Second of all, I’m not being dramatic. This is what you do! This is what you’ve always done. You see me want something, and then all of a sudden, you decide that I can’t have it.”

“Did you even want this?” he asks. The volume of his voice and rage in it now match yours. “You just told Dana how awful it was. I got you out of there.”

You feel like pulling your hair out. “That’s not the point—”

“Then what is? I don’t get why this is such a big deal.”

“And I don’t get why you care so much about the fact that I’m dating!” Your voice goes up a level, and you shut your eyes to calm yourself down. When you reopen them, Langdon is staring at you intently. “What is it? Why do you care?”

His arms immediately cross over his chest. “I don’t.”

“Clearly,” you begin, motioning a hand in his direction, “you do. I just want to know why.”

“I don’t care if you’re dating,” he barks. The frustration in his voice is palpable. “Why would I? Why would I concern myself with that aspect of your life?”

“I don’t know, Langdon. Why would you?” You know you’re going back and forth in a continuous, torturous cycle, but you’re too upset and angry to care. “Are you pissed off that you’re scared to date and I’m not? What, because we’re suddenly friends, you think you should get to vet everyone before I get with them?”

“Vet everyone— what the hell are you talking about?” He throws a hand in your direction. “Do you actually think I’d want a say in that?”

“You wanted one tonight,” you say with a shrug. “And you got it. It worked. Congratulations. I’m here and not with the guy who wanted to take me home.”

Langdon tilts his head in a way that makes it look like he’s going to grimace, but finds the willpower to refrain from doing so. “And I’m sure that you’re missing that discussion about how Atomic Habits changed him as a person after the most boring three minutes of your life.”

“Oh, my God.” Your eyes narrow, and a small, disbelieving laugh bubbles in your stomach. “You’re actually mad about this. This is crazy. What is your deal?”

“I’m not—” He puts his face in his hands as if he’ll be able to disappear from this conversation if he can’t see you. “I don’t have a deal. I’m not mad—”

“Oh, you are. You’re so fucking pissed right now,” you laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. “I haven’t seen you this pissed since I diagnosed Doctor Clarke’s impossible patient before you.” Your smile only gets wider as he shifts. “Dance, monkey, dance. Let’s see how far we can go.”

He rolls his eyes, turning on his heel to leave the room. “You’re fucking ridiculous. I’m not doing this with you right now. I’m gonna go do our job, okay? Go save some—”

“Is it because he was hot? Is that what made you mad?” You’ve taken on a rather patronizing tone that you know is a little much, but you don’t care enough to stop. “Because he had money? Because he comes from a nice family? Because you don’t think I deserve that?”

That’s what gets him to stop in his tracks and abandon his exit strategy. His brow furrows deeply, and he looks at you in disbelief. “What?”

His reaction has you shrugging again, though you pull your arms closer to your chest. “It’s just like med school. You don’t think I deserve it. You never thought I worked hard enough, so you made sure I never got the things I wanted. You went out of your way to work harder to make that happen and—” 

“Is that what you think this is?” he asks incredulously. Langdon’s looking at you like he just made some sort of game-changing discovery. “Is that seriously what you’ve thought since school?”

With a soft scoff, you reply, “You never gave me a reason to think otherwise.”

The intensity of his gaze continues to strike you. You’re not sure how much longer you can take it. But he won’t look away. Not until he shakes his head with a tired, soft chuckle and says, “Oh, Flight Risk. You’ve got it all wrong.”

Your lips part in confusion. What does he mean? You had it all wrong? You’d despised each other for years. Competed for years. Were you— how could you have been wrong? This had been a requited hatred, something that you assumed would stretch generations. Centuries. An old, deep-seated grudge would be seeded and solidified between your family and the Langdons. That’s how it was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to throw this curveball.

What was he saying? And more importantly, how long had you apparently been wrong? 

You uneasily resign yourself from the argument, eyes on him cautiously. “What does that mean?”

Langdon pinches his nose, throwing a hand up in exasperation. “What do you think it means? You’re the smartest person I know. Figure it out.”

You don’t believe him. There’s no way you could be wrong. He constantly ruined things for you. Nothing was ever easy with him. He’d made sure of that, thanks to his constant, exhausting competitive nature and his unwavering will to make you work harder than ever before. There was no other way to interpret that. 

But he was saying there was. That you’d read it wrong. How could you have…?

Had he had different intentions? Had he thought that it was different between you? No. You may have been friends now, but back then, he hated you as much as you hated him. He wouldn’t have done half the shit he did to you if he didn’t. Half the shit you did to him had to have made him hate you.

Right?

That rivalry between you two was not one-sided. But maybe it was for different reasons.

Everything between you was a competition, one that made both of you want to beat the other. To think smarter, to work harder-- to be better. And it worked. Perhaps the lengths you’d gone to weren’t necessary, but at the end of the day, it had made you better doctors. 

Better.

Was that what it was?

“You’re not mad because you think I don’t deserve him,” you say slowly, like you’re still piecing this together. “You’re mad because you want me to do better.”

A noise that sounds a bit like a laugh escapes him. “Yes. Very astute. Validating that Academic Achievement award each day,” he mutters, repeating the jab you’d sent his way last weekend.

You want to unpack more of his previous statement. But there’s more to this. Something other than your Med School relationship. It’s more pressing than any of that, and it continues to linger in your mind.

Disregarding his joke completely, you say, “But you were mad because I was on a date.” You’re not sure what waters you’re testing here, but they’re uncharted. “Weren’t you?”

You see him swallow. But he says nothing. It’s all you need.

“You told Dana to call me in because you were pissed knowing that I was out with someone,” you continue. It’s like it’s all coming out at once. All of these realizations are coming to fruition, and you physically can’t help yourself from verbalizing them. “What was it? Was it just the thought of me and him that’s got you like this? Was it because you were thinking about what we were doing? If I was having fun with him?”

Your voice is smooth. Lethal. Somehow soft. Langdon squirms before you, rolling his eyes in an attempt to look unaffected and annoyed. The power of it almost satisfies you. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation right now, I—”

“Or,” you say, eyes narrowing as you read his body language and piece everything together. A small, disbelieving smirk tugs at your lips. “Was it because you were thinking about me getting all dressed up for someone who isn’t you, and you couldn’t fucking stand it?”

Langdon’s entire state of being changes right before your eyes. In fact, the temperature in the room shifts the second those words leave your lips. His mouth snaps shut, his brows draw back, and he takes a full step away from you. But his eyes give him away. They always do.

They’re calculating, if not slightly panicked, like he’d just been found out and was looking for an escape route. But there was none. Not when you were looking at him like that, with that stupid fucking smirk on your face that slowly disappeared as you realized he had no retort to that comment. 

Did he—? Was he—? Were you—? Had you been right?

He’d told you himself that you were good at noticing things. It was a requirement of your chosen career. You figured that what you said probably had some sort of truth to it, but you weren’t expecting this type of reaction. You weren’t expecting him to completely shut down in front of you, floundering for words that couldn’t seem to reach him. 

Fuck. You were right, weren’t you? He was jealous. He didn’t sabotage your date because of your stupid fucking grudge. He was jealous.

You’re not sure which one is worse.

You blink at him, your voice smaller now. “Langdon?”

It’s then that he’s saved by the bell— literally. By some cosmic fucking timing, he’s paged by Mel, who’s asking him to come to Trauma Two for a heart attack, and seconds later you get a call from Dana who’s sending you to North Seven for a broken fibula. You both glance at your phones to hang up, then back up at each other, looking more freaked out than either of you has ever seen each other.

You point at the door without looking away from him. “You should—” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, way too quickly to be normal. He breaks his gaze to motion at your go-bag on the cot. “You should—”

“Yeah,” you repeat. “I’ll, uh—” Unsure what to do with your hands, you turn to dig through your bag for your scrubs. “We’ll… uh, talk about this… later.”

Langdon’s already out the door when you hear him say, “Hopefully not.”

“Okay,” you say curtly. “I’m good with that, too.”

The door slams and you have to take a seat on the cot to collect yourself.

There’s barely any time for you to change and scrub your makeup off your face before Dana’s paging you again. 

You fly out of the on-call room, mind elsewhere.

OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (6:58 PM)

You don’t see him again until the end of your shift, and it's not your finest hour.

On your last case of the day, you’d been tasked with casting a simple broken bone-- something that Robby had offered to you as a relaxed, parting gift and a thank you for coming in. It was a drunk, nineteen-year-old boy who’d been day drinking at his frat and had made the brilliant decision to jump off a deck and onto a folding table in the hopes of breaking it cleanly. He’d succeeded in breaking both the table and his wrist.

You should have seen it coming. He wasn’t all there. Not totally in control of his reflexes, unsure of what exactly was going on. The team had been working on getting his blood alcohol levels down, but there was still something off. 

In the middle of your typical conversation, talking points, and assessment questions, you’d tweaked his arm the wrong way when trying to get it into a sling. It had been an accident. But it’d hurt him. 

