#patrick ball x reader

He was halfway through microwaving leftover pad thai when the noise stopped. Not the usual pause—just complete silence. Then a crash so violent his fork clattered to the floor. Glass shattered. Something heavy hit the ground.

"Hey—" He was at your shared wall before he realized he'd moved. "Hey, you good?" Nothing. Not a groan, not a whimper. Just silence.

Frank's pulse kicked up before his brain caught up—emergency mode, the kind that bypassed his thoughts. He was out his door in three strides, pounding on yours.

"Hey, open up!" The wood rattled under his fist. No answer. He fumbled for his phone, dialing 911 with one hand while his shoulder hit the doorframe, assessing.

"EMS, I need—" A gasp cut him off as he twisted, driving his heel just above the knob. The door flew inward with a splintering crack.

The scene hit him in layers. The tang of blood, glass glittering like ice across the floor, and you—curled on your side, one arm bent beneath you at a sickening angle.

He dropped to his knees, phone forgotten, fingers already at your throat. Thready pulse. Shallow breathing.

He rolled you gently onto your back. A hiss escaped your lips—pain. That was good. Conscious-ish. Your eyelids fluttered.

"Hey. Stay with me." His hands moved on autopilot, checking for spinal misalignment, the telltale uneven rise of a flail chest. Right side wasn't expanding right, he thought. Shit.

You caughed, a wet, jagged sound, and your hand spasmed against his wrist. "'M fine," you slurred, trying to push him away.

Frank caught your wrist before you could swipe weakly at his face. "Yeah, no," he said, voice low and firm. "You're about as fine as a turkey on thanksgiving."

Your ribs were a mess—he didn't need imaging to know that. The way your breath hitched told him everything.

Sirens wailed in the distance, close but not close enough. He shrugged out of his scrub top, wadded it into a makeshift pillow to elevate your ankle—already purpling beneath your tights.

"Look at me," he ordered when your gaze skittered sideways. Your pupils were uneven. "C'mon, it's concussion protocol. Count backwards from ten for me."

"Ten," you mumbled, then blinked up at him with sudden clarity. "Wait—my performance is—"

"Is canceled," Frank finished, pressing two fingers to the pulse point below your jaw. "Unless your boss is into interpretative trauma." The joke landed flat, but your mouth twitched anyway.

The ambulance bay doors slid open with a hiss, light spilling over the gurney as Frank jogged alongside it, one hand on the rail, the other keeping pressure on the makeshift bandaged he'd rigged from your own torn leotard.

"Pneumothorax on the right," he said to the waiting trauma team, his voice slicing through the noise. "Get me a 14-gauge, stat."

Your fingers scrabbled at the sheet, knuckles white. "No—no tubes," you gasped, arching as another wave of pain hit. Frank caught your wrist, thumb pressing into your racing pulse.

"Listen to me," he said, ducking his head so you'd see nothing but his face, nothing but the certainty of it. "You're gonna feel like you're drowning in about ninety seconds if we don't do this. And I didn't kick down your damn door just to watch you suffocate."

The trauma nurse handed him the needle kit, and he didn't miss the way your breath hitched at the sight of it. "Hey, eyes on me. Breathe through it."

The needle slid between your ribs with a pop that made your whole body jerk. Frank's free hand clamped down on your shoulder, holding you still as the trapped air hissed out.

"There," he muttered, watching the color creep back into your lips. "Breathe. Just breathe." Your chest rose—shallow, then deeper—and Frank felt his own lungs unlock.

The trauma team swarmed around you, rattling off numbers he barely processed. Someone started an IV; another tech cut away your ruined tights to expose the ankle swelling. Through it all, your fingers stayed twisted in Frank's scrub pants, knuckles brushing his thigh every time you tensed.

Nazely, who was on shift, gave a questioning glance at Frank—protocol said he shouldn't be the one doing this, not when it was personal.

Frank ignored her. "She's jumpy with strangers," he lied smoothly.

Nazely handed him the clipboard with imaging results. Frank scanned it, then held it out of reach when you craned your neck.

"Broken ribs four through six, mild pneumo, grade two ankle sprain—"

"Sprain?" You tried to sit up, wincing. "That's it? I can dance on a sprain."

Frank caught your shoulders before you could rise more than an inch, his grip firm but not unkind. "You also have a concussion that would make it worse," he said, flipping the chart around to show you the CT scan. "See that shadow? That's your common sense taking a vacation."

You squinted, then groaned when the motion sent a spike of pain through your temple. "I have rehearsals," you muttered, finger splucking at the hospital gown's thin fabric.

"And I need to sleep," Frank shot back, nudging your IV line away before you could tangle it. "Neither of us is getting what we want tonight."

He paused, watching your teeth sink into your lower lip. The stubborn set of your jaw was familiar—he'd seen it in the mirror enough times after his own shifts.

"Look," he said, softer now, "you're looking at six weeks minimum. Probably eight."

Your breath hitched—not from pain this time. Frank saw the moment it hit you. The missed performances, the lost contracts, the brutal math of recovery time versus your career.

Frank watched you blink rapidly—too fast, the way people do when they're trying not to cry in public. He'd seen it a hundred times in the ER, the stiff upper lip before the dam broke.

Without thinking, he reached out and thumbed away a tear that escaped down you cheek.

"Hey," he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear over the beeping monitors. "You know what they call a dancer with a sprained ankle?"

You glared at him through wet lashes. "What?"

"Still a dancer." He shrugged, squeezing your fingers lightly when your breathe caught again.

Nazely cleared her throat, holding up a clipboard. Frank took it, scanning the discharge instructions. "Eight weeks," he confirmed, scribbling his signature with a flourish.

"And before you argue—" He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. "I live next door. I will narc if I catch you dancing."

The morphine hit your bloodstream, softening the edges of your pain until your fingers unclenched from the bedsheets. Frank watched your eyelids grow heavy, your breathing evening out as the IV drip did its work.

He should've left when the night shift took over. Should've gone home, showered the ER stink off his skin, maybe burned these scrubs.

Instead, he found himself leaning against the doorframe of your hospital room, arms crossed, studying the way the lights painted your bruises in shades of purple.

"You're staring," you mumbled, voice thick with drugs.

"Just observant," Frank said, pushing off the frame to drag a chair closer. "Also because you're concussed. Which means you get a pass on bad decisions tonight. Including this little act you're pulling where you pretend you didn't almost perforate a lung."

You huffed, turning your face into the pillow. Your ponytail had come undone at some points, strands fanning across the cotton. "I've had worse," you lied.

"Yeah? Like that time you sprained your wrist doing whatever in the bathroom?" Your brow furrowed, and he grinned. "Your shower's right against my wall. I hear things."

You made a noise halfway between a laugh and a whimper. "You kicked my door down."

"I'll pay for that," you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut against the harsh lights.

Frank snorted, pulling out an ice pack and adjusting it on your ankle. The swelling had gone down, but the skin was an ugly motted purple.

"With what? Your dazzling personality?" He ghosted a fingertip over the edge of the bruise, checking for swelling. Your breath switched—not from pain this time, he realized, when he caught the way your lashes dipped.

Interesting.

You rolled your eyes, but the motion pulled at the stitches along your hairline. A hiss slipped through your teeth. Frank was out of his seat, fingers gentle as he checked the bandage.

"Stop that," he chided, thumb brushing her temple. "You'll rip your pretty head open."

The morphine drip beeped a lazy rhythm as you finally drifted off, your fingers slackening in Frank's grip. He should've left by then—should've gone home in his own bed, his own problems.

But the way your breath hitched in sleep, the way your brows pinched even under sedation, kept him rooted to the chair.

You stirred first, blinking against the light's glare. Frank, who'd been pretending to read your chart for the past hour, watched as you took stock of your body—the ankle brace, the rib binder, the dull throb behind your eyes.

"You're still here?" Your voice was sleep-rough, edged with something like amusement.

Frank set the chart down with a quiet thump. "Door's still busted," he said, "Figured I'd stick around to make sure you were okay."

You groaned, letting your head fall back against the pillow. "I feel like I got hit by a bus."

"Not a bus, but a coffee table," Frank corrected. His fingers lingered on your ankle brace—just a second too long to be purely clinical. "Same difference."

The heart monitor betrayed you with a quickened rhythm. Frank's mouth quirked, but he didn't comment, just raeched for the cup on the bedside table.

"Take a sip," he said, holding it to your lips.

You took a sip, studying Frank over the rim of the cup. His new scrubs that he changed into for the morning shift were already rumpled, dark circles under his eyes like coal.

"You look worse than I feel," you said, voice still rough from the tub they'd shoved down your throat.

Frank barked a laugh, running a hand over his face. "Gee, thanks. You try playing hero after a double shift. It's not as glamorous as the movies make it seem."

You shifted, wincing as the chest tube pulled. "Hero, huh?"

"Don't let it get to your head." Frank's thumb brushed your wrist where the IV disappeared under the tape. A casual touch, except his fingers lingered, tracing the blue veins beneath your skin.

You exhaled through your nose, glaring at the ceiling. "I hate this."

Frank smirked, leaning back in the chair. "Yeah, well, I hate getting startled by my neighbor trying to fix her room with her face."

A laugh escaped you, sharp and sudden, followed by a wince as your ribs protested.

"Easy," he said, softer now.

"You really didn't have to stay," you murmured, voice rasping against the rawness of your throat.

"Kicked your door down, didn't I?" His grin was all teeth, but his fingers were gentle as they smoothed a stray hair from your forehead. "Might as well see the job through."

The morphine drip beeped its steady rhythm as your eyelids fluttered shut—only to snap open again when Frank's pager buzzed against his hip.

He cursed under his breath, fumbling to silence it, but not before you caught the emergency code flashing across the screen.

"Go," you mumbled, waving a sluggish hand toward the door. "Someone's probably bleeding out in the lobby."

