#....!

You sigh, plucking the cherry out of the liquor in your glass and pushing it into your mouth—a perfect distraction from the impending walk back to the apartment. 

The apartment.

Your apartment - question mark?

You've lived there for months, at this point.

But the lease wasn't under your name, which was normally something that would make you feel nervous—sleeping under a roof that doesn't legally belong to you.

But it is Frank's.

Frank, who you have known for as long as you've been a volunteer at Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center. Who, despite being observed as a cynical asshole among his peers, had always said good morning to you before he stepped around you.

Frank, who went away for a long time. Who came back. Who you found - stumbled across - one afternoon in a back hallway, clutching a styrofoam cup of hospital brand coffee.

You didn't ask for details. 

But you did sit, knees against your chest, just outside of his reach. You weren't shy about seeing people vulnerable - part of your job in patient advocacy - but you were aware of how rigid his body looked.

The conversation started simple—he made a self-deprecating joke. You told him that you were glad he was back, and meant it.

From there, you learned the bits and pieces of his story-to-date: rehab. Divorce. More rehab.

Messier than I meant it to be, he admits one day.

It takes a long time after that for Frank to open up about much more.

All the while, you continue to visit PTMC—once every two weeks. 

Eventually, Frank asks—a cup of coffee, in a place without fluorescent lighting. 

You agree.

It was a slower start than any other relationship you had—months until either one of you even used that word—but it was sweet. 

You could be patient. 

Because it was Frank. 

Who explained where he was, how he felt, even if the words were sometimes messy. Who continually proved that he thought about you throughout the day, who remembered how you took your coffee and which Thai restaurants you avoided and which day of the week you preferred.

When he asked, suggesting that you could start keeping more things at his place if you wanted to, you agreed. 

Because it was Frank, who felt more like security than anything you'd ever met.

The weight of an arm slings across your shoulders, interrupting your thoughts.

It only takes a second for recognition to break through your blurry thoughts. 

Frank. 

He’d sent you a text hours earlier, telling you how everyone had plans to meet up at the local dive bar after their shift - a rarity that they were all off at the same time - and asked if you wanted to meet there.

You’d almost said no, your heart partially set on a chill night in. But you did like the idea of a spontaneous night out. And you like Frank’s friends.

You like that he wanted to include you. 

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Frank says. You lean into him on instinct, his side warm and familiar to you. 

“What look?” you ask. 

“The one that says you’re ready to leave.” 

You laugh, soft and short, tilting your face up to see him. “I do not,” you retort. “I’m good. I can hang.” 

Frank squeezes your shoulder. “Let me take you home anyway?” 

A beat. “You’re not going to buy me dinner first, before asking?” 

Frank smiles. “Whatever you want.”

You feel your face warm at how easily he agrees. How can you argue with that? “Fine.” 

Clearly pleased with himself, he leans in, quick, placing a kiss to your temple. 

It distracts you enough that you don't notice as Frank plucks your barely-sipped drink from your hand, abandoning it on a nearby table. You watch as his eyes flick across the room before his gaze settles on Cassie. 

"Hey. We're headed out."

Cassie nods, then gestures a wave with the hand not holding a pool stick. "See ya later." Then she ducks her head, meeting your gaze. "It was good to see you tonight!"

You beamed in response, waving back. You like Cassie McKay. "Bye!"

Frank’s arm drifts from your shoulders, his hand settling at the small of your back. Not pushy, but present. Your feet don’t move and he raises an eyebrow. 

“My tab!” You exclaim. 

He lets out a breath of a laugh, his smile teasing a dimple. “Already taken care of.” 

You start to walk with him then, the sluggish effect of your drinks coupling with the late night. “I thought they kept your card? I haven't closed out yet.” 

“I have it.” Frank pats the front pocket of his shirt. “And before you ask—no, I didn’t sign for you. I used my card, like I asked you to do to begin with.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Frank pushes the bar door open. The cool night air feels welcoming against your skin. 

“But I want to,” he says after you both cross the threshold. “Think of it as my way of supporting Al’s without drinking.” 

You hum a quiet reply. “Thank you. Hold my hand?” 