And the pain had surprised him so much that he’d pushed you off of him with his free hand, sending you flying back into the monitor so hard that it knocked the wind out of you and sliced your forehead open.

Whitaker, who’d been accompanying you, immediately sprang into action, holding back the boy as he started yelling profanities at you. It had gotten so loud that it’d attracted the attention of the entire ED, specifically Robby and Donnie, who just so happened to be walking by. 

The situation had been diffused with ease and grace (as was par for the course with Robby), and by the time he’d turned to you to make sure that you were okay, Langdon was already in the room.

“You alright?” Robby asks after Whitaker had given him a recap of what had happened.

“Yeah,” you say, removing your fingers from your head. The blood that had dripped down them was sticky and wet, and you grimaced at the look of it. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Langdon says, as if it’s a fact. “You need stitches.”

You glare at him, looking at Robby to see if he concurs. He takes a step forward and examines your head with a squint. “I don’t know if it’s a stitches-level cut, but you know what we say here.”

When he removes his hand from your face, you sigh. “We don’t fuck with head shit.”

Robby’s eyes crinkle as his lips stretch into a soft smile. “Not exactly. But you’ve got the spirit,” he says. He turns to Langdon. “Evaluate her and then start an incident report. And then you,” he says, whipping back to point at you, “are going to clock out and take tomorrow off. You sit on your ass and do nothing all day. You hear me?”

Your frown deepens, and your stomach sinks at the idea of Langdon now being responsible for patching you up. But you push all of that down and nod. “I hear you.”

The monotone, desolate sound of your voice makes Robby chuckle. “Alright. Good work today, kid. Be careful with that arm next time.”

It’s when Robby starts to talk to the frat boy that you look over at Langdon. His eyes flash with a slight panic before he takes a breath and nods at you, motioning for you to follow him. You look at Whitaker and Donnie, who have successfully subdued the kid, then shut your eyes. Reluctantly, you do as you’re told.

As Langdon searches for an empty room, you can’t help but mutter, “I’m fine. Robby said I don’t need stitches.”

“And he told me to evaluate you,” he shoots right back, opening the curtain for you for room eight when he realizes it’s free. “I don’t deviate from orders.”

That gets an actual, true laugh from you. The motion of it pulls at the cut, and you wince. “That might be the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

He pulls the curtain shut as you sit down on the bed, shifting uncomfortably. The tension in the room is thick. It’s palpable and genuinely painful, and you purposely avoid his gaze each time he makes a move. 

You don’t know what to say to do. How were you supposed to pick up from where you left off? How could you? There was no casual way to talk about it, and judging by the way you could feel his eyes on you every time you so much as flinched, you figured he was on the verge of bolting too. Some pair you two were.

With gloves now on his hands, Langdon turns to you to examine the cut. You pretend you don’t notice the way he hesitates before he goes to grab your face, his touch just a bit too gentle to be professional. You can feel the warmth of his fingers through the gloves as they cup your chin. You cast your eyes to the ceiling as he tilts your head.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, finally breaking the silence. It almost startles you. You look at him for the first time since entering the room, only to find that he’s staring at your cut. 

“Yeah,” you rasp, clearing your throat soon after. “I’m fine. I should have been expecting it.”

Frowning, he asks, “Expecting him to deck you?”

Your scowl matches his now. “He was still drunk. Erratic. He’s a nineteen-year-old frat boy at Pitt. I should have expected the way he was going to react to pain.”’

“That’s not on you,” he mutters, moving to grab an antiseptic wipe. 

You sigh, trying your best at a shrug. “It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t. It happened. We signed up for this shit. Gotta take it in stride and be better next time.”

Langdon looks like he has about a million things to say to that when he turns to face you, but he presses his lips together like that will keep them in. Instead, after a moment, when he’s carefully wiping the cut, he asks, “Do you want me to beat him up?”

A surprised laugh escapes you, and the second your body moves, the antiseptic hits you the wrong way and starts to burn. Your smile stays on your face despite the way you wince. “I’m not allowing you to lose your medical license over Chad from Sig Chi.”

Finally, Langdon’s lips twitch upward. “Why not? I’d win. Break his other arm. Teach him not to touch my attending.”

Something stirs in your chest at that, but you push it deep down in the hopes of forgetting about it. “I think Whitaker’s got that covered,” you say with a chuckle. “He basically jumped on the guy after he did it. Started yelling at him and everything. I didn’t think the sweet boy had it in him.”

“Well,” he says, reaching for the flashlight he kept in his pocket. You squint at the light as he flashes it at you, lifting one of your eyes to make sure everything’s in check. “Remind me to thank him for that.”

When the light turns off, you blink rapidly, attempting to readjust to look at him. This time, it’s harder to push that feeling down. Still, you manage to do so. “I already told him I’d buy him a drink the next time we go out.”

You hadn’t, but you’d meant to. You’re not sure why you’d said that, other than the fact that it was something to say. To put some distance between you two. He wasn’t responsible for thanking him; you were. 

God, you hated this. This feeling of not knowing where you two stood. You liked to know every angle of every situation and problem before you made a move. It’s the first thing that Klein had noted about you. He’d said that it was what made you good at your job. You were thoughtful and calculated, but never too in your head to make a decision. You were three steps ahead.

You’d blushed like a fucking schoolgirl and told him that you were just quick on your feet. 

But now, here you were, drowning with cement blocks on those feet. You weren’t good at this. The medical world you knew. You could pull off miracles simply by accessing that little Rolodex in your mind, pulling out the right card to make the right move. But this? There were no notes. You weren’t told how to act, how exactly to be good at it. Nothing about this was natural.

And then there was the fear. Out there, you weren’t scared of anything. Sure, you were careful and you were worried, and sometimes the worst of those worries came true. But you were rarely afraid. You couldn’t afford to be. 

You couldn’t afford to be now, either. You couldn’t make the wrong move. And in all honesty, you weren’t sure what the right move was. Not after…

“Well, Robby was right. You don’t need stitches,” Langdon suddenly says, snapping you out of your spiral. “And you’re not concussed, which is good. We’re gonna give it a little glue and bandage it up, and you’re gonna have a nasty bruise for a little, but you’ll be fine.”

You had figured all of this (you didn’t think the cut was deep enough for stitches, and you hadn’t felt the slightest bit dizzy), but a wave of relief washes over you anyway. “Good,” you say, moving to stand up. “I can patch myself up from here. Thanks for—”

“Sit down, Hawkeye,” he mutters, putting his hand on your shoulder to gently push you back down. “I’ll do it.”

You let out a sharp sigh. “Langdon, seriously, I’m—”

“Sit down,” he repeats. His voice has turned firm, and you know there’s no use arguing. When you look up at him in surprise, his eyes soften. “Just… please. Let me do this for you.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer than you probably should. Then, you nod. 

He nods back, and he gets to it.

He works in silence, wordlessly gathering all the things he needs to fix you up. It’s a quick process, one that takes under five minutes and one that you absolutely could have done yourself, but you don’t say anything more about it. You just rotate from staring at the ceiling, then at the side of his face, and then to the floor. 

A minute in, you ask, “Is this your way of apologizing for sabotaging my date?”

You’re at the point of your rotation where you’re looking at him, and you see his eyes close momentarily. You’re expecting a deflection, a rebuttal, some other contrarian point. But instead he says, “Yeah. Something like that.”

He meets your eyes, reveling in the surprise in them for a moment, before returning his focus to your forehead. You press your lips together. “Okay,” you say lightly. Then, like you’re speaking to a skittish animal, you ask, “Are we gonna talk about that?”

Langdon’s fingers falter as he finishes gluing. He goes quiet on you. You don’t think you’re going to get an answer until, “Depends on where your head’s at.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your mouth. “My head’s currently in your hands—”

“You know what I mean,” he chuckles. Your chest warms as you see the subtle shade of pink his cheeks have tinged. “What do you— If that all were—” He clears his throat, like that will make the words come out easier. “How does… that make you feel?”

“What?” you ask. “The fact that you absolutely have a thing for me and your eyes completely glazed over in a jealous rage and you—”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you,” he all but whines. When you give him a look, he relents. “But… yeah. That.”

You take a moment to collect your thoughts. You want to say the right thing. You don’t want to scare him off. But you also want to figure out how it actually makes you feel.

However, before you can do that, you need clarity on something. “You said I had… whatever I thought about med school was all wrong. What does that mean?”

His throat bobs, and it takes a minute for him to swallow the visible lump. Truthfully, he never thought he’d ever be having this conversation with you. He wants to— needs to phrase it the right way. Especially now.

“I… Back then,” he begins, unwrapping a Steri-Strip. “I never hated you.”

You stare at him. “You sure had some way of showing that.”

“I didn’t like you,” he says, watching as you purse your lips at the correction. “But I didn’t ever hate you.”

“Of course,” you agree, sarcasm laced within your words. “Because there’s a huge difference between those.”