Frank hesitated. "Promise me you're not going to do anything stupid while I'm gone?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Doc."

Frank lingered in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like he was physically resisting the pull of his pager. "Six weeks," he said abruptly, "That's how long you're benched."

You blinked up at him from the nest of pillow. "Yeah, we covered that. Along with the part where my understudy can't do the—"

"I'm taking vacation time." Frank's fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the doorframe. "Starting tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Someone's gotta make sure you don't re-collapse your lung. And I also owe you a new door."

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. "You don't have to—"

"Yes," Frank said. He cleared his throat, adjusting the stethoscope looped around his neck. "I do."

"You're not my keeper, Langdon," you muttered, but the protest lacked bite.

"No," he agreed, stepping back toward the bed. "But I am the guy who kicked you door down." He reached out slow, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers lingered—just shy of touching the bandage at your temple. "And I'd like to be the guy who takes you to dinner when you're not full of stitches."

The heart monitor erupted into frantic beeps.

Frank smirked, withdrawing his hand to point at the screen.

"I'll take that as a yes."

That damn monitor.

On your second day back, Robby called you into an office without much preamble. The door clicked shut behind you, too loud in the quiet, and your stomach dropped before you even looked at his desk. Papers were spread out in front of him, neat but damning, timestamps, logs, records pulled straight from the Pyxis. 

“Langdon did use your badge twice to overprescribe, and used your numbers once to return unused vials. Which I’m assuming were diluted with saline.” Robby said, his voice flat, his fingers rubbing his temple. 

All you could do was nod, “I didn’t know, I swear to god I didn’t know.” 

“I know.” He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even question it, and somehow that made it worse. He sighed, leaning back slightly, the chair creaking under the weight of it all. “I believe you.” A beat passed, quieter now. “He betrayed your trust. Same way he did mine.”

You bit down on your lip hard enough to ground yourself, but it didn’t stop the sick twist in your stomach, the creeping panic that had been waiting just under the surface. “So what now?” you asked, the words coming faster, sharper. “Am I getting reported to the board when this comes out? Because they’re not going to believe I didn’t know, Robby. They’re going to assume I helped him-“

“There won’t be an investigation.”

You blinked at him, thrown. “What?”

“I didn’t report him,” he said, like it was already done. “Administration thinks he went to rehab on his own.”

“Robby.” You let out a nervous laugh, “That’s.. you can’t do that.” 

“I can’t report him without implicating you. Or myself.” His gaze flicked down to the papers as he started gathering them, stacking the evidence back into something that could be hidden. “I returned everything. The drugs in the Pyxis haven’t been tampered with.”

Your head is pounding, “And Santos is just okay with that?” You scoff, thinking of the resident you’ve been spending your first week back avoiding like the plague. 

“Don’t worry about Santos,” He collected the papers, shoving them in a folder. “It’s the last year of your residency, you have bigger things to worry about.” 

Bigger things. The words echoed strangely in your head, like they didn’t quite belong to your life anymore. As everything that mattered had already happened, already broken, and this was just what came after. You were standing in the rubble of your life, still trying to claw your way to the surface for air. 

“Robby,” you started, your voice softer now, catching just slightly as he moved toward the door. “About that night. in the ambulance bay-“ 

He didn’t let you finish.

“It was a bad night,” he said, not unkindly, but firmly enough to close the door on it. “I don’t blame you, or anyone for how they reacted to something like that..” His hand rested briefly on the handle, a pause that felt intentional. “Just… try not to assault any more coworkers, okay?”

The smile he gave you was thin, tired, something held together out of necessity more than humor.

And just like that, it was done. All of it was swept under the rug with a simple conversation. It would never get brought up again. 

You started going home again, a little after that. At first, it was easy to fall into step with Samira and Abbot, letting their presence fill the spaces that felt too sharp to sit in by yourself. Their apartment was warm in a way yours hadn’t been in weeks, soft laughter, the hum of a TV you weren’t really watching, Abbot moving around the kitchen like routine with you and Samira falling into a fit of giggles together on the couch over a bottle of wine. But eventually you felt bad for intruding, despite their protests, and you started going home, back to the quiet. Back to learning how to live in the silence without everything unraveling. 

That was when you found her, or maybe she found you. 

It was late, the end of another shift that had taken more out of you than you could afford, and you were cutting through the back lot when you heard it, a shrill little meow. The dumpsters smelled like antiseptic and rot, but there she was, wedged between the cold metal, a shivering little calico with wide eyes and matted fur, too small to be out there alone. 

You wasted absolutely no time in wrapping her up in your jacket, putting her in the safety of your passenger seat. You named her Chai before you even got home. She settled in quickly, like she was always meant to be there. Hundreds of dollars in cat supplies, and toys later it was official. She curled up on your chest each night, she followed you from room to room, weaving between your legs in the mornings, and lingered around the front door waiting for you each night you got home. 

She gave you somewhere to put your attention, somewhere for all that restless, aching energy to go. You threw yourself into the things that were supposed to help, you started therapy again, sat on a too-soft couch, and forced yourself to say things out loud that felt too heavy to exist anywhere but inside your own head. You adjusted to a new round of antidepressants, the slow, frustrating process of waiting to feel like yourself again, or at least like a version of yourself you could recognize. You changed your hair, bought new clothes, anything you could to feel brand new. You showed up to work, you studied, you answered questions, you kept moving.

You were doing everything right, but still. There were mornings you woke up already exhausted, like your body had spent the whole night fighting something you couldn’t see. Nights where sleep came in fragments, broken by dreams that dragged him back into your life without your permission. Frank Langdon would show up in pieces; his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at you, and you’d wake up with your heart racing, your throat tight, his name sitting right there, ready to spill out before you could stop it.

And the worst part wasn’t even the fear, it was the instinct that followed. That immediate, overwhelming urge to reach for your phone, to call him, to hear his voice and anchor yourself to something familiar, something that used to feel like home. It hit you before logic could catch up, before the memories of everything he’d done could settle back into place. This is what you deserved, you thought. For all that you'd done, for all that you’ve been complicit in. Some nights you’d wake up, wanting nothing more than to drive to his house and confess your sins on their front porch, begging his wife to forgive you.

Three months. That was how long it had taken you to convince yourself that the ache had dulled into something manageable, something you could tuck neatly behind your ribs and ignore during long shifts and longer nights.

 And then the knock came, sharp and out of place against the frozen stillness of a December night, and every single one of those carefully constructed defenses splintered before you even reached the door.

When you opened it, the cold rushed in first, biting and immediate, but it was nothing compared to the shock of seeing him. Frank stood there like a ghost of someone you used to know, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a faded Steelers hat sitting firmly on his head. 

“Hi.”

Your voice came out thinner than you intended. “Hi.”

For a second, neither of you moved. You just stared, taking him in, cataloging every difference whether you wanted to or not. His cheeks were hollowed, the sharpness of his jaw more pronounced, his collarbones pressing against the fabric of his shirt like they were trying to break through. Rehab had stripped him down to something raw, something almost fragile. But there was something else, too. Something lighter. Like the weight he used to carry had shifted, even if it hadn’t disappeared completely.

“Can I come in?” he asked, and there was something in his voice you’d never heard before, hesitation, maybe even fear.

You didn’t remember stepping aside, but suddenly he was inside, bringing the cold with him, and your apartment felt too small, too full of him all over again. 

“I have a million things to say,” he exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck, eyes darting around like he didn’t quite know where to land. “But now I can’t remember a single one.”

”Really.” You mumbled, closing the door behind him. “That’s a new one.” 

His gaze snapped back to you, softer now, almost disbelieving. Like he hadn’t really looked at you before, not until now. “You look-” he swallowed, like the words caught on something sharp inside him. “God, you look beautiful.”

It was then you realized you were in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, your hair a mess around your neck. Yet, he was still looking at you the way he always did. Like you had hung the moon and the stars for him. 

And it would’ve been easier, so much easier, if you could’ve hated him at that moment. If the sight of him didn’t send something warm and awful blooming in your chest, something that felt too much like relief. Because there he was. Alive. Standing in front of you, breathing, real. Not a memory, not a what-if, not the version of him you replayed in your head at three in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come. 

You forced the fondness down, clinging to your last moments together. The horrible taste of bile in your throat from crying so hard, the fear lodged in your chest at your entire life being ruined due to his selfish actions. He hadn’t just hurt you, it would be so much different if he had. Instead, he risked everything you’d worked for, your career, your reputation, your future. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said suddenly, like he could read every thought flickering across your face. “I know that. To even show up unannounced like this is cruel, and selfish. “

”Frank-” you started, but the words dissolved before you could figure out what came next.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, almost tripping over it. “I know that doesn’t even begin to cover it, I know I-what I did to you, I-” his voice broke, and he dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head like he couldn’t stand to hear himself say it out loud. “I’m m-making amends, well I’ve been out of rehab for a couple of hours so I'm starting to make amends, anyways. For the past three months, all I’ve wanted to do is apologize to you. Out of everyone I’ve hurt you the most. I betrayed your trust, I put you at risk, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I’m not even asking for it. I just need you to know, how fucking sorry I am, Y/n.” 

“Do you think that showing up here out of the blue is going to make a difference?” You asked, shifting on your bare feet. 

“No,” he said immediately. “I know it doesn’t. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect anything from you.” His eyes softened, something unbearably earnest in them. “I just- I needed you to hear it from me. That I’m trying. That I’m sober. That I’m-” he hesitated, as the word itself scared him. “Different.”

You studied him then, really studied him, searching for cracks in the surface. And the worst part was, you believed him. Not entirely, not blindly, but enough to make it hurt. There was a scary sincerity there that hadn’t existed before, a kind of stripped-down honesty that came from losing everything and realizing, too late, what it had cost.

His crystal blue eyes were glossy, standing in the dim light of your kitchen. His duffel bag still clutched to his side, his wedding ring still on his finger. It felt like you had fallen into freezing waters, your back straightening. He was still married. That truth sat heavy and immovable between you, no matter how much he stripped himself raw for you. 