“You’re welcome.” His hand trails across your back like he’s unwilling to break contact before his palm finds your already outstretched hand. “Yeah.” 

Frank’s fingers slot between yours, his grip keeping you close as you both make the walk from Al Place to Frank’s apartment. It was only a few blocks, but you still felt thankful that you had worn comfortable shoes. 

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Frank says, breaking the lull in conversation as you step over a rough patch of sidewalk. 

“Mmm? Oh.” You look up from your concentration on the ground. “I like your friends.” 

You catch something flickering across Frank’s face - and you’re unsure of whether it’s from amusement or something else. 

He doesn’t offer a comment. You try to not think too deeply about it, especially as the soft glow of his apartment building comes into view. 

Through the front door of the complex, then past the lobby—until you both stand in front of the elevator. A few floors later, and Frank’s unlocking his door with a soft jingling of keys. 

You both fall into the comfortable routine of coming home together after a night out. You slide your shoes off; Frank puts his backpack away. 

“Gonna be okay if I take a shower?” He asks. Even though he had changed out of his hospital scrubs after his shift, he often complained about still feeling dirty until he got home.

“Yeah. Go ahead.” 

You split ways with Frank—he goes to the bathroom, and you tip-toe into the bedroom with the kind of carefulness that only comes from being tipsy.

You plop on the bed as the sound of the shower starting drifts to the bedroom. You think there can't be any harm in laying down—just for a second.

One second turns into two, turns into the feeling of your body moving as the mattress dips in acknowledgement of the added weight of Frank Langdon.

His hand is on your shoulder, giving an experimental nudge. He calls your name. You grunt in acknowledgment. He repeats your name, then: "Come on, Sleepy Head. Let me see those eyes."

You crack your eyelids to see Frank in your space. He's all blue-eyes and wet hair and he smells like soap and feels warm.

"There she is," he hums, pleased, thumb rubbing over your collarbone. "Can you sit up for me?"

You shake your head no. 

"Too sleepy," you murmur.

He tuts - disapprovingly, you think - but he doesn't look any less fond. "What if I help you?"

You consider. Then, with a heavy sigh—”Okay.”

Frank helps you back into a sitting position. Your eyes fully open. The room is, unfortunately, spinning.

"Do you want to try a shower?" He asks. You shake your head. "I guess I should've taken you in with me," he teases.

You blink up at him, pouting.

He pokes your bottom lip. "None of that. Here—stay up right, and I'll get you a change of clothes, yeah?"

To your credit, you do as he asks, swaying only once before he returns to your side. 

He holds a shirt out for you to inspect. “This one okay?” 

“‘s a good one.” 

You pinch the fabric between your fingers. It’s a well-worn shirt, one of your favorites that you frequently borrow from Frank—large, with a faded band logo that you’ve never heard of. 

Without another word, you lift your arms upward. Frank chuckles. You’re glad he’s amused and not annoyed. He follows along, placing his shirt across your lap as he helps tug your current shirt over your head. 

His palms brush against your skin. Each touch is feather-light, just enough to complete the job of getting you dressed. 

It’s a restraint that is so contradictory—so Frank, and so un-Frank at the same time. 

Your arms go through the armholes. Your head pops through the collar. Frank kneels on the floor, palms resting against your thighs. 

He looks up at you, and your breath stutters. 

He’s so honest. So careful, when it comes to you. 

“Doing okay?” He asks. You can feel the heat of his palms through the material of your pants. 

“Fine,” you reply. 

Frank gives you a little, half-smile—crooked, devious, and charming, all at the same time. You can’t help but wonder if he can feel your thoughts swimming around; if he can pluck out which ones are because of him and which ones are because of tequila. 

“‘Kay.” He hooks his fingers into your waistband, tugging at the stretchy material. “Up, please.”

You lift your butt to let Frank pull your pants to your thighs. 

“Good. Thank you.” His voice is quiet, and he gives your hip a small tap tap as you lower back to the mattress. 

The pants go without much resistance, until they bunch at your ankles and Frank works your legs free.