“There is,” he says. “I was just— Listen.” He releases a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “Everyone else in our class was good. They were competent. But I remember looking around during a lab and just knowing that I was better than anyone else there.”

Though it is, unfortunately, the truth, your lips part, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. “And so much more humble, too.”

He ignores you. “And I liked that. That was fine with me because I wanted to be the best. Then, you walked in, and you had this look on your face like you had something to prove. But right after, you sat down next to someone and immediately started talking to them. And I didn’t get that. I wasn’t raised like that. I didn’t understand how you could want to prove something but also want to make friends with the first person you met. There was something about you that told me I should be keeping an eye on you.” The feeling of his fingers on your forehead suddenly starts to feel a little too warm. “So, when you ran out of the room on the first day, I thought I was safe. But then, in the next class, the professor asked this question that nobody knew the answer to. And I remember everyone just staring at her in silence until your hand went up. And you just rattled off this insanely detailed answer that sounded like you were teaching the class instead of her.”

You remember this all too well, too. Heat rises to your face as you think of how insufferable you must have seemed. “Well, you said it yourself. I had something to prove.”

“That’s when I knew I had to worry about you,” he says. “And that, I don’t know. It made me excited. I don’t know if that’s selfish, but it was the first time I felt like I had competition. I wanted to see what you were trying to prove and how good you really were. I wanted to keep that going. So, I just started… intentionally trying to push you. I started calling you Flight Risk to piss you off—”

“Oh, I remember—”

“—and competing with you because I wanted to see what you could do. I know I could have probably been nicer about it, but like I said, I’m not good at that. I wasn’t— I’m not… friendly like you.” He smooths a strip down, and his touch is gentler than before. “But you were good. You were really fucking good and you started scoring higher than I did. On everything. And that snapped me into gear because it made me want to be better. But it seemed like the better I got, the better you wanted to be. And then… it just became fun,” he says, grinning, looking just a bit nostalgic. “Don’t get me wrong, it was hell. I hated that I had done it to myself some days. But it made me better than I thought I could be. And seeing what you could do? I knew you hadn’t had any type of competition before. And after a while, I started to want you to be better, too, because I knew you could be.”

It’s just about what you assumed when he told you that you had everything wrong. In your head, knowing him, it was the only thing that could have made sense. But the whole admission still catches you by surprise. 

There was something about being seen by someone. About someone intrinsically knowing things about you that no one else had caught on to as quickly. Because he wasn’t wrong. You had walked into that class with something to prove. It was one of the best Med programs in the country, and you wanted everyone to know that you belonged there. You hadn’t had competition in a while and had gotten bored with it all. You’d never had someone rival you in that way before.

He’d used the word exciting, and in a strange, treacherous way, it had been. It was exciting for you to have someone not just at your level, but someone who forced you to perform to an even higher standard. There was something about someone who demanded that you be better.

While you didn’t agree with all of his tactics, and yes, he probably could have been nicer about it, it felt good to officially know that he had always seen you not just as a threat, but as an academic equal. 

“So, yeah. You had it wrong,” he continues, nearly finished working. “I never hated you. I hated that you gave me a run for my money, but never you.” With a deep breath, he then mutters, “And now, I’m admitting that I like you and you still haven’t said anything about how you feel about it, which is awesome.”

You have clarity with him for once. For better or for worse. 

You like Langdon, too. It’s something you’ve known for a while but have tried desperately to ignore. After everything you’ve been through, as your relationship has completely flipped on itself— it’s an idea that you’ve resigned to. It’s something that’s been brewing for a long time, and now, it’s finally broken to the surface. It still makes you a bit uneasy, nervous even, but it’s also… exciting. For lack of a better word.

It’s been a desperate search to try to identify the thing you’ve been feeling since you first got coffee with him. Why your heart keeps stuttering when you look at him, why you’re excited to see him day after day, why you look forward to bantering with him, and why it never gets old. 

You like him. You do.

It’s a strange feeling— something you haven’t felt since you left Boston. And while that scares you, something about this one tells you that you don’t have to be. No more running. No more fear.

No more Flight Risks.

“I’m okay with that,” you finally say. He stops what he’s doing the second the words leave your lips. “I mean, I don’t agree at all with what you did and think it was shitty of you to—”

“Yeah, I know, I’m an asshole. We’ve known this for years.” He doesn’t seem too focused on the second part of your statement, more occupied with the first. He crouches down to meet you at eye level. “But… that first part. You mean that?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard. “Weirdly enough, I do.” As if that won’t get your point across, you meet his equally excited gaze. “I like you, you asshole. About as much as you like me.”

You get one of those smiles in return— the one that completely transforms and lights up his face. “About as much?” he mutters, returning to finish bandaging you up.

“Yeah,” you say. You’re grinning just as stupidly as he is. “You’re obviously way more into me than I’m into you. I’m not at the level where I’d sabotage a date you went on—”

“My God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?” he groans. He smoothes the last strip down, fingers lingering for a moment longer than they should. It’s a simple thing that makes your heart stutter. “Alright. You’re all set.”

“Thank you, Doctor Langdon. Incredible job.” You stand from the bench, and instinctively, you reach up to feel his handiwork. “So, what now?”

He turns to you, taking his gloves off. “Now, you go home and do exactly what Robby told you to do. Nothing.”

The teasing note in his voice has you glaring at him. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh, you mean for you and me?” he asks, chuckling as your look sharpens. “Now you wait for that glue to dry, and we turn that Steelers game in two weeks into a date.”

You’re marginally surprised by how fast he came up with that, and you find yourself narrowing your eyes. “Was that your plan all along?”

He shrugs, suddenly just a bit shy. “It might have crossed my mind.”

“I was wondering why you hadn’t let me pay you back yet,” you grumble.

“I’ll take a page out of Finance-Bro’s playbook and let you pay for brunch before the game.”

With a scandalized gasp and the beginnings of a protest on your tongue, you shove past him to leave the room, but find that’s grabbed you before you can make your exit. Your heart races at the feeling of his hand on your hip and the way he grips you to turn you to face him. He nearly forgets what he’s going to say when you look up at him. 

“I’m serious, though,” he gets out after a second. “I… I do, y’know. I really like you. I want to do this right.”

His sincerity makes your heart swell. You put your hand over his and remove it from your side, choosing instead to interlock your fingers. He glances down at your hands, then back at you. “We will.” Squeezing his hand, you say, “Thanks for patching me up.”

He squeezes your hand in return, and God, he looks fucking giddy about it. “Thanks for giving me a chance.”

You return to the floor moments later, Langdon following close behind, both of you desperately trying to keep the dopey-looking smiles off your faces. You’re not sure if anyone notices, but thankfully, no one says anything.

They seem to be too focused on the injury you’ve acquired.

The shifts are in the process of transitioning, and you lock eyes with Ellis the second you walk up to the nurses’ station. “What the hell happened to you?”

Santos’s head pops out of the hoodie she’s putting on as she realizes you’re back. She whistles when she sees the bandage on your head. “Nice battle scar, Jasper.”

Sighing, you take off your badge and place it on the counter. You wave Dana off as she moves to get a look at you. “I’m fine. Got too close to the frat boy in South Three.”

“Little shit swung at her,” Dana mutters.

“He hit you?” Ellis asks, incredulous. 

You hold up a hand. “Pushed me,” you correct. “Don’t worry. Langdon already threatened to beat up the nineteen-year-old, guys. He’s got it covered. Chivalry isn’t dead.”

You hear him scoff, but the warmth in his voice doesn’t miss you when he says, “You're unbelievable.”

“But Whitaker did jump him for me, so we’re all good,” you say, nodding at him as he approaches the station with his go-bag. He flushes when he realizes what you’re talking about. “Held him down and everything. That was impressive, kid.”

He shakes his head with a small smile. “It was nothing.”

“Not nothing. You saved me from the wrath of a boy who’s listened to ‘No Hands’ one too many times,” you say. Then, you address the room. “I’m fine. Thank you all for the concern.” You point at everyone in warning. “Nobody actually beat up the frat boy, please. I’m gonna go sleep this off. I’ll see you all later.”

You head off to your locker with a wave, exhaustion hitting you the second you realize you’re off the clock. You feel Langdon’s eyes on you as you walk away, but don’t turn around. There’s no need for any of your coworkers to suspect that anything’s changed between you two. Not yet.

(They’re well past suspicion. They’ve noticed the change in your relationship since Langdon returned. There’s a secret pool going about when and how something’s going to happen. But it’s cute to see you two try.)

When you’re out of sight, he takes his stethoscope off his neck, wanting nothing more than to follow you out. It’s then that he notices the way that Dana’s looking at him. “What?”

She glances down at the counter, then back up at him. “She left her badge,” she says. “Do you want to run out and give it to her, or do you want me to hold on to it until Monday?”

Langdon reaches for it so fast that Dana thinks he might hurt himself. Still, he’s casual when he says, “I got it.”