“I hate you,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your mouth. It felt ugly, the words leaving a thick film in your mouth. 

He nodded like he deserved it, like this is what he had spent those months bracing for. “That’s okay.”

“I want to hate you,” you corrected, your voice breaking just slightly. “I really, really do. I want to hate you so fucking much that I never want to see you again.”

His gaze softened even more, and somehow that made it worse. “But you don’t?”

The hope in his voice made a tear streak down your cheek, “Not for my lack of trying.” 

“I suppose I deserve that,” He let out a self-loathing laugh, his back pressing into the counter. “I lied about a lot of things, and I used a lot of things against you in my darkest moments. But I never lied about-” he started, then cut himself off, jaw tightening like he knew he didn’t deserve to finish that sentence.

A bitter laugh slipped out of you. “Don’t. You don’t love me, Frank. Y-you love the idea of me. The thrill, the adrenaline of it. You loved what you could get from me, and I’m so fucking stupid I just gave it to you.” 

“No,” The word came out fast and sharp, “No, that’s not true-“

”Yes, it is-“ 

He cut you off, “I never wanted to love you, that much is true.” 

His duffle bag falling to the floor echoes around the kitchen, before he takes a deep breath to continue. 

“I never wanted to betray my family, that’s why I spent three years pretending that I wasn’t in love with you,” His breath was shaky, the confession making your knees weak. “I was in love with you the moment you cussed me out in front of Robby our intern year for missing that bleed on the ultrasound.”

Your hands are gripping your kitchen island to keep yourself upright, unable to move. 

“Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to go home every night and sit across from my family and still be thinking about you? About the way you look at me, the way you-” his voice broke, and he exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “No one has ever understood me the way you do. No one.”

“I don’t love what you can give me,” he went on, his voice tightening, frustration and something deeper bleeding through. “I love you. You. The actual you.” His hand dragged through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I love the way you get this look on your face when you know you’re right and you’re about to prove me wrong. I love how you don’t hesitate, ever, you just move, you just act, even when everyone else freezes.”

Your breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

“I love that you’re kind in ways you don’t even realize,” he said, quieter now, but somehow more intense. “The way you stay five minutes longer with a patient even when you’re dead on your feet. The way you keep stickers and suckers in your scrub pockets for scared kids. The way you pretend you’re not soft, like it’s something to hide.” His eyes flicked over your face, memorizing, aching. “I love that you care too much and you hate that about yourself.”

“I love that stupid band you force me to listen to that are so British I don’t understand a single word they’re saying,” He laughed through his tears, “I love the way you pretend you don’t snore, I love that tattoo you got when you were in college that you hide. I love everything about you, to the point that it hurts.” 

“I also know that I don’t deserve your love, I never did.” He let out a shaky breath, wiping his eyes aggressively before looking back at you. “I’m a horrible person. A coward of a man too ashamed to divorce his wife, so instead I manipulated you and your feelings, because being with you like that was better than not having you at all.” 

“So,” He forced a hard out through his tears, “If you need to turn it into something else for you to hate me, that’s fine. Whatever makes it easier for you, but I just can’t- you can’t not know. I needed to tell you, one good time. I love you, Y/n. And I’m so fucking scared I always will, and that I’ve fucked it all up.” 

Your chest heaves, a broken sound slipping out of you before you can stop it, tears spilling faster now, soaking into the collar of your sleep shirt. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like it might hold something in, like it might keep you from completely falling apart in front of him, but it’s useless. You feel rubbed raw, like someone had poured salt into an open wound, you just earlier thought was beginning to stitch itself back together.  

Your face is wet, your throat raw, your breathing uneven as you try to steady it and can’t. You can feel the cold tile under your feet, grounding in a way nothing else is, because everything else feels like it’s slipping out of your hands. 

Because you love him. 

That truth settles in deeper with every second you stand there looking at him and seeing the way he’s breaking in front of you. A layer of Frank you’ve never seen before. The way he means it. The way he’s not hiding anymore. And at the end, it doesn’t change anything. Nothing at all. 

“You’re still married,” you said, but it came out softer than it should have, like the words didn’t carry the weight they were supposed to.

“I know,” he whispered, and there was something broken in it, something that made your chest ache. “We aren’t together. She wants to give the kids one last Christmas, before we separate.” 

You rub at your neck, wiping away the salty tears that have collected there. “You should go.” You say, not even looking him in the eye. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, but he didn’t move, didn’t put the space between you that you should have. “Okay.” 

One second there was space between you, and the next there wasn’t.

It was messy and desperate and completely out of control, like two magnets snapping together after being forced apart for too long. You weren’t even sure who moved first, just that suddenly his hands were on you, your fingers were tangled in his jacket, and his mouth was on yours like he was starving for it.

Maybe that’s because he was. Almost every night, even when the withdrawal had him hallucinating all he could see was your face. He smelled your body wash haunting him on rough nights, and heard your voice in his dreams. 

Your fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him closer even as every rational part of you knows you shouldn’t. His hands are just as unsteady, just as urgent, like he needs to anchor himself to something solid before it all disappears again.

It all happens too fast, clothes are shrugged off as you lead him backwards into your bedroom. Hands gripping various furniture for stability on the frantic walk there, before your door is flung open, bodies falling into half-dressed heaps into your unmade bed. 

Your shirt was lost somewhere in the hallway, his jeans were shrugged off on your bedroom floor. There were no words, just mouths hungrily chasing each other as if you needed it to breathe. 

He drags his lips down your neck, swirling his tongue between your tits before trailing down your naval. On any other occasion, you’d gladly take his tongue against you, but you couldn't handle that tonight. Instead, you grab his shoulders, pulling him back up. 

“I need you, please.” Your voice shook, his eyes filling with concern. 

“I wanna-“ 

“Please.” You stressed, nails digging into his skin to prove your point. 

He nods, to which you’re thankful for. He leans over you, and you pretend you don’t hear the metal cling of his wedding ring fall on your nightstand. You pretend not to feel the absence of it when his hand grips your hips. You try not to think about it, the way he’s never once touched you without it on. 

He pushed into you with little to no warning, it hurt just the way you wanted it to. You let out a gasp at the stretch of him, wincing in a mix of pain and pleasure when his hips met yours. You wanted the pain, the bruises, the marks. It hurt, but it hurt so good that tears were springing to your eyes.

It’s a complete contrast to the last time you felt him in this way, gone were the confessions of love and gentle touches. This was primal, your teeth biting down painfully into his shoulder like you were trying to make him hurt just as bad as you did. 

If anything it only spurred him on, making him snap his hips even harder, deeper into yours. His cock was splitting you apart, your legs wrapped around his hips keeping him close to you. 

“Harder.” You cried out, your eyes squeezed shut. 

He obliged, but wrapped his hand gently around your jaw. He whispered your name with such tenderness that it made chills run up your spine. 

You shook your head, already knowing what he wanted. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t reckon with the fact that this felt an awful lot like goodbye. You spent so long thinking you had already had your last moments with him, you didn’t want to do it again. 

“Y/n, please.” He spoke up, his hips slowing down, “I’ll stop if you don’t look at me.” 

Your eyes flew open, panting into his mouth. “I can’t-“ 

“Yes, you can.” He whispered, dragging his cock fully out of you slowly, just to slide back in. 

Your back arched off the bed, his hand still heavy on your jaw, forcing your eyes on him. 

“I need to see you,” He grunted, “I need to tell you how good you feel, how beautiful you are.” 

Tears well up in your eyes, whether it's from your heart cracking in your chest or the pleasure overwhelming you, you aren’t sure. His eyes bore into yours, his pupils darkened from the pleasure.

Somehow your legs get pulled up to your chest, your nails dragging harshly down his back which only elicits soft moans from his lips. 

“So. fucking. gorgeous.” He grunts, each word punctuated with a deep thrust inside of you. His long fingers slip between you, rubbing tight circles against your clit, determined to feel you fall apart around him.

Your high is approaching, you feel it creeping up behind your eyes, the pleasure burning in your stomach. 

“F-fuck, Frank-“ You cry out, your eyes fluttering close as your cunt spasms around him. 

Within seconds his hand is grabbing your face again, “Open up, open your eyes. Let me see,” He demanded, “Let me see.” 

When you open your eyes there’s frustration licking up your spine, even as your legs shake around him, your release dripping from you. Suddenly you’re pushing him off, his back hitting the bed with a wince. He’s sitting up against the headboard, eyes frantic. 

“Are you okay? Did I hurt-“ 

“Shut up.” You grumble, straddling him with shaky legs as you sink back down on him slowly.  Scrambling what little control you had left.

“Fuck,” His head is thrown back, his fingers digging harshly into your hips. 

You rock your hips back and forth, fucking yourself on him with a harshness that could only come from the anger and want brewing like a storm in your chest. 

“Yeah, yeah take your anger out on me, baby.” Frank whimpered, his throat exposed. “Use me.” 

“Fuck. You.” You spoke through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the moans threatening to slip out with each drag of your clit against him. 

“I love you,” He panted, and your hand slid into his hair pulling harshly at the roots.

”You don’t deserve me,” You cried out, “Never did.” 

“I know.” He was nearly in tears, watching you bounce on top of him. Your brows furrowed in anger, and pleasure as you used him to bring yourself to another orgasm. He keeps quiet, aside from the occasional whine slipping out as you grind lazily against him. He can feel how close you are, with each twitch of your legs. He pulls your hips down quickly, planting his feet on the bed to fuck up into you hard enough to take your breath away. 

You let him, your head thrown back as he hits the spot inside of you that has you cumming again in seconds. You’re soaking him completely, your entire body trembling in his hold.

“I’m so close,” He warns you, as if he hasn’t been trying not to cum inside of you for the past ten minutes. 