He leans forward, dark strands of his freshly-washed hair falling in front of his brow. His nose brushes against your thigh, lingering until you are overly aware of the feeling of his breath puffing across your skin. 

Frank presses a kiss against the swell of your thigh. 

You think he might do more, can feel how hot your skin has grown—but no. 

He leans back on his heels, fingers still pressed against your hips, and stares. 

His hair has already started to curl against his forehead. Hues of pink have started to spread against his cheeks. 

“What?” You ask, before the silence makes you too uncomfortable.

“Nothing,” he replies. “Just admiring how pretty you are.” 

“You’re so—” Nice. Sweet. Full of it. You don’t get the words out before your body jolts as your mind remembers. “Shit!” 

Frank startles, clearly not expecting you to react with a jolt. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“My makeup,” you whine. “It’s still on.”

You watch Frank open his mouth, then close it, then watch as his brow dips in a furrow. 

“That’s what’s wrong?” 

“Yes. I’m cozy. But I’m gonna break out if I don’t take it off.” 

The muscles on Frank’s face twitch, like he’s trying to keep it together. You think he might laugh at you for worrying about something so trivial. 

He doesn’t. 

It does take him a second to get a straight face again. But when he does, he simply asks: “Do you want me to help?” 

Not a part of your plan.

“No, no, you don’t have to.” You’re quick to protest, almost squirming away from his hold. 

“I don’t mind.” 

“You already helped me into pajamas.” 

Frank tsks. You feel his grip loosen, adjusting softer. “That was nothing,” he says. And then, because he’s Frank, he asks again: “Can I help?” 

“I—” His thumbs move across your hipbones, back-and-forth, destroying any willpower you maintain. “Okay.” 

He gives you a soft squeeze, then stands. He walks towards the bathroom, and you hear the distant sound of items shuffling in the cabinets. 

Several minutes later, he returns with hands full. He steps forward until he’s close enough to drop the supplies to the bed. You glance over, noting the bottles and packs of cotton pads he chose. 

“You know how to use these?” You ask. 

“I think I’ll manage.” He sits next to you. The bed dips. Interested, you shift to face him. 

Frank grabs the bottle with a pink top - Micellar water - and opens it. Then he takes a cotton pad and saturates it. 

“Gonna hold your face now,” he murmurs. A thumb tucks under your chin, his fingers steadying you so that you don't feel wobbly anymore.

He swipes underneath your eye, gentle but with a purpose. You vaguely wonder if this is what it feels like to be patient underneath his care. 

The cotton pad glides across your face in smooth strokes. Then he sets it aside, and repeats the process with a new one. 

“Look up,” he requests. You do. “Close your eyes.” 

He meticulously rubs away the mascara on your eyelashes—firm, but not enough to hurt. “Feels okay?”

“Mhm.” You can’t imagine a way that he could touch you and it wouldn’t feel okay. 

“Tell me if it stings.” His voice is so low, you might miss it if you weren’t sitting so close to him. If your knees weren’t touching. If his attention wasn’t entirely on you.

“Okay.”

Eventually, he moves on to another part of your face. You open your eyes, watch as he concentrates. His touches eventually slow, and there's a small pile of cotton pads on the bed. 

“All done,” he announces. 

You wish that you could pause time; or rewind it; or do anything to hold the moment still in your hands. 

He stands, gathering the supplies again, and walks back to the bathroom. You can see just far enough to watch him return the bottles to the cabinet and dump the cotton pads into the trash.

When he comes back into the bedroom, you feel sleepier. Satisfied.

You lean forward when Frank stops in front of you. He brushes hair away from your forehead. 

“Feel better?” He asks.

“Mmm.”  

“Good.” He taps the tip of your nose, making you blink. “Let’s go to bed then, yeah?” 

“Yeah, Frankie.” 

A beat. You glance at Frank. 

You see someone who looks sated. Still hungry, though—like he wasn’t finished. 

The moment lasts for a second—then it’s gone, replaced by the sound of Frank clearing his throat.

He walks to his side of the bed, pulling back the covers, then sliding underneath. He pats the space next to him. “C’mon.” 

You crawl across the bed until Frank gathers you against his chest, beneath his chin.