He’s already chasing you down when he hears Ellis mutter, “I’m sure you do.”

As the team laughs quietly, he doesn’t turn around and tell the team to ‘fuck off’ like he wants to. Right now, he’s only got one thing on his mind, and it’s something he should have done months ago.

You’re no longer at your locker by the time he gets there. He doesn’t find you until you’re already at your car, just about to get inside.

He calls your name— your real one. Not your last name or your god-awful nickname. The sound of it makes you turn around in confusion.

It happens so quickly that you almost don’t process it. One second, he’s jogging over toward you, the next, he’s in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks and head dipping down to press his lips to yours.

You freeze as you realize what’s happening. He’s kissing you. Frank Langdon is kissing you.

It’s sweet. Chaste, even. His touch is feather-light yet strong, holding tight but allowing you to pull away if this isn’t what you want. There’s no force to it, but still, you find your knees buckling, and you have to hold onto his arms to keep yourself upright.

It’s short. He’s completely stolen your breath from your lungs in mere seconds, and before you can even attempt to respond or deepen it in any way, he’s pulling away. You grip his arms tighter as you meet his gaze, your eyes wide and pupils completely blown out.

The smile that spreads across his lips warms you from the inside out. “You forgot your badge,” he says softly. “And I think I forgot to do that.”

You let go of one of his arms to grab his shirt and pull him down toward you. “Shut up,” you murmur, the words barely making it out before his lips are on yours once more.

You can feel his smile stretch as you take the lead. His hands return to your cheeks, tighter now that he knows you’re on the same page. 

This one’s more intense. It’s much less sweet and way more intentional, and you allow your go-bag to fall from your shoulder to hit the ground. He crowds you, pushing you up against the door of your car. When your back hits it, you gasp, which allows him to slip his tongue in your mouth.

You’re sure you two look ridiculous, like you’re two teenagers who are trying to get their last makeout in before curfew, but you don’t care. You don’t know if it took him actually kissing you to actually process and solidify your feelings for him, but Christ, something clicks. 

You’re not just interested in pursuing Langdon (Frank— if you’re going to kiss him like this regularly, you should really start calling him Frank). It’s not some sort of schoolgirl crush that you’re testing out by agreeing to go on a couple of dates with him. You like him. Like really, fucking like him.

His hands find their way under your shirt, skimming gently along your back in a way that makes you shiver. He’s so close to you that you practically grind against him, and he rips himself away from you like he can’t take it anymore. But he doesn’t move, forehead still brushing yours.

You stare at him, chest heaving up and down, and lips slightly swollen. “You should have led with that,” you say breathlessly, smiling as he chuckles to himself.

His hands are still on your hips, and his thumbs draw circles into them as he turns back to you with a smirk. “Yeah?” he asks. “My little confession back there didn’t do it for you?”

“I loved hearing it,” you reply, tightening your grip on his shirt. “But that got your point across better.”

Frank shakes his head with a smile, and he’s leaning in to kiss you again. This time, he’s all in.

You’re back up against the door, both of you allowing the other to explore anywhere they’d like. Normally, you’d have a little shame or a little decorum, but the craziness of this situation seems to hit you both at the same time. After years of knowing, hating, competing, working, helping, and then finally liking each other, you might have some lost time to make up for. 

You know that someone could walk out and see you. You’d be teased about it to the ends of the earth. But none of that matters.

This matters. He matters.

The second he groans into your mouth, you pull away to start kissing down his jaw. He has to physically stabilize himself by putting his arm on the roof of your car above your head. The other grips your hip harder.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says lowly, and you feel your stomach flutter.

“Who says I can’t finish it?” you ask.

You’re playing with fire and you know it. He grips your face and moves you to look directly into your eyes. “You want to—?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding into his hand. “Do you?”

He looks insulted that you even have to ask. “Of course I do,” he says. “But, I-I had this plan. I wanted to like, impress you and—”

“You impress me every day.” You say it like it’s a fact and he damn near melts into your arms. “And we can still do that if that’s what you want.” You smooth out the wrinkles you’ve put into his shirt. “But, if you want to meet me at my apartment and start that plan tomorrow, I’m also open to that.”

You raise to press a quick, reassuring peck to his lips, but Frank has other ideas. He makes a helpless sound, and he full-on kisses you. The second he feels you smiling into it, he starts making his way down your neck. “You make me— I can’t—” 

Once again, it feels like he has to physically remove himself from you. He steps away, leaving you standing there, pupils blown out, lips swollen, and cheeks blazing. Then, he points at you. “Your apartment,” he manages. “I’ll meet you there.”

For good measure, he catches your hand as he drops his, squeezing it once before pressing his lips to the back of it. Your heart swells.

“Drive safe,” you rasp, voice breaking on the last word as you watch him walk away.

You blink, taking a moment to gather yourself. You’re barely processing it as you grab your go back, fighting the smile that’s threatening to break out on your face. 

No fucking way that just happened. No way.

OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (8:23 PM)

Somehow, he manages to beat you back to your apartment.

You’re surprised to find Langdon waiting for you, sitting on a bench outside your building. He’s looking around, knee bouncing up and down in what you hope is anticipation and not anxiety or regret. 

It’s not until he locks eyes with you that you start feeling nervous yourself. But it’s a good kind of nervous, something akin to excitement. It’s jittery, even. Like you’ve consumed too much caffeine on an empty stomach.

(Adrenaline rush is the word you’re looking for, but you’re too in your head to realize it until later.)

He stands when he sees you, wiping his hands on his pants, then immediately stuffing them into his pockets. Instinct takes over as things start to go more real, and you say, “What, did you go ninety trying to get here?”

He throws his hands up. “I’ve lived here longer than you. I know how to get around.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, passing him to unlock your building’s front door. “I hope you abided by all street signs.”

“Only the important ones,” he says, catching the door as you open it, allowing you to enter. 

You snort at that, launching into some sort of mindless small talk to get your mind off the fact that both of you know what’s about to happen. It’s something about work, about the frat boy who knocked you over, and about a function that’s happening later on this month. But your mind’s on other things.

Jesus, you feel like you’re in high school. You shouldn’t be this anxious. You can’t remember the last time someone made you act this way— this distracted and antsy. Sure, you’d been excited about… others when you’d first started seeing them, but it was nothing like this. At least, you couldn’t remember it being like this.

You know what you want to do. You’re pretty sure he’s on the same page. But still, that anxious anticipation claws at the back of your mind.

When you make it to your door, you’re talking about something that occurred the last time you had a function with the team. Something about karaoke and the song Dana had forced you to sing with her. 

By the time you’ve unlocked it, it’s practically irrelevant. You reach in and turn the lights on before you enter.

“By the way, do you want anything to drink?” you ask, pulling your keys out of the lock. “Water? I might have seltzer in the fridge? I’d offer food, but I haven’t been grocery shopping in like, two weeks and—”

When you turn around to look at him, you’re cut off by him bringing his lips to yours. The second the door closes, he’s cupping the space between your cheek and your neck and moving you gently against the wall— though he kisses you with the same fervor as he had previously.

Or we could do this, you think. This works too.

It’s somehow gentle but intense. His lips are soft, but his hands are rough. Sturdy. While he’s gripping your head, he’s careful not to touch the cut by your hairline. He’s both holding back and refusing to give up. It’s like he has something to prove to you, but you’re not entirely sure what. It’s a jumbled-up mess of contradictions that leaves you confused, but honestly, it’s exactly what you’d expect from him.

His other hand runs up your arm, immediately sending goosebumps up your body. “In case that prick didn’t tell you,” he murmurs against you, “you looked fucking gorgeous when you walked in today.”

Langdon kisses you once more despite the fact that you’re laughing. Your cheeks burn when you pull away from him, resting your forehead against his. “I don’t remember if he did,” you admit. “Wouldn’t have mattered either way.”

You can’t help but mirror the grin that takes over his face. “No?”

“No,” you repeat. You pull back, brushing some of the hair away from his eyes, before your hand falls to his jaw. “I knew he wasn’t going to stick.” Before he can lean in to kiss you again, you put your other hand on his chest to stop him. “Still fucked up of you to sabotage my date, though.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll find a way to make it up to you,” he mutters, dipping down once more to shut you up.

Your lips meet again, and this time, you know exactly what he’s trying to prove. It’s all about keeping that promise. It’s about proving to you that you made the right choice— you’re here with him instead of out with the other guy, and it’s for a perfectly good reason.

It was so like him to compete for something he’d already won.

A nip at your bottom lip has a soft gasp escaping the back of your throat, and you swear his grip tightens on you at the single noise. He’s tense. You don’t know if it’s because he’s unsure or if he’s holding back, but both give you pause. His hands drift lower, fingers running along the hem of your shirt. They skim your stomach, and it has you securing your hold on his neck.