“Do you think you deserve to cum inside me?” You ask, your legs trembling now from your second orgasm of the night. Your hand wraps around his neck, not applying pressure, just holding him there. 

“No,” He answers immediately, feeling the way his balls tighten and his stomach dips, “But p-please.” 

“Please?” You nearly laugh, “Beg for it.” 

He would have gotten on his hands and knees and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in right then and there. The pathetic whimpers and blubbers leave his mouth before you can even finish. 

“Oh my god, please. Let me cum inside you, fill you up. I’ll make you cum a-again. I’ll do anything. Please, please, please.” 

Your eyes close shut in pleasure for just a second, before you nod. “Yeah, go ahead. Fill me up.”

That’s all he needed, in a few more short thrusts he’s coming inside of you with a loud grunt of your name. 

You immediately fall slack into his arms, relishing in the feeling of his cock twitching deep inside of you. The familiar warmth of his cum pooling deep inside of you feels like coming home after a long day.

He wants to cry as he watches you gain your bearings, and roll over into the sheets. Your skin is glowing, your tits bouncing, your hair surrounding you like a halo. His cum dripping out of your throbbing cunt sends a shiver down his spine, his cock aches but he feels himself harden again despite himself. 

“Are you-“ 

“I’m okay.” You whisper, reassuring him before he could even ask. 

He pulls you into his arms, the two of your bodies still fitting together like two lost puzzle pieces. Your head is on his chest as he brings the sheets over your bare bodies. 

“Will you be here when I wake up?” you asked, your voice small in a way you didn’t recognize, as if it belonged to someone younger, someone untouched by this pain. 

“Just let me hold you,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking on the edges, and that was all it took for you to give in, folding into him like you hadn’t spent months trying to learn how to stand on your own.

You stayed awake long after you should have, long after your body begged you to rest, your head tucked against his chest as you listened, counting each heartbeat, each breath, as if you memorized it well enough you could carry it with you when he was gone again. For a few fragile hours, you let yourself believe it meant something more than it did.

Sleep took you anyway.

When your eyes open, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, it doesn’t take long for the truth to settle in. The space beside you is empty. Not recently empty, not warm enough to pretend he just stepped away. It’s cold and distant. Like he was never there at all. 

If there wasn’t the reminder of him still leaking between your legs, you'd have been convinced you dreamt the entire night. 

Your chest tightens, something quiet and painful blooming beneath your ribs as you roll slightly onto your back, staring up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there instead. For a moment, you don’t move. You just breathe, slow and shallow, collecting yourself before you fall apart. 

Your gaze drifts to the nightstand, where once his wedding band sat, which was now replaced with a piece of paper folded with your name scribbled on the front. You recognized the paper from the journal sitting on your desk, the PMTC pen lying haphazardly underneath it. 

You pick it up, turning it over once, like you’re giving yourself one last second before it becomes real before unfolding the paper. The handwriting was rushed, frantic scribbles as if he didn’t get it out then he wouldn’t have been able to write it at all.

“I’m not asking you to wait for me. I’m telling you that I’ll love you until my very last breath. But my kids will always come first. I’m a very selfish man.”

There was a pause before the last line, like he’d hesitated, like he knew he shouldn’t write it and did anyway.

“And I selfishly hope you do wait for me.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in your chest for hours, your head dropping forward as your fingers curl around the note, crumpling it just enough to crease the edges.

You wanted to melt into the bed for weeks or to grab your keys and drive your car to his house. To scream in his face, to curse him for doing this to you. Ruining all that you had done to put yourself back together. You want to scream at yourself. For letting him in. For answering the door. For memorizing the sound of his heartbeat like it was something you could keep. For being weak enough to fall back into something you already knew the ending to.

Instead, you did what you always did, pushed it down, and went on with your day. You got up and made breakfast, fed Chai, and scheduled another therapy appointment before going to work. You washed your sheets, scrubbed your body raw, wiping away any last trace of him. You ignored the ache between your legs, the bruises on your hips, and the marks on your collarbones. Just to be haunted by the absence of him in another place, in another way. 

The days blur into each other, long shifts and longer nights, exhaustion settling into your bones until it feels permanent. Weeks pass, then months, stretching out in that strange, uneven way where nothing happens and everything changes all at once.

You don’t hear from him. Not a call. Not a message. 

In a way, Frank was your own addiction, a horrible thing you weren’t able to shake despite every fiber of your being telling you to. It was knowing exactly what it would cost you and reaching for it anyway. Like getting a taste of something that lit you up and then having it ripped away before you could ever feel full. The kind of thing that leaves you restless, unsettled, always half-expecting it to come back, even when you know better. 

Time passes, in the unrelenting way time does. You go through the motions of being alive, rarely feeling like you’re actually living. You still find yourself sitting on your couch some nights, staring at your door as if you were a dog waiting on it’s owner to return.

Three more months passed, in the blink of an eye. 

Today was just another day of waking up alone, with a small tuft of fur tucked into your side while your alarm blares too loudly. Your morning is just like any other, silently going through the motions of getting ready for another draining shift. It felt just like every other day that blended together with the rest. 

Your badge swings against your scrub top, the stupid bright Barbie pin still pinned to it, clashing against your dark scrubs. It no longer made your chest ache, just made you feel his absence a little weaker each time it caught your eye. 

As soon as you walk into the ED, muscle memory takes over. Over the past few months, you’ve accidentally taken Mel under your wing, guiding her through procedures and giving her someone to lean on when things with Becca become too much. There’s still a strange edge with Dana, something you haven’t quite figured out how to smooth over, but it’s manageable. Santos, is Santos. She wants to be on your cases, but you still see the way she’s unable to meet your eye, or the snide comments that make your skin itch. 

You’re halfway through pushing your bag into your locker when Samira catches sight of you, her eyes narrowing slightly before softening into something almost surprising. “Your hair,” she says, stepping closer, reaching out like she needs to confirm it’s real. “You look good. Like, really good.”You pause for a second, and instinctively come up to touch it. It’s different. Softer, styled in a way you haven’t bothered with in months even as it’s pushed out of your face. It’s that you’re finally starting to care about the small things again. 

You huff out a quiet laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “I feel good,” you admit, the words unfamiliar but not untrue.

”Are you going to finally let that paramedic ask you out?” She teases, falling into rhythm with you as you walk into the hub shoulders pressed together. 

“Girl,” You roll your eyes. 

One of the paramedics, Buck, had been asking you out periodically ever since PittFest. He was younger, sweet, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed. Samira’s long-standing plan had been getting you under someone else to get over ‘he who shall not be named’ as she conned him. But, the last thing you wanted or needed right now was to be intertwined with anyone romantically. 

“Don’t girl me.” She huffed playfully, knocking her shoulder with yours as you walked into the chaos of the hub. “You need to get laid.” She whispered the last word obnoxiously, making you cringe. 

“No I don’t, I’m taking a vow of celibacy.” You smiled, “You cannot say the same-“ 

Her hands reached to cover your mouth, making you smirk as you dodged her attempts. “Shhh.” 

“I’m just glad I don’t have to pretend not to hear you guys anymore.” You giggled, grabbing a tablet and handing her one as well. 

“That’s the last time I let you stay with us,” She grumbled, to which you just shook your head. 

“Nah, you know you miss me.” You smiled, watching Robby and Abbot gather everyone around for handoffs. 

It started as a normal day, your new normal anyways. Rounds went off without a hitch, night shift patients were slowly being discharged while triage filled up the beds just as fast. It's the typical morning, some stitches from dinner mishaps, a broken foot, some mysterious food poisoning, the typical mundane cases you could have done with your eyes closed. The first trauma of the day didn’t come until around 9 am.

You were mid-chart, leaning against the counter with Mel beside you flipping through labs, when Dana yelled out, “Trauma inbound, possible overdose.” 

You were moving immediately, Mel hot on your tail as you gloved up to meet the ambulance in the bay. The doors were open quickly, The reality of a kid lying on in front of you hit you in the same clinically removed way that cases like this always did. His skin was waxy, his shirt soaked, the sharp, sour smell of vomit hitting the back of your throat as EMS starts talking.

“Seventeen-year-old, found down in his bedroom,” the paramedic says quickly, breathless but practiced, “unknown downtime, last seen about an hour before by a younger sibling, empty pill bottles at scene, we gave four milligrams Narcan intranasal, two IV, no response, GCS three the entire time, pupils fixed-”

“Okay, we’ve got it,” you cut in, already assessing, nurses surrounding as he was wheeled into Trauma one. “Let’s move, one, two, three.”

You slide your hands under his shoulders with Mel and transfer him over to the bed, your fingers brushing skin that’s too cool, too still, and your brain catalogues everything automatically, no purposeful movement, no withdrawal to pain, chest barely rising with the bag, pupils blown wide and unreactive when you pry one lid open. Robby’s in the corner observing as you do the neuro check, Mel readying to intubate. 

“No gag reflex,” You announce, “Let’s secure the airway, suction please.” 

Mel is beside you instantly. “I’ve got it.”

She suctions first, clearing what she can, trying not to think about how long it might have been sitting there, how long he might have been like this before anyone found him, and then she’s in, laryngoscope steady, voice tight but controlled.

“I see cords… tube.”

You pass it without hesitation, watching it slide into place, watching her inflate the cuff.

“Confirmed.” You nodded to her, catching Robby’s eye once again. 

“End-tidal’s up, we’ve got color change,” someone calls, while others repeat his numbers from the monitors. 

“Repeat neuro check,” Robby urges, and you grab the penlight once again. Prying open his eyelids, only to be met with the same fixed and dilated pupils. 

Another round of meds goes in because that’s what you do. After all, you follow the algorithm even when it feels futile, epinephrine pushed, bagging continuing, but every reassessment brings you back to the same place, the same stillness, the same absence that’s starting to feel absolute. He’s not breathing on his own, has no response to painful stimuli, absent corneal reflex. 

45 minutes pass, a ventilator is breathing for him, and every single test has shown zero brain activity. It was now just you, Mel, a few nurses, and Robby popping in and out. 

“Any change?” He asked, as you’re half slumped against the computer in the corner, staring at the test results as if they would change something. 

Mel just finished the 30th neuro check, shaking her head no softly. 

“Fuck,” Robby mumbled, shaking his head as he walked behind you to stare at the tests with you. 

You swallow hard, staring at the kid for a moment longer than you should, at the tube taped to his face, at the lines, at the mess of it all, and then you force yourself to look away. 

“Parents are here,” a nurse says softly from the doorway, and your chest tightens immediately.

Robby immediately steps in, “I can do it.” 

“Let me go with you,” You whispered, “They deserve to hear it from the Doctor who treated him. Mel can you call Kiara?” 

Your gloves snapped off a little harder than you needed to, scrubbing your hands harshly while you saw the parents being escorted into the family room with Kiara in tow. 

“I heard,” McKay comes up beside you from where you stood still staring at the boy through the glass of the trauma room. “I’m sorry. These are always tough ones.” 

“Yup, little sister found him. It’s fucking horrible.” Your fingernails are still digging into your palms. From the moment the boy was wheeled in you were in doctor mode, now as he lay there all you could think about was Frank. What if it was him on that bed instead, one of his kids finding him on the floor with vomit pooling out the side of his mouth. 

Robby’s hand falls on your shoulder, as he signals for you to follow him into the family room. You ignore the stares of pity from your coworkers as the door closes behind you. 

The family room feels too small when you step inside, the air thick with anticipation, and the second they see you, they stand, both of them talking at once, voices overlapping, desperate.

“Is he okay?”

“What happened, is he-“

You hold up a hand gently, trying to ground them before you say anything that will shatter them completely. “I’m Dr. Y/l/n, I was part of the team taking care of your son.”

”And I’m Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of this ED, I was supervising his care.” Robby announced, urging them to sit back down on the chairs. You both sat next to Kiara in the chairs, as you scooted a little closer to the family. 

This was something Med school never taught you, they could tell you how to do it, clinically and far removed. But each time you had to look a family in the eye and tell them you couldn't save their son was something no test could prepare you for. 

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, and you watch the exact moment hope fractures, the way their faces shift, the way their bodies tense like they’re bracing for impact. “We did everything we could to try to resuscitate him, we gave medications, we supported his breathing, we performed CPR for an extended period of time, but he is unable to breathe on his own. We have him on a ventilator-”

“No, no, but he’s-he’s alive, right?” the mother interrupts, her voice already breaking, already pleading.

Your throat tightens, but you keep your voice steady, even, clinical in a way that feels almost cruel. “His heart was not able to sustain a rhythm on its own; the machine is breathing for him. And on our exam and with everything we’re seeing, there is no brain activity.”

They stare at you like they’re waiting for a but, as you erase their last chance of hope. 

“Your son is brain dead,” you say softly. “That means there is no function in his brain at all, and that is not something we can reverse.”

”Wait, so what do you mean? Can’t you perform brain surgery?” The mother blubbers while the husband just closes his eyes. “You’re doctors, fix him.” 

“His brain,” Robby backs you up, “Went too long without oxygen. There is no chance at recovery, there’s nothing we can do. He is dead. We are so sorry.” 

The father’s eyes squeeze shut like he’s trying to block it out, like if he refuses to see you then maybe none of this is real, while the mother lets out a sharp, guttural sob that seems to tear straight out of her chest.

“He was clean,” she gasps, the words tumbling over each other, frantic, searching. “He’d been getting help, he was doing so good, he wouldn’t-he wouldn’t just-”

“It’s very common for overdoses to happen while someone’s in recovery,” Kiara says gently, stepping forward just enough to be heard, her tone careful, nonjudgmental. “They take the same amount they did before, but their body can’t handle it anymore. It’s likely, this wasn’t intentional.”

The father’s head snaps up, grief twisting sharply into something angrier, something easier to hold onto than the devastation sitting underneath it.

“Yeah?” he spits, his voice rough, cracking under the weight of it. “What do you fucking know? Have you lost a son?”

Kiara stills, just for a second, absorbing it without pushing back, because there’s no winning here, no correcting this kind of pain when it’s looking for somewhere to land. She knows this and keeps a blank, soft empathetic expression on her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly instead, and somehow that makes it worse.

His gaze shifts then, landing on you, sharp and searching, like he’s looking for something to blame, something to make sense of what doesn’t make sense.

”Why would he do this?” The father sobbed, “Why the fuck would he take more pills?” 

“Addiction is a disease,” You say softly, “It was a horrible accident, there’s no one to blame here. I’d recommend continuing this conversation with Kiara, she has resources-“ 

“Addiction is a disease,” He scoffed, “What the fuck do you know? Have you ever loved an addict? Watched them tear themselves apart and still tried to put them back together every single time? Sat up all night wondering if they were going to come home? Gone through rehab, and meetings, and second chances, and third chances-” his voice breaks, splintering under the weight of it, “-and thought maybe this time it would stick?”

”I think maybe we need to calm down here,” Robby spoke, attempting to quell the tension in the room, “All Dr. Y/l/n was trying to say that we’re here for you. With whatever you need to make this as easy as possible.” 

“I’m so sorry,” you say again, softer now, because there’s nothing else left to offer, nothing that will make this better, nothing that will undo what’s already happened.

The mother is crying openly now, her body folding in on itself, and the father turns away from you like he can’t stand to look at you anymore, like you’ve become part of the thing that took his son.

Robby gives you a look, and it’s your cue to slip out before they make things worse by asking about organ donation. By the time you’re back in the hall, you can hear the muffled yelling inside. You give Ahmed a heads up, having him step by the door in case the father decides to take anything else out on you all. 

You felt rubbed raw from the guilt and pain. It sat low in your stomach, twisting, crawling up your throat as you leaned briefly against the wall, closing your eyes for just a second too long, because all you could see was that image of Frank, over and over again, refusing to let go. Your fingers gripped your phone in your pocket, resisting the urge to pull it out. To call just to see if he would answer, to hear his voicemail. 

You wondered if he’d actually left her yet, or if he was back to being the ideal suburban husband.

A few more breaths, and you’re back on your feet. Slipping against the nurses' station once again, catching Dana’s eye. 

“How’d it go in there?” She asked, a soft frown on her face. 

You shook your head, “Not good. Pretty sure the father is this close to punching Robby in the face for asking about organ donation.” 

“Just horrible.” She muttered, shaking her head. “Take a few, go eat something.” 

“Nah, I’ll just end up crying,” You admitted with a shaky laugh, “Anything new on the board?” 

“Don’t jinx it, woman.” She scoffed, tossing a granola bar to you. “At least go get some coffee.” 

You agreed, letting the sort of stale warm coffee fill your senses before Santos was pulling you into a case. 

By the time noon had rolled around, your nerves had mellowed out again. The parents escorted their son upstairs to surgery, and you felt good that they at least agreed to the organ donation. Robby checked in on you once or twice, affirming you that you did everything correctly. It was just a rough one he sighed, to which you couldn’t agree more. 

“Are those new scrubs?” Javardi asked out of nowhere, her bright pink jacket hanging off her own scrubs, which matched her undershirt perfectly. 

“Yup, she’s trying to impress that paramedic.” Samira teased, as she passed by you two on the way into a room. 

“No- fucking ignore her,” You grumbled, “Yes, new scrubs. I’m trying to be as stylish as you. Is it working?” You ask with a soft smile. 

She grins, “Yes, wait if you want I can send you some Pinterest boards I have for my outfits.” 

“I’d love that,” You smiled, picking up your tablet again, “Thank you.” 

“Now what about this paramedic?” She starts, making you want to run away as fast as you can. 

“What paramedic?” Santos asks quickly, popping her head up from one of the computers. 

“There is no paramedic-“ You start, only to be cut off by absolute chaos unfolding in the ambulance bay doors. 

The doors slammed open, and the gurney nearly jolted as it was rolled into the trauma bay. You had just started to walk away, before the sudden surge of adrenaline in the room made your head snap up. It’s as if you summoned the said paramedic, as Buck stood there meeting your eyes almost immediately. 

“Pediatric airway-“ You heard him mumbling to Dana, the gurney following after him with his crew in tow. As if he had jumped out rushing inside on someone’s orders to get you specifically. 

At first glance, it was another pediatric anaphylaxis, except the panic that hit the room like a wave made you freeze for half a second. Frank was there, appearing out of thin air. His face drained and taut, eyes locked on his son who was lying on the gurney. Abby clung to Penny, but her attention was split, alternating between her son’s blue-tinged lips and Frank’s every move. For a heartbeat, the chaos didn’t register until you realized your tablet had slipped through your hands, your feet moving before anyone could bark out orders. 

“Y/n-“ Dana was speaking as you grabbed the gurney. 

“Where?” You barked, Dana automatically guiding you into trauma two. ”Get me Mel and Robby, now.” 

“Severe peanut allergy,” Buck was saying somewhere behind you, voice quick, urgent, relaying details loud enough for you to catch. “Two EpiPens administered, no improvement. He deteriorated fast, lost effective respirations right before arrival.”

“Pulse?” you demanded, your tone cutting cleanly through the noise as you repositioned his airway, trying to open what you already suspected was closing.

“Bradycardic. forty and dropping,” came the reply from the monitor side, the numbers confirming what your hands already knew.

”Father insisted you’re the best at peds airways,” Buck breathed out, making your breath hitch as you completely forgot about the family following behind you as you’re parked in the trauma room. 

Robby had slipped inside, his eyes wide at the scene unfolding around him. No one even had the time to process it was Frank before everyone slipped into crisis mode. 

Frank was frantic, yelling out orders over the already chaotic room. Trying too hard to control the moment, your hands shook as you palpated his throat, stethoscope against his chest as Dana started an IV. 