“We don’t have to do this,” you say breathlessly, biting the inside of your cheek as he starts to make his way from your neck. “It’s fast. W-We just-- If this isn’t something you’re ready for, I—”

“No,” he murmurs. “No, I want this. I— Fuck—” The feeling of your hand running against the backside of his head distracts him and he tries to regain focus. “I’m good.”

While he seems certain, you still ask, “Are you sure?”

His response is to simply rise from your neck to your lips, kissing you with enough force that gives you all the confirmation you need. Your back hits the wall, harder this time, and he slips his tongue back inside your mouth. One of his hands travels to the spot where his lips were previously, the other working to take off the jacket you’re wearing. The grip on your neck is grounding, and you help him get rid of your jacket before forking a hand through his hair.

Frank’s nearly heaving when he breaks away, fingers moving to grab your chin. “I’ve wanted this for months,” he states. The hand at your back snags the waistband of your pants, pulling you against him and positioning you so that one of his legs is slotted between yours. He kisses you on the jaw, pulling you forward so that you’re practically grinding onto his leg. “I want you.” Your eyes flutter as he returns to your neck. “I mean it. Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Your body feels like it’s on fire. Adrenaline has flooded your bloodstream, and you’re hyper-aware of everything. Every sound he’s making, every gasp or whine you’ve released. The feeling of his hands against your skin that’s riddled with goosebumps. The taste of his lips. The wear and tear of the twelve-hour shift he just worked (and the one you joined in the middle of) doesn’t show at all. You’ve never felt more energized, and you’ve never seen him this alive.

You want to tell him that you want him, too. You’re feeling everything you presume that he’s feeling— excited, nervous, the feeling of being this… into someone. It still blows your mind that you can and you do feel this way about him. It’s even crazier that he feels the same.

But you can’t verbalize any of that. Not when the air has been sucked from your lungs and not as you practically dry hump his leg in the middle of your hallway. So, instead, you shift to brush your thigh against the length of him, savoring the way he shivers. 

“Well, then, fucking do something about it,” you say, just a bit too mean and a bit too impatient. 

He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a snarl against your neck, and the heat of his breath has a chill running down your spine. “Always with the fucking attitude,” he grits.

You fist his shirt so hard you think you might rip it. “You’re the one saying you want me,” you mutter. “You have me. We both know you’re not a gentleman.” You grind against him once more. “So do something.”

It’s like a switch flips. As if he’s been in the shadows waiting, and those were his trigger words. Frank shakes his head in that way he does when he can’t believe you. You grin against his lips when he kisses you again, and even that seems to be too much for him right now. There’s a strange feeling of relief that washes over you when you realize he’s just as overcome by you as you are by him.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, inhaling sharply as he pulls away from you. He’s already dropping his sweatshirt on the floor. “I’m not fucking kidding. Take them off right now.”

Despite the fact that he’d given the order, he’s the one pulling off your shirt. He stretches the collar when it passes your head, making sure not to brush your cut, and discards it on the floor. You help him out of his, already walking backwards toward your bedroom as he attaches himself to you again.

He’s more exploratory now, hands everywhere he was hesitant to search before. It sets you completely alight, breath hitching the second he starts pulling at the waistband of your pants. You’re standing at the foot of your bed before you do it, legs hitting your mattress. You grab his shoulders to stabilize yourself.

When he realizes where you are, he puts an arm around your back, slowly reclining you back to lay you down. It’s a soft landing. He hovers over you with one leg still stationed between yours. He breaks from the kiss, and his mouth trails down your chest, dipping to the fabric of your bra. You arch into him when he presses a searing kiss just above your breasts.

Going further down your stomach, he speaks against your skin when he says, “You drive me fucking crazy.” 

You perch one of your legs up, thigh brushing his side. His fingers toy with the top of your pants, and you shift into him. “What else is new?”

Frank glances up at you, meeting your gaze. It’s a silent question that’s asking for your permission. You nod at him immediately, heart whirling as a small smile tugs at his lips. “No,” he says, latching his fingers around your waistband. He pulls the tie, letting the strings fall. “You don’t get it. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. He begins to bring your pants down your legs, sucking in a breath when he looks back up at you. You hear your pants hit the floor. “It’s so… easy with you. I don’t have to think when I’m with you, y’know?” You tilt your head at him, unsure of where he’s going with this. “But then, it’s like— you look at me like that and I can’t think straight. I used to hate you for it.” He wets his lips, staring at you like he can’t process the fact that he’s standing here. He bends down, leaning forward to be at your eye level. “I never know what to do with it. It’s fucking debilitating.”

You suddenly feel completely exposed, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re nearly bare. It’s as if he can see right through you. You shift further up onto your elbows, brushing your hand against the one he has on your hip. “Then don’t think,” you tell him softly. “It’s just me.”

He stares at you for a moment longer, then shakes his head. “Just you. Right,” he says, almost to himself. When your brow creases, the corner of his lips twitch up. “You really have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond. Before you can even fathom a way to reply to that, he’s moving, crouching down at the foot of your bed to hook his fingers around the sides of your panties and slide them down. “Just you,” he repeats, almost scoffing. “Like I haven’t thought about this every fucking night since I came back to work.”

You gasp, both at the admission and the sight of him on his knees in front of you. “You have?”

“Don’t act surprised.” Frank rises slightly to kiss the inside of your thigh. “I know you’ve thought about it too.”

You huff despite the way your heart beats out of your chest and ignore his comment. “So, I was right when I said that you’re way more into me than I’m into you,” you tease.

With a disbelieving scoff, he looks up at you. “Hard to believe that when you’re as wet as you are right now,” he mutters. He runs his fingers over your cunt, reveling in the airy sound that escapes your lips. “Jesus. Would have gone down on you the second we walked in if I’d known you were like this.”

The filthy words take you completely by surprise and have your nails digging into your sheets. You don’t have a witty response for that one, especially not as he slips a finger inside of you. “S-shit.”

He works it slowly, testing. Seeing what you like and what you’ll take. He thumbs lightly at your clit, gaze locked on you to see how you fare. You moan at the touch, but immediately want more than the slower pace he’s giving you. As if he can read your mind, he adds a second finger.

You curse, hips bucking into his hand. “Yeah?” he asks. “That what you want?”

“I want—” Your own ragged sounding gasp interrupts your words as he curls his fingers. “Fuck. F-Frank…”

His eyes snap to yours. The sound of his first name falling from your lips has him gripping your hip harder, pinning you down onto the bed as he continues to work. “You keep saying that, and I’ll give you anything you ask for.” Encouraged, he starts to move faster, grinning as you grip his bicep. “Tell me, baby. C’mon. What do you want?”

You’re finding it hard to speak. Your head’s spinning, your throat’s gone dry, and your chest feels heavier each time he pumps his fingers into you. Somehow, you manage, “Your mouth.” You squeeze him tighter. “Frank, p-please.”

His mouth is on you before you can even say the word please. You slap a hand over your mouth to contain the sound of surprise that erupts from you. He zeroes in on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a way that has you immediately grinding into his face. Your back arches as his fingers pick back up, and the moan you release comes out muffled against your hand. 

Frank registers it after a beat. “No,” he says, and the feeling of his breath on your cunt makes you squirm. “Get your fucking hand off your mouth. I want to hear you. Dear God, let me hear you.”

You’re not thinking clearly enough to do anything other than what you’re told. Your eyes roll back into your head as his lips return to your clit, and you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers. You don’t know how you're close already, but you are.

You feel him chuckle against you, and the vibration of it has you forking a hand through his hair. “So fucking agreeable like this, huh?” he chides. “Not gonna be a pain in my ass if it means I’ll get you off.” He removes his fingers for a moment to slide his tongue deeper down. “Would have done this earlier if I’d known this was all it took.”

You knew he’d be mouthy. The whole bickering and bantering shtick was kind of your thing. You didn’t think that would change if you two ever got to this level. But this… was something else. It was a whole other side of him that you’d never thought you’d see. 

It’s exactly what you need from him, and it brings you ever closer to the edge.

When he slides his fingers back in, he adds a third. You let out a desperate noise, head lolling into your mattress. He operates like he does in the ED. He’s calculated. Intense. Precise. Just a bit reckless, throwing a curveball here or there. But he also knows what he’s doing. He’s confident about it, but is still willing to learn exactly what you like to adapt and get the job done. 

One of those curveballs comes flying in as he pulls his mouth from your clit, lips wet and glistening against the low, soft light of your room. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this for months,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, shaking his head. His eyes are blown out. He looks crazed. Starved, even. “Been waiting for you.”

He watches your face scrunch in pleasure as he curls his fingers, the hand on his bicep surging to his opposite wrist. “Shit,” you whisper. “I’m— I’m close.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I know you’re right there. I’ve got you.” But he’s not done. “But, just so you know. I don’t ever want you to give me the ‘it’s just me’ bullshit again,” he mutters, picking up the pace of how he’s pumping into you. He slides his hand from your hip to rub at your clit. “It’s you. That’s the fucking point. And I can’t believe I actually have you.” 