Robby was there behind him, hands raised as he could somehow tether Frank’s panic. “You need to calm down! Step back!” His voice trembled. Frank didn’t hear him. Frank barely even noticed him. You could hear Abby’s sobs, her daughter's cries as you tried to focus. 

You went to work immediately, assessing Tanner: generalized urticaria, angioedema swelling his lips and eyes, stridor rasping through his throat, hypotensive, oxygen saturation at 87%. 

Abby kept trying to look past it all, trying to see Tanner, but there were too many bodies in the way. “What’s happening?” she kept asking, her voice breaking. “Why isn’t it working? We gave him the EPI, Frank, we did what you said-”

“I know,” Frank said, but he didn’t look at her. He was still looking at you.

“Come on, Tanner,” I muttered under my breath, more habit than anything else. His pulse was thready, barely there under my fingers, and his chest was moving less and less effectively with each breath.

You barked orders with precision: “Full tidal volume. IV access now! Prepare fluids, repeat a dose of EPI. STAT.” Nurses snapped into motion, attaching the oxygen mask, priming the IV line, and drawing up the next dose of epinephrine. Mel swooped in, grabbing Penny before she could watch her brother suffer, murmuring soft reassurances that fell on ears too young to process, yet calming enough to keep the child from watching all of this unfold. 

Frank stepped closer despite it all, drawn in like he couldn’t physically separate himself from what was happening. “You need to intubate,” he insisted, his voice rising, hands flexing like he was fighting the instinct to take over. “You’re losing time-”

“We’re trying to manage without it,” you shot back, not looking at him, your focus locked on Tanner as you reassessed, recalculated. “His anatomy is difficult, the swelling, you know the risks-“

“I know his anatomy,” Frank snapped, the words edged with panic. “He’s my son-”

”He’s just a little boy,” Abby cried, clinging helplessly off of Frank’s arm. 

“And right now you’re not his doctor,” Robby’s voice cut in as he entered, taking in the entire scene in a single glance. The failing airway, the compressions, you at the head of the bed.

He stepped forward, placing himself just enough between Frank and the bed to create space. “You’re his dad,” he continued, firmer now. “And you need to step back.”

“I can help,” Frank argued, but there was already a crack in it, something unraveling.

“No,” Robby said, unwavering. “You can’t. Not here.”

For a moment, Frank resisted, shoulders tense, jaw tight, every instinct pulling him toward the bed. You tuned out the bickering, watching as the last EPI dose did little to stop the swelling. One more dose would bring him up to four, and the last thing you needed was him to start seizing. 

“Sats down to 78%,” Dana warned, and you cursed. You watched his small body wheeze underneath the oxygen mask. 

“Fuck,” You barked, “Ready ketamine and roc, prep for intubation.” 

You turned at this, meeting Frank’s eyes for the first time as you grabbed the laryngoscope. 

“Y/n,” Frank breathed out, your name was stripped down to something raw, something that bypassed every professional boundary you’d been clinging to. “Y/n, please. I’ve asked for too much of you already, but fuck please. Please save him.” 

The room stilled for a second, the tension boiling down into the few seconds of eye contact. 

“Get them out,” You ordered, pulling your eyes away from his. “I’m not letting them watch me intubate their son.” 

The bed is angled back, as Dana hands you the ET tube. “I’m a doctor-“ 

“You’re a father first Frank,” You pleaded, “Please, let us work.” 

He’s pushed by Robby’s arms gently, corralling them into the hallway. Doing his best to at the very least block Abby’s view of you sticking a tube down their son's throat. 

“Should I push the meds?” Dana asks, ready at the helm while your eyes are stuck on his sats. 

“Yes-“ Robby starts, and you cut him off with a, “No.” 

“Sats are back up to 80%” Dana announces, as you lean over the boy stethoscope pressed to his chest, the tube and scope still heavy in your hands.

“I don’t want to intubate unless I have to,” You said quickly, “He’s too small, and has a history of asthma. I want to avoid bronchospasm, or hypotension.”

No one questioned how you knew he had asthma, they all just watched you push the oxygen higher than it could go. Your hand wrapped around his much smaller one, holding it in your fingers as you listened.

The minutes passing felt like the longest minutes of your life, what didn’t help was that you could hear Frank and Abby through the thin glass doors. 

“What the fuck was that?” She yelled, making everyone side-eye each other in the room. Your eyes were stuck on the little boy beneath you, keeping your eyes locked on him. 

“Abby can we please not do this right now-“ Frank was cut off, Abby’s sobs making your legs feel weak. 

“Is that her?” She asked, loudly. Straight to the point. 

No one said anything besides the occasional announcement of the sats rising, Robby tensed behind you. Outside the room the air was thick, no one even bothered to act like they weren’t listening. Frank was silent, and that’s all Abby needed as an answer, but she couldn’t stop the words from leaving her lips. 

“Is that who you’ve been fucking behind my back?” 

The words sliced through the air like a gunshot, the room went silent. Pens were dropped at the nurses' station, jaws were dropped. 

The intimacy of the glance you had shared with Frank moments ago hadn’t escaped Abby. Nor did the familiarity in which you said each other’s first names, in a way that coworkers didn’t. From the moment he was barking your name in the ambulance until now, when she spotted that bright pink Barbie pin attached to your badge. She knew, deep down. Her chest heaved, tears streaking her face, and even in her hysteria, she realized. She knew, it was a woman’s intuition after all.

You let your eyes flutter closed for just a second, the air leaving your lungs like you’ve been punched in the chest. 

“Abby,” Frank’s voice broke. 

“I fucking knew it,” She shook her head, taking steps back from them. 

“He’s stabilizing,” I said, mostly to anchor the room again. “Let’s get steroids on board. Continue fluids. I want a second set of labs in fifteen. Call PICU so we can get a bed.” Your voice wasn’t as firm as you would have liked, not with Robby’s gaze so heavy on your back it burned. 

“Sats up to 90% and rising,” Dana nearly cried out of relief, switching with another nurse to get ready to contain the chaos that was adorning right outside of these doors. 

When Tanner finally let out a weak, hoarse cry, the entire room exhaled.

“He’s perfusing,” Robby said quietly, checking the monitor. “Pressure’s coming up.”

You stepped back, hands shaking only slightly now that the immediate crisis had passed. “There you go, Tanner.” You said, “Don’t worry, you’re okay.” 

He was still drowsy, as Dana opened the doors, making the yelling echo in the room. 

“In front of everyone, Frank?” Abby spat, as Dana filtered between the two easily. 

Dana’s voice cut through, calm and cutting: “Your son is in good hands. Keep the drama out of my ER. You can stand here quietly, or go into the room with your daughter. Your choice.” Her glare was sharp enough to make both Frank and Abby pause, even as Abby’s chest heaved with indignation and fear.

”I-“, you started, having to clear your throat, “I need to update them that the transport team is on their way to transfer him up.” 

Robby, who seemed to still be in a state of shock up until that point just let out an unamused laugh. “Yeah, you do that.” His tone was biting, and you’ve never felt as small as you do right now. You rolled your shoulders and slipped out the doors with shaky hands.

Frank and Abby were standing exactly where Dana had left them. Abby’s mascara had dried in faint streaks under her eyes, her hands trembling. 

“How is he?” she asked, despite the anger boiling beneath her skin.

“He’s stable,” I said. “We’re transferring him to PICU. The epinephrine worked. We didn’t need to intubate. He’ll need monitoring overnight in case there’s a rebound reaction.”

Frank exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour. His shoulders dropped. His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, he looked straight at you. 

“Thank you,” he said, your eyes meeting for a few seconds too long. 

That was all it took to remind her of everything that was just enough. Abby’s gaze shifted between us.

“How long?” she asked, her tone clipped. 

You blinked, “Probably just a few hours before we know if he’s out of the woods-“

Her eyes locked onto mine. “How long did you know he was married?”

Everything in the hallway stopped once again, Santos and Whittaker pausing at the nurses' station. Samira was watching with a deep frown, probably the only person in this entire hospital who had an ounce of empathy for you. 

Frank’s face drained of what little color it had regained. “Abby-“

“No,” she said, still staring at me. “Just answer me.”

“I think we need to-” Dana started.

“How long?” Abby repeated.

I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. Because there wasn’t an answer that didn’t confirm it. “Dr. Robby will be taking over his case.” You settled on, cold and clinical. 

Dana physically stepped between Frank and Abby and gestured toward the family consult room down the hall. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t optional, she ushered them away with the promise of grabbing Penny and heading upstairs with Tanner. 

Abby didn’t take her eyes off of you as she walked past. Frank hesitated for half a second and gave you the saddest apologetic glance he could muster. 

That was his last mistake, because Robby saw that too.

And whatever fragile neutrality he had left evaporated. That was all the confirmation that anyone needed.

The ED took a breath, then it slowly settled back into its normal pace. Doctors remembered where they were, techs left the halls. 

Santos let out a low whistle before she could stop herself. “Well,” she muttered, not quietly enough, “guess that explains the carpooling.”

It wasn’t even malicious. It was a reflex. Gallows humor. But it landed like gasoline onto an already out-of-control fire. 

Robby shot her a look. “Not helping.”

Mel came hurrying back from where she’d taken Penny, hands still slightly outstretched like she expected to receive a child again. “Okay, they got her. What did I miss?”

You would have laughed if it wasn’t for how dizzy you felt.

”Dr. Y/l/n” Robby spoke, grabbing your arm gently to pull you down the hall into an empty room.

”This isn’t Jerry Springer,” Dana yelled harshly when she came back, her hand slapping the counter. “Get back to work, now.” 

Once you were in the quiet of an exam room, you slumped your back against the wall, your hand pressing harshly to your beating chest. Robby wouldn’t even meet your eyes, content to stare at the chipped paint next to your head. 

“Tell me that wasn’t what it looked like,” He sounded like he was begging, begging for any explanation that wasn't the obvious. 

You knew you couldn’t do that, so there was no point in even lying as you stayed quiet. Only the ragged sound of your breathing and the anger in his. 

He shook his head once, sharply. “Jesus.”

”I-I thought you knew,” You choked out, “That night in the bay-“

“I didn’t fucking know, Y/n,” Robby cut in immediately, the restraint snapping just enough for the anger to bleed through. He finally looked at you then, and the disappointment in his expression hit harder than anything else could have. “If I had known…”

“What?” You cried out, “You would’ve reported him?” 

“Yes!” He laughed, “And I would have kicked you off my service.”

You stand up straight at this, “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly,” He laughed, barely able to contain his anger. “Now I can’t even believe you didn’t give him your fucking badge for the pills.” 

“I didn’t, I fucking didn’t Robby. I swear to god, that had nothing to do with all of this-“ 

“Like hell it does,” He scoffed, “What were you even thinking? He’s fucking married, Y/n. He has kids. A kid you should have never treated given the conflict of interest.” 

“I know.” You closed your eyes, “I fucked up- “ 

“Oh, you more than fucked up.” He laughed again, cruelly. “Every ounce of respect I’ve ever had for you, is gone.”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, blurring your vision as you dropped your gaze, your hands coming up to cover your face like you could hide from it, from him, from everything you’d just lost in the span of an hour.

“For what?” he went on, quieter still, like he was asking himself now. “For him?”

The silence stretched, before he pushed open the door. “I can’t even look at you.” He spat in disgust, before he left. 

Your chest heaved with it, the adrenaline, the guilt, the grief all crashing down at once now that there was nothing left to hold it up. You sank to the floor, staring blankly at the wall ahead of you, unsure where you even go from here. 

The door hadn’t even finished settling into its frame before it opened again, the quiet you’d collapsed into shattered just as quickly as it had come. You didn’t look up at first, your forehead still pressed to your knees, your hands clenched in the fabric of your scrubs like they were the only thing keeping you from coming apart completely.

“Get up.”

Dana’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried in a way that made it impossible to ignore. You dragged in a shaky breath, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand before you even lifted your head. Your eyes burned, your chest still tight, but you forced yourself to look at her anyway.

”You don’t get to sit here and have a pity party,” She ordered.

Your throat tightened. “Dana-”

“No,” she cut in cleanly, not raising her voice but leaving no space for argument. “We don’t have time for this. There are patients out there who need a doctor, and whether you like it or not, that’s still you.”

You swallowed hard, pushing yourself up on unsteady legs, using the wall for support when the room tilted for a second. She didn’t move to help you immediately like she would have any other day, she just watched, like she was making sure you did it yourself.

You picked yourself up, adjusting yourself the best you could with her eyes on you. 

“I’m not surprised he did something like this,” she said after a beat, her tone shifting just slightly, enough that it landed deeper. “Frank Langdon has a history of bad decisions, and apparently he hasn’t learned a damn thing.”

There was a pause, just long enough for you to think maybe that was all she was going to say. Then she looked at you fully.

“But I am disappointed in you.”

The words hit harder than anything Robby had thrown at you.

”You’re better than this,” she continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Or at least, I thought you were.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that. There wasn’t a defense that didn’t sound hollow, wasn’t an excuse that didn’t make it worse. So you just stood there, taking it, your hands trembling at your sides as you tried to hold yourself together.

She uncrossed her arms finally, stepping closer, her grip firm but not unkind as she took your elbow and steadied you. “You can fall apart later,” she said, her voice dropping just slightly. “Right now, you work.”

You nodded because it was the only thing you could do. 

When you joined the hub, you saw the hushed whispers and glares and kept your eyes cast down. You grabbed a tablet, and let Dana assign you wherever she needed you. You worked on autopilot, trying to do your best to pretend that just a few floors away the family that you just tore apart wasn’t sitting next to their sick son.

“You okay?” Samira whispered at one point, pulling you into her arms briskly. 

You just nodded, because you didn’t trust your words. The next time you spoke you’d be breaking down, and you still had a few hours to get through before you allowed yourself that. 

Every time you stepped back into the hub, it was there, that weight, that awareness, like something had been stamped onto you that everyone could see. The whispers you couldn’t quite hear, the conversations that paused just a beat too long when you got close.

Santos didn’t let up either.

Little comments slipped in where she could fit them, sharp and pointed under the guise of frustration. A muttered “unbelievable” when you took over a case. Nothing overt enough to call out without making it worse, but enough to make sure you felt it.

In room four, as you were explaining discharge instructions, she cut in with, “You might want to double-check those meds,” like you hadn’t already. When you gave an order, she repeated it back with just enough emphasis to make it sound like a correction instead of a confirmation.

It sat on your skin, heavy and suffocating, like a mark you couldn’t scrub off. Like a scarlet letter pinned to your chest for everyone to see.

You were suturing up a forehead laceration when her comments got louder, angrier. She all but tried to snatch the needle from your hands, to which you questioned. 

“Figured you might be… distracted,” she said, just under her breath. “Don’t want you to butcher their face.” 

It wasn’t loud enough for the patient to clock it, but it wasn’t quiet enough to be kind either.

“I’m not,” I replied evenly, keeping my eyes on the wound.

“Good,” she said. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re not focused on patient care today.”

The patient looked between us, sensing something off without understanding it. You just gave them a soft smile of reassurance before you tied the stitch, clipped it, and finally glanced up at her. “If you have something to say, say it after the room clears.”

She gave a tight, humorless smile. “Oh, I think everything that needed to be said already got said out there.”

Then she walked out, making you drop the tools on the cart louder than necessary. “I’ll get the nurse to bring you discharge papers and aftercare instructions.” You told them, before throwing the curtain open, you let it slide. You deserved the hits, you’d take them as they came today, but you could only take so much. 

She was sat charting, when you came up behind her. “Do you have a fucking problem?” 

A silence fell again, Santos immediately letting out a cackle. “Nope.” 

“Bullshit,” you shot back, stepping closer, your hands braced on the counter as you leaned in just enough to make it clear you weren’t backing down. “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like me. That’s not my problem. My problem is you being unprofessional and running your mouth while I’m with a patient.”

“Oh, so now-”

“I’m talking,” you cut her off sharply, your hand slamming down against the counter with a crack that made a few people visibly jump. The last thread of your restraint snapped clean. “You want to take shots at me? Fine. You want to hate me? Go ahead. But you do not get to compromise patient care because you’ve got something personal to say.”

The words came faster now, angrier, months and years- of pride in your work colliding with the humiliation of the last few hours.

“I am a damn good doctor,” you continued, your voice rising despite yourself. “That has never been in question. Not once. Not by attendings, not by patients, not by anyone in this department. So don’t you stand there and imply I’m distracted enough to screw up someone’s care because of what? Gossip?”

Santos’ expression shifted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“If you have a problem with me,” you went on, jabbing a finger lightly against the counter for emphasis, “you take it to Robby. You take it to Gloria for all I care. You handle it like a professional. But you don’t get to make comments in front of patients, you don’t get to undermine me while I’m working, and you sure as hell don’t get to turn this entire floor into your personal fucking commentary section. Get off your high horse.”

The silence around you had thickened now, heavy, charged. You could feel the eyes on you, everyone pretending not to listen while hearing every word.

“And that goes for everyone,” you added, your gaze flicking briefly across the station, catching the glances away, the guilty looks. “Whatever you think you know, whatever you’ve heard, keep it out of the rooms. Keep it out of the patients'. Because the second it starts affecting care, it becomes a problem I will absolutely escalate it to Gloria myself.” 

“It’s also, quite frankly none of anyone’s fucking business.” You laughed, grabbing your badge off your scrub top aggressively. 

Santos just stared at you, her jaw tight now, whatever smart remark she’d been ready to fire back clearly reconsidered under the weight of everything you’d just said.

”Since you think you’re a better doctor than me, Santos, you can have my fucking job,” you spat, voice sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the nurses’ station. The words were a declaration, a surrender. 

You were shaking with adrenaline as you walked to your locker, slamming it open with enough anger to make passersby jump. You shoved your sweatshirt over your scrubs, movements sharp and careless, grabbing your purse like you just needed to go anywhere but here. You didn’t stop when people called your name, didn’t turn when someone asked if you were okay. The elevator button took the full force of your hand, a harsh, impatient press that didn’t make the PICU floor come any faster.

You stopped at the café on the way, already irritated with yourself before you even reached the counter. Ordering a latte and a black coffee as if it was somehow going to make up for ruining their marriage, or at least helping end it. 

By the time you reached Tanner’s room, your chest had tightened all over again.. You hesitated just outside the door, staring through the small window for a second before knocking lightly.

There was no Frank to be seen, just Abby sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair. You took a second to look at her, really look at her. She was gorgeous, the true personification of sunshine. You’re sure she was a great mother, an even better wife for forgiving Frank, no matter how much he hurt her. You were complicit in that. The thought made your fingers twitch against the warmed coffee cups. 

She was sitting beside the bed, one hand wrapped gently around Tanner’s, her thumb brushing back and forth over his knuckles in that absent, instinctive way people do when they’re trying to soothe someone they love. The room was dim, quiet except for the steady rhythm of monitors, and she looked up when you knocked, her expression hardening in recognition.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” you said, your voice quieter now, stripped of all the sharp edges from earlier. “But I wanted to check on him before I left.”

You held out one of the cups for her, as if it were a peace offering. 

Her brows pulled together slightly. “You’re leaving?”

A humorless laugh slipped out of you, your grip tightening around the cups. “Pretty sure I just quit my job. Or I was going to get fired anyway, either way it’s okay.” 

She frowns at this, staring at the cup you were holding out for her.

“How is he?” you asked, glancing over at Tanner, shaking away her heavy gaze. .

“He’s good,” she said softly, reaching out to take the cup from you with a small nod. “He’s stable, they said his little body is exhausted so he’ll probably be asleep for a while.” 