You feel that tension in your stomach get even tighter, and the sounds that are coming out of you are downright pathetic. “Frank, I—O-Oh, my—”

“So, you’re gonna come for me,” he begins, slightly out of breath. “And then I’m going to keep trying to convince you that I’m the type of guy who deserves you.”

You’ve just barely processed his words when his mouth returns to your cunt and he continues his work. You try to keep yourself steady for him, but fuck, you can’t help it. You thrash around, bucking your hips into him as if you’re chasing your release.

“Fuck,” you curse, and if he continues doing exactly what he’s doing, you know you’re done for. “I’m gonna—”

“That’s it, c’mon,” he says against you. He knows. He can feel just how tight you are, and he sees the way your jaw drops open. “Come for me.” Your eyes screw shut. “Fucking do it. Give it to me.”

The second he finishes speaking, you’re gone. You do as you’re told and you come.

He had described his feelings for you as debilitating. You’re not sure you understood what he meant until now. You’d described pain as debilitating before. Sadness, too. It always had some sort of negative connotation. 

But this? This was all the right kinds of it.

You thrash around on the bed, crying out as it overtakes you. Frank holds you in place, chasing you down as you ride it out. It blazes through you like fire, and you can feel it spread all throughout you. It’s something all-consuming and overwhelming, and it has you saying his name like a prayer. He groans into your core, and you swear you might come again.

But, before you can, Frank pulls away, gently laying you back down onto the bed. He’s careful now, every movement contrasting the things he was doing or saying not even a second ago. His gaze locks on you, your eyes still shut, and your chest heaving. He can’t help the feeling of satisfaction that races through him.

When you open your eyes and see the look on his face, you don’t even think about your next move. You grab him by the neck and guide his lips to yours, kissing him with the same fervor that he gave to you. You can taste yourself on him, and something about it sends a chill down your spine. When he hums into your mouth, you can feel him smiling.

“I’ll take it I did well?” he asks, because of course he does. The question comes out mumbled as he nips at your lip. 

“Don’t start acting humble now,” you mutter, finding yourself smiling as he chuckles softly. That chuckle morphs into a groan as you palm him through his pants, and he stops kissing you to hang his head in the space just above your shoulder. “This okay?” you ask gently, watching the way he grits his teeth.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “I just— fuck—” Your fingers travel below his waistband, just barely brushing his cock. For a moment, you think he’s going to latch his teeth onto your collarbone, but he holds himself back. “It’s just b-been a while since I’ve—”

“Been a while for me too,” you assure him, voice lower than a whisper. You can feel how hard he is against your hand, and all you want to do is help him out. “I’ll go slow.”

He lets out an airy laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s the problem.” You stop your movements, looking at him in concern. “If you do what I think you want to do, this’ll be over before we really start it.” 

Your brows shoot up, any hesitation in your expression vanishing as it gets replaced by a small smirk. “Really?” you tease. You run your thumb along the head of his cock and he hisses into your neck.

“Don’t,” Frank warns. “I-I’m serious. I’m not gonna last.”

You nod, removing your hand from him and running it up his abdomen to grab his waistband. “Okay,” you say. “So, what do you want?”

He shakes his head, still a bit dazed. “What?”

“You asked me what I wanted. It’s your turn to tell me what you want.”

His response is almost instant. “Inside,” he says, like he’d been thinking about the answer before you’d even asked the question. His cheeks flare red, but he stands strong. “I want to be inside of you.”

The thought of it has your heart racing, and you’re sure that he can hear it. You nod at him, and the second he has permission, he’s moving to take his pants off. As he does so, you remove your bra, having completely forgotten that you had it on. It gets thrown to the floor with the rest of your clothes, and you move back on the mattress, giving him the space he needs to join you.

He acts fast, so fast that you barely get a chance to look at him before he’s kissing you again, pushing you into the pillows that sit on your bed. The feeling of his hand cupping your breast has you grinding against him. A low noise rumbles in his throat, and he uses his other hand to pin you to the bed. 

“D-Do you—” he stammers as you move your lips down his neck. “Do you have—”

“Nightstand drawer,” you say, knowing exactly where his mind is. 

He uses one hand to lift himself off of you and reaches into the drawer with the other. When he grabs the condom, he rips it open with his teeth, straddling himself over you as he takes it out. “Always so fucking prepared,” he mutters. “Always one step ahead of me.”

You laugh, not even thinking before you say, “Well, I had very different plans when I left the apartment this morning.”

Frank’s eyes snap up to meet yours, and you immediately know you’ve made a mistake. You can’t help the nervous sort of excitement that stirs in your stomach. “With who? That guy?”

Your mouth parts, and you blink at him, desperately trying to come up with something to say. “I—” You shake your head. “I didn’t know how it was going to go.”

He nods slowly, condom now on. When he leans over you, you can feel how hard he is against your stomach. You inhale sharply. “You were going to sleep with him tonight?”

“I mean—” He tilts his head, and everything about it reads as a warning. You cut yourself off as his eyes narrow slightly. “I… I don’t know. If it had gone well. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats. The glint in his eyes is dangerous, and you grip his wrist that’s sitting beside you. “Maybe.”

Oops. You might be in trouble. Because you feel like playing with fire, you raise a brow. “What if I had?” you ask. “How would that make you feel?”

He scoffs, and before you register what he’s doing, you feel him drag the head of his cock around the opening of your cunt. He leans forward, stabilizing himself on one arm that’s placed next to your head. The contact and the heat of him make you inhale raggedly. Suddenly, his other hand is skimming your forehead.

“The second— and I mean the second this thing is healed,” he begins, running his fingers just below the area of your cut, “I’m going to bend you over the fucking table and show you exactly how that makes me feel.”

You don’t have time for a rebuttal. No time to tell him off, to tease him about being jealous, or even to laugh. Because suddenly, he’s moving that hand down to guide himself into you. 

You both gasp, and you fork your fingers through his hair as he bottoms out practically the moment he’s in. He takes it slow— painstakingly so. There’s a bit of a stretch, one that gets more comfortable as you adjust to the length of him. His head falls to your chest, groaning against your skin. 

“But for now,” he says shakily, trailing up your body with hot, open-mouthed kisses, “I’m gonna show you the reason you’re here with me and not with him.”

Your grip on his hair tightens the second he starts to move, and he grunts into the side of your neck. You curse, lips brushing his ear, the feeling of… everything sending you into a spiral. How his hips snap into yours. The way he cups a hand around your breast, testing each movement he makes to see exactly how you like to be touched. How he murmurs your name as if it’s something sacred. 

You might just understand what he means about not being able to think straight when he’s around you. Because right now, you can’t think about anything other than him.

He whispers an unintelligible word, then groans. “Fuck. You feel incredible,” he says. “Knew you would. Never disappointed by you. Fucking ever.”

“Shit,” you rasp. “I need— ngh.” An involuntary moan breaks through to interrupt your barely audible words. “M-Move faster.”

You’re surprised when he laughs. The sound is rough and breathy and almost cruel. He shakes his head as he continues his pace. “After you say shit like that? Y-You try to bait me and make me jealous, and you think you make the rules?” he asks. His fingers fall from your chest to trace down your side. “That’s not how this works. You’ll take what I give you.”

Your back arches off the mattress, and you find yourself grinding against him to get some sort of new, harder friction. It catches him slightly off guard, and he grabs your hip to stabilize both himself and you. “Frank, p-please,” you damn near whimper. His eyes screw shut and his jaw clenches. “I-I need you. Please. Don’t— shit. Don’t be mean.”

With a deep and guttural groan, he starts to move faster. With the look on his face, you’re not sure if it was a voluntary choice or not, but regardless, he gives you what he wants. 

It’s a struggle to keep the self-satisfied smirk off your face, and when Frank opens his eyes to look at you, it’s the first thing he sees. He tells himself he’d stop just to spite you, but he knows he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. You feel too fucking good.

So, instead, he just mutters, “Stop that.”

Your smile grows, and you bite your bottom lip in the hopes of keeping it from forming. “Knew you’d fold.”

“Hard not to when you’re begging like that,” he says, moving to rest his forehead on yours. “Not happening again.”

(You both know it’s a lie the second he says it. But it’s fun to pretend.)

You’re grinning unabashedly when you cup his cheek and lean up to kiss him. This one is messier. It’s just as passionate, if not more, but it’s sloppy, harder to keep up with each other as he continues to pound into you. It’s a steady, quick, gratifying pace, one that already has tension pulling inside your stomach. 

“Fuck,” you moan into the kiss, breaking away as he hits just the right spot. It has you heaving in a breath, and that intensity you know so well washes over his expression. “You— I—”

“Oh, shit,” he grins. “That's it, isn't it?”

You nod vigorously, clawing at his shoulder as you fight to ground yourself. “D-Don’t stop,” you plead. “That— You— You feel so good. Please.”

Something about that seems to send Frank over the edge. He hears you loud and clear. Gripping your hips tighter, your head knocks back into your pillow as he seems to move even faster. You wrap your legs around his waist to bring him in closer, and he makes a noise that comes from somewhere low in his throat.

“I’ve got you,” he says. His voice is absolutely wrecked, and you feel yourself clench around him harder. It has him gasping out, “Fuck— I’ll g-get you there, baby. Don’t worry.”

You’re already pretty close to being there, but you need a bit more. Luckily, once again, he’s on the same page as you. He spits on his fingers and reaches down to rub at your clit. The sight alone has you whimpering. “H-holy shit. Frank, I’m— ngh. I’m fucking c-close again.”

“I know,” he grits. “And it’s the hottest f-fucking thing. “

Each movement of his is deliberate. He knows exactly how to act, how to operate, and what will work best. He has the right patterns and tricks, and knows just the right thing to say to make your head spin. You’d teased him relentlessly about his bedside manner, but this? This didn’t apply. Whatsoever.

He told you he’d get you there, and that wasn’t just a promise. It was a fact.

You can tell he’s getting closer to the edge as his face contorts and his words start to get less coherent. “So fucking beautiful,” he tells you, and God, does he mean it. “You’re fucking unreal. I-I can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

It’s the way he speaks that gets you. He’s desperate, that smart mouth of his now slurring out words with his eyes half-lidded. He straight-up grimaces as you get tighter, and you know that it’s going to be the thing that breaks you. 

“I’m gonna come,” you manage to get out. It’s not a warning. “I’m gonna— Frank, I—”

“Do it,” he says. “I’m r-right behind you. F-fucking come for me again.”

You come within seconds. If you thought the last one was debilitating, this one completely wrecks you. Your orgasm tears through your body, and it’s something white-hot and blinding. You swear you see stars, especially as Frank continues to fuck you through it. He’s whispering things in your ear that you can’t process— things that you’re not even sure he’s processing. Because as you come to, you realize he’s just as gone as you are.

He didn’t lie. He wasn’t far behind you. He follows suit within seconds, finishing with a groan that racks his entire body. His chest is heaving as he hovers up above you, eyes closed and blissed out. He collapses into you, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

You’re both breathing heavily and sweating, and your room is finally quiet. You don’t know if you can move. All you have in you right now is to lift your hand and run your fingers through his hair. 

He hums at the feeling, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your pulse. He sits there for a moment longer, enjoying the feeling of your nails against his head. He allows himself to get his bearings before rolling off of you, making sure to be gentle as he slips out.

Frank all but collapses into the pillow beside you, staring up at the ceiling before turning his head in your direction. You meet his gaze when you feel it on you.

It takes all but three seconds for the two of you to start laughing.

You hide your face with your hands, giggling (giggling! The bastard has you fucking giggling) into them like you’d heard the world’s funniest joke. The sound comes out muffled, but it mixes well with his own. 

Grinning, Frank perches himself on his elbow, reaching over to remove your hands from your face. You look at him in that way he was talking about— the one where he can’t think straight. He shakes his head as if it’ll clear it. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

“I’m not shy,” you insist, though the warmth in your cheeks would say otherwise. “I just— I can’t believe we did that.”

He narrows his eyes, asking a question he already knows the answer to: “In a good way or a bad way.”

You take your hands from him to gently whack him on the arm. “You know it’s in a good way,” you mutter. 

“I know,” he replies. He focuses on your fingers as you intertwine them, knowing your silence a bit too well. “What are you thinking about?”

You glance up at him, pressing your lips together. “The honest or the cute answer?”

Humor graces his features at your response, but he says, “Honest. Always. I hate cute.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh, because despite what just occurred, he’s still him. “I’m thinking about how badly I want to shower right now.”

A surprised laugh leaves him. “Seriously?” he asks, faux outrage laced within his voice. “I was that bad that you need to shower?”

You giggle again (goddamn it), turning onto your side. “No, I’m just—” You motion down at yourself. “The half a shift I worked is still on me. And now I’m sweaty. I feel gross.”

“You look pretty good to me,” he says, and when you roll your eyes again, he chuckles, rolling himself over to stand up. “I’ll get it going for you.”

You nearly reach over and kiss him then and there, but refrain from doing so. You fear you might start things up again. “Thank you,” you say. “I’ll meet you in there.”

He turns around before he gets up, excitement flickering in his eyes. “You want me to join?”

“You just told me you were going to bend me over the table the second my head heals,” you tell him blankly, biting back a smile as you watch his face go red. “I think we’re well past being shy about showering.”

“You’re fucking unreal,” he repeats, and the fondness in his voice doesn’t go missed. Something pulls at your stomach as you realize he’d said those words he’d said just minutes ago. You watch him walk into your bathroom, but before you can rally yourself to get up, he leans his head out to look at you. “What was the cute answer?”

Sighing, you smile softly as you look up at the ceiling. “You said last week that you were really glad I came back into your life,” you say. You turn your head to meet his gaze. “I was just going to tell you that I agree.”

His mouth parts, and he stares at you— but this time, there’s no confusing this look. You know exactly what he’s thinking, and while you might not have the right words to express it, it’s reciprocated tenfold. 

It takes a moment for Frank to speak, but when he does, he says, “Get in that shower the second it’s warm.” He points at you before turning around to turn your shower on. “I mean it.”

The stupid, giddy grin that spreads across your face is bright and bold. Your hands return to cover your face, and you giggle once more. 

(This time, you don’t mind it as much.)

OCTOBER 3RD, 2026. (10:30 PM)

You make it back into your bed after about an hour in the shower together. You’ve never been more grateful that your landlord pays your water bill.

What had started as something incredibly sweet and just a bit domestic, with Frank attempting to wash your hair for you, had somehow ended with him to splitting you open and taking you apart with his fingers, and he’d finally let you repay the favor by taking him in your mouth when you got back into bed.

(“I’m not letting you fucking waterboard yourself just to blow me,” he’d hissed, rolling his eyes as you frowned at him. “Right, I’m the bad guy.”)

You’d gotten into your favorite bulky sweatshirt and thrown him one of your many oversized shirts and a pair of sweatpants from your closet, ignoring his complaints about how they looked like floods on him. The last couple of minutes had been spent watching an episode of the reality TV show you’d shown him that he swore he didn’t like, talking intermittently and kissing during the commercials. 

It was something you were still wrapping your mind around doing with him, but it was getting easier to believe with each passing hour.

But as you continued to think about it— about the brevity of the situation and what this meant or could mean for you and him, something nagged at you in the back of your mind. It reared it’s ugly head every time you looked at Frank and wouldn’t fucking leave you alone.

You had to get it off your chest. He had to know.

As one of the commercial breaks begins and you feel him turn to you, you put a hand on his shoulder.

“I need to be honest with you about something.” You blurt it out so fast that it almost scares him. “And you can’t tell anyone, but you… need to know this before… whatever this is continues.”

He blinks at you. “Well, I owe you one for not reporting me to the Board, so if you killed someone, I’ve got you.”

You laugh despite your sudden nerves, flipping onto your back to stare up at the ceiling. “I didn’t, but it’s good to know I can get to lie on the stand if something happens,” you say, picking at a loose string on your sheets.

He nudges you to get you to look at him, and briefly, you do. “What’s up?” he asks gently.

With a deep breath, you glance back up at the ceiling and say, “I mentioned last week that I didn’t get into a real relationship until I moved to Boston. And I didn’t say— I wasn’t super open to talking about it.” You see him nod from your peripheral, waiting for you to continue. “I’m going to tell you who it was, but you can’t judge me.”

“The fact that you think I’d judge you after everything you know about me is mildly insulting,” he says.

You look over at him. “It was Klein. My attending.”

His brows shoot up to his hairline. “Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit,” you mutter. You take a deep breath. “We started seeing each other three months into my intern year, and I was just… obsessed with him. Which is so fucking embarassing looking back, but… I was.” You fumble with your fingers that are resting on your stomach. “I was just so starstruck by him. He was so good and he was so accomplished and so… nice to me. He told me so many times that he was drawn to me because of the things I could do, and I couldn’t believe that he’d… picked me? And after Jamie, I wanted to feel like someone’s choice.”

Frank reaches over to cover your hand with his, intertwining his fingers with yours. It’s a small, quiet comfort, and there’s a piece of you that appreciates that he doesn’t attempt to console you. He just lets you continue.

“Things happened really fast between us. Like, way too fast. It was a secret, of course. Nobody knew. Nobody ever knew about the shit he did. I mean, I was practically living in his apartment by the end of my first year, and nobody suspected a thing. He had me considering whether it was worth it to renew my lease. And it’s one of those things that, looking back on it, I should have seen what was happening,” you say. “But he had this hold on me. And even if I had wanted to, it wasn’t like I could escape him. He was my attending. We worked together. He was supposed to be my mentor, you know?” You swallow harshly. “But it never felt wrong. Ever. Not until things started falling apart.”

Frank squeezes your hand. “You don’t have to—”

“No. I want you to know this. And there’s a point to this, I promise,” you assure him. He nods into his pillow, eyes never straying from your face. “Out of nowhere, a year in, he just decided he was done with me. He told me that something had happened where he reconnected with his ex-girlfriend or something, and they’d decided they were going to try things out again. And before I knew it, he was throwing transfer applications at me and connecting me with Robby and telling me I had to get out of Boston.” You shut your eyes, steadying yourself. “He told me I was too much of a ‘temptation.’ We couldn’t be in the same hospital because he was afraid of what I’d ‘make him do’ at his big age of forty-five.”

“What a fucking asshole,” Frank scoffs. “Jesus. I had no idea.”

“I didn’t tell anyone— haven’t told anyone. I didn’t want you guys to think I was able to transfer because I was fucking my attending,” you chuckle humorlessly. “But it happened. I fell for his whole… thing. I was way too old and way too smart to fall for it, but I did. And I left because he told me to, and I went to the place he told me to go. I didn’t know it would end up being one of the best things to happen to me, and I hate that I owe him for it, but yeah... It’s something I did that I have to live with.”

“You don’t owe him for anything.”

“I know. I know I could have transferred anywhere I wanted to without him. But, still…” you trail off. You shake your head as if it’ll clear the thoughts that are in it. “I’m telling you all of this because I don’t want… this to turn into that. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t escape me. If things go wrong, I don’t want it to affect either of our careers like it did mine. Especially with all the eyes that are already on you.” He goes to interrupt you, but you turn to him and continue. “I don’t want to be Klein. Despite the fact that we should be at the same rank, we’re not. I’m an attending. You’re a resident. If people find out about us, I don’t want it to reflect poorly on you. I know it’s not the same—”

You’re not expecting him to laugh, but he does. He wipes a hand down his face. “It’s not even close to the same thing.”

“Why are you laughing? This is serious, Frank. This is—”

“Are you going to treat me differently at work?” he asks you. “Play favorites? Lay one on me in the middle of an intubation?”

Your expression goes blank. “No.”

“Are you going to make me fill out a transfer application if you get pissed at me?”

“No,” you sigh, knowing exactly what he’s getting at.

“Are you or have you ever been unprofessional in your life?” When you go to object, he cuts you off. “With anyone but me?”

Scowling, you answer, “No.”

“Then it’s not the same. Because you’re not Klein,” he tells you, looking you directly in the eye so it’ll get through. “You’re not a reckless, manipulative douche who doesn’t care about the careers and futures of the people around them. He was twenty years older than you and took advantage of your talent and your kindness.” He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine you doing anything like that. Not just to me. To anyone.”

There’s a part of you that knows that. All of it. Frank was right— you weren’t reckless or manipulative. You’re not Klein. You’d never want to be, and you’d never allow yourself to be. But even after everything, he still lingers in the back of your mind. 

You hate him for it. You hate him for a lot. But you hate him the most for that.

“I know,” you say again. “I just… I think we should take things slow. Make sure we’re not being reckless. I don’t want to rush into anything.”

His eyes haven’t left you since he finished speaking. Something flickers in his expression before he lifts up his arm. “C’mere.”

The action makes your throat immediately tighten, and you sigh before obliging. You nuzzle yourself into his side, cheek against his chest, as his arm drops to wrap around you. His fingers trace mindless patterns on your side, and suddenly, the overwhelming urge to cry overtakes you. You can’t explain it, and you don’t do it, but the tears pricking in your eyes have you biting the inside of your cheek.

He speaks against your hair. “You care too much for your own good, you know that?”

You huff. “It’s one of those weaknesses the newbies can’t know about.”

“No,” he says. “Not a weakness. Never a weakness.” He presses his lips to the top of your head. “It’s who you are. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

You shut your eyes at the words, and Frank feels your hand grip the shirt you gave him. Somehow, it endears you to him even more. Ignoring the burn in your throat, you grumble, “There are so many better things about me.”

His chest rises as he chuckles. He seems to disregard your comment as he asks, “I gotta say,” he begins, “you know that this isn’t taking things slow, right?”

Your cheeks burn, and you smack his stomach lightly. “No fucking shit,” you mutter as he continues to laugh. “I meant… more along the lines of how things progress after this. I want us both to be comfortable with it. I don’t want…”

“...You don’t want to be considering breaking your lease in a few months,” he finishes, and yeah— he’s taken the words right out of your mouth.

You sigh against him. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You know his pauses well enough at this point to know that he’s thinking. He moves his free hand to cover yours again. “Listen. I meant what I said before. About wanting to do things right,” he tells you. He plays with your fingers, and the simple action has your heart beating just a bit faster. “I know that this…was a little out of order, but from here on out, I mean that.”

You shift onto your stomach and place your chin on his chest to look at him. “Are you saying you don’t want to have sex with me anymore?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he says immediately, a smile pulling at his lips as he feels you chuckle against him. “If I ever say that, take me out back and put me down like Old Yeller.” 

“Heard.”

“What I am saying is that…” He trails off, searching for the right phrasing. He finds a moment later. “There’s a rule in recovery,” he begins slowly, “that you’re not supposed to make any big life decisions until you’re a year clean. I did that time and then some. Four more months of it. And even in those four months, so much has changed for me.” He meets your gaze. “But how I’ve felt about you hasn’t. That’s one of the only things that’s stayed consistent for me since we first got coffee.”

You feel your throat tighten. “Frank—”

“I did the time. I did the waiting. I waited to see if there was some sort of clarity I was missing,” he continues. “But I came up empty. Everything about you was clear.” 

You don’t know what to say. Luckily, he has the words.

“We’ll take it slow. I’ve waited this long for you and I don’t want to fuck it up. Not this.” He sounds so sure. Insistent. Sincere. Those tears from earlier return, and this time, you don’t try to hide them. “So, yeah. We’re gonna go to that game. I’m gonna open the door for you and I’m going to pay for brunch even though you make way more money than I do, because fuck that guy.” You let out a watery laugh, and the sound of it makes him grin. “We’re gonna do this right, damn it. And if I’m lucky, you’ll kiss me at the end of the night, and you might like me half as much as I like you.”

His fingers readjust their grip on yours, and you squeeze them. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” you say, pressing your lips to his shoulder. “And I think you’ll get more than a kiss.”

Frank’s free hand raises in a fist, and he pumps it in the air. “She likes me! She really, really likes me!”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you go to remove yourself from him. “Oh, God. Not anymore. Ew.”

He grabs you before you can get too far, flipping you onto your back to hover over you. A yelp escapes you, and you try your hardest to keep the smile off your face. “C’mon,” he chides. “You were just talking about how bad you wanted to kiss me.”

“That was before you hit me with another bad reference,” you say. “It’s actually impressive how consistently shitty they are. You’re lucky you’re a good doctor because pop culture is so not your thing.”

It’s clear he’s not listening very intently, as he leans down and presses a searing kiss to your collarbone, making his way up. Against your neck, he murmurs, “I guess you’ll have to keep me around long enough to teach me what’s right.”

A breathless laugh leaves your lips. “T-That’s going to take a while.”

“That’s kind of the idea,” he says.

He pulls away from you, and you find yourself staring up at him. “Yeah?”

Frank pushes his lips together and stares at you, clearly unsure of his next words. “Last week,” he begins slowly, “you said that it’s normal for people to outgrow each other. That it happens.” 

You nod, unsure of where he’s going with this. “Yeah. And I stand by it.”

He looks at you for a moment longer, then returns your nod. “Well, I don’t…” He bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying to figure out if he should say what’s on his mind. “No matter how this plays out, I… I don’t want to outgrow you. I don’t see myself doing that.”

A shaky breath leaves your lips, and yeah, those tears are definitely coming back. He’s always talking about how he can’t believe you, how he doesn’t get you, how unreal you are— you wonder if he’s ever stopped to consider that you feel the same way about him.

You cannot believe him. You can’t believe the things he’s done and can do, the way he’s bettered himself, and who he’s become to you. You can’t believe that this man, whose picture you once threw darts at as a joke at a bar in med school, is now admitting things to you like this and is making you feel this way. 

You can’t believe that the person you had once wished nothing but the worst for was now one of the most important people in your life, and you’d do anything to help him feel that way. And you can’t believe that now, you know he’d do the same.

With a sniffle, you allow him to brush away a tear that falls, his hand lingering on your face to caress your cheek. “Then we’ll grow together,” you whisper, shrugging. “You can’t outgrow someone who’s growing with you.”

You see a lump form in his throat. You don’t realize he’s tearing up too until he lets out a watery laugh and asks, “Simple as that?”

“No,” you say, laughing along with him. “Definitely not simple. But I know you. And you know me.” You grin when you ask, “And when the hell have either of us given up on things just because they’re hard?”

There is no power above that could stop Frank from kissing you after that.