You nod, “That’s normal, good even. He needs the rest.” 

“Thank you,” she added, looking back at you, her voice sincere. “For earlier, I’m not going to say sorry for how I reacted,” she admitted. “But I am grateful he was here. That you were here.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping slightly. “I deserved it,” you said quietly. “I would have done it with anyone’s kid, I was just doing my job.”

There’s a soft beat of silence, before you set the extra coffee down on the side table. “I got this for Frank, just when he comes back. I’m so-“ 

“Sit,” she said gently, nodding toward the chair beside her.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said sit,” she repeated, softer this time, but firm in a way that didn’t leave much room for argument.

So you sat, the seat a few feet away from her. Watching Tanner’s chest rise and fall as he slept like a rock. The silence is heavy, but not as uncomfortable as you thought it would be. Her kindness for that weighs over your head. 

“How long?” She breaks the silence, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You knew what this was, the part where you have to lay the truth out in front of her, because she can’t believe him. Each truth will cut her like a knife, and you have to squeeze your nails into your thighs to steady yourself. 

“5 months,” You answer truthfully, “He ended things the day before he went to rehab.”

”Was that the last time?” She asks, and you already know she knows the truth. 

“The last time was the night he got out,” You whisper the words, heart aching when a soft cry escapes her lips. 

She shakes her head, wiping away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. 

“I always knew he was married,” You started, “I mean you might not remember but I’ve met you in passing at work events. You deserve to know that I was selfish, and a horrible person.” 

“Did he say he was gonna leave me?” 

“Once or twice.” 

“And did he?” She snaps slightly, making you flinch. 

“No, he did not.” Your voice was small. 

“I’m sorry,” She says quickly, turning to face you. “I think what you did was horrible, but I know Frank. I know how he can be when he wants something. You’re not innocent, but you weren’t the one married.”

You sit there, barely breathing, your hands clenched in your lap so tightly your knuckles ache. The guilt is suffocating, thick and heavy in your chest, crawling up your throat until it burns. You expect anger, you almost want it. Something sharp, something deserved. Something that would make this easier to carry. Swallowing her understanding feels like swallowing razor blades. 

She exhales slowly, her shoulders rising and falling as she steadies herself, and when she finally looks back at you, her eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but there’s no hatred in them.

”Does he love you?” She asked, her heart breaking with every word. 

You wipe your eyes harshly, “I think he thinks he does.” 

“Do you love him?” 

You turn away, unable to meet her eyes. “For a long time now, yeah.” 

“Makes sense,” She sniffles, “he’s easy to love.” 

You blink hard, tears spilling over again, your voice barely holding. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she says softly, a forced smile pulling on her lips. 

Before anything else can settle, there’s a knock at the door, and it opens just enough for a nurse to step in. His expression is careful, but there’s urgency threaded through it.

“Mrs. Langdon?” he asks gently.

Abby’s head lifts immediately. “Yes?”

The nurse hesitates for half a second, like he’s choosing his words. “Your husband is downstairs in the waiting room. He appears to be having some kind of panic attack. We tried to keep him seated, but he’s not doing well. He keeps asking if he’s allowed to come back up.”

The shift in Abby is immediate. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way her hand tightens slightly around Tanner’s. Her gaze flicks to her son, then back to the nurse. 

“We can bring him up for just a moment,” The nurse adds quickly, “It might calm his nerves seeing Tanner is still okay.” 

Abby gives a curt nod, not once letting go of her son's hand. You go to gather your purse, readying to slip out of the room before you’re able to see Frank in passing. Time is not on your side, as you hear the hurried footsteps coming from the hall.

Frank stumbles in like he’s barely holding himself together, his breathing already uneven, chest rising too fast, too shallow. His eyes immediately lock onto Tanner, like he needs the visual confirmation, like seeing him will fix whatever’s happening inside his chest. 

“He was fine,” Frank says, his voice already cracking, hands dragging through his hair as he paces once, then stops, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “They said he was fine, but I-I couldn’t-he’s been-seeing him like that was-”

”Frank,” Abby says, standing now, her voice gentle but uncertain, like she doesn’t know how to reach him from where she is. “He’s okay. He’s been sleeping, nothing’s changed-”

“I know, I know,” he rushes out, but the words don’t settle. His breathing stutters, chest hitching as he tries to pull in air that doesn’t seem to reach far enough. “I just can’t breathe.”

Abby’s eyes slide over to you, where you were still standing in the corner, purse hanging from your shoulder as you were a bystander in this too-personal moment. Frank’s eyeline follows hers, and he nearly loses his footing seeing you in the room. The sound that escapes his lips makes Abby flinch, a harsh wheeze from his chest. As if this were his last straw, his world tumbling around him. 

“I f-feel like I’m having a heart attack.” Frank’s hand now squeezed at his chest, and Abby looked hopelessly around as her attempts to comfort him went unnoticed. 

“You’re not having a heart attack,” You spoke up softly, letting your bag fall to the chair. “Are you having chest pain?” 

He nods helplessly. 

“Because you’re not breathing.” You stress, “Frank, take a deep breath, in and out.” 

He shakes his head, hands gripping the guardrails of Tanner’s bed. You don’t know what to do, as you stand there. Your hands outstretched, wanting nothing more than to try and calm him down.

Abby looks towards you again, a small nod of permission.

”Hey,” you say, softer now, grabbing your stethoscope from your bag, stepping closer but not crowding him. “Look at me.”

He tries, but his breathing is still too fast, too shallow, his chest rising unevenly. “I can’t-” he starts, shaking his head, panic threading through every syllable. “I can’t get air-”

“Breathe with me,” You cooed, trying your hardest to breathe with him as his body shook. “This is just a panic attack, that’s all it is. You’re safe. Tanner is safe. Penny is with Mel. Abby is here.”

He shakes his head, still trying to focus on his breathing. His panicked eyes were still locked on yours. 

“Can I touch you?” You ask, grabbing his wrist gently to check his pulse. You give a small nod of reassurance to Abby as she watches. He was panicked, heart rate elevated, but not enough for it to be anything serious. 

You slip the stethoscope from around your neck, holding it in your hands. 

“Come here,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t argue. He can’t.

You guide him toward the bed, your hand wrapping lightly around his wrist, steadying him more than directing him. Abby watches, silent now, her hand still anchored to Tanner, her expression tight, torn between gratitude and something that looks a lot like pain.

“Put these in,” you murmur, helping him with the earpieces when his hands don’t cooperate. Your fingers brush his briefly, steadying the motion. “Good. Here.”

You guide the stethoscope to Tanner’s chest, positioning it carefully over his heart, your hand covering Frank’s long enough to keep it steady.

”Just listen.” 

His shoulders drop a fraction. His breath stutters, then lengthens, like his body is finally finding something real to anchor to.

“He’s breathing,” you murmur. “Hear that? Slow. Steady. He’s okay.”

Frank swallows hard, his eyes squeezing shut as another breath leaves him, shaky, but deeper this time.

”How are his breath sounds?” You asked, moving your hand that was covering his around, giving him a better sound of his lungs. 

“G-good,” He choked out, his eyes falling closed. “Equal sounds.”

His body, whether it was subconscious or not, leans against yours. His weight settling against your side, his head nearly falling into your neck. 

You let him stay there for a few seconds longer, letting the sound settle into him, letting it override the panic still clawing at his chest. Not wanting to startle him as his heart rate went down. 

Across the bed, Abby exhales slowly, but she doesn’t look relieved. Her eyes are on you, on the way your hand steadies his, on the way he listens to you like it’s instinct. The way you knew exactly what he needed, before she could even process what was happening. 

After a moment, you gently pull the stethoscope away, your fingers brushing again as you take it back, and for a twisted moment, it reminds you of your intern year. 

Frank’s breathing is still uneven, but it’s better. Controlled enough that he’s no longer spiraling. You step back immediately, putting space between you like it’s something you owe her.

Abby moves in then, her hand finding his arm, her touch soft, and familiar. He rightfully falls into her chest, sobbing quietly into her blouse. 

You flush, grabbing your purse for the final time today. 

“I know you hate me, but if you need anything.” You spoke up, “Anything, let me know. The nurse can give you my contact information.” 

“Hating you doesn’t fix anything in my life,” She shrugs, like she made up her mind long before today. 

All you can do is give her a curt nod, before slipping out the door. You don’t stop for the elevator this time. You take the stairs, gripping the railing harder than you need to, your breathing uneven as you descend, one step after another, as if you slow down even a second everything might catch up to you. 

Did you really quit your job?

The thought lands heavy, almost unreal, like something you said in the heat of the moment somehow became permanent. Years of work, of sleepless nights and sacrifice, and wanting this so badly, and you walked away from it in the span of a few minutes because everything inside you finally snapped. 

Your nerves feel shot, like every sound is too sharp, every thought too loud. Your heart aches in a way that feels physical, like something is pressing against your ribs from the inside.

You press your lips together hard, your throat burning, your vision blurring again as you push through the hospital doors and into the cold air outside. It hits you immediately, sharp and biting, but it doesn’t clear your head the way you want it to.

You’re halfway out the hospital doors when you hear him, a long shout of your name. You spin just in time to watch Frank pause. He’s a few feet away, like he ran the whole way, his chest rising and falling, breath visible in the cold air. There’s something reckless about it, about the fact that he’s here, that he followed you, that he left them upstairs to come after you.

“If I call you, will you answer?” He asks, 

The question is so mundane it almost makes you laugh. After everything, that’s all he has to ask. 

“One day you’ll call and I’ll say no.”

He swallows, his gaze fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment, like he already knows where it’s heading. “When will that be?”

You shrug, and you know if you had any more tears left to cry they’d be streaming down your cheeks. 

His long legs are stretched out under the table, one arm folded behind his head, the other loosely wrapped around a paper coffee cup that has definitely gone cold. His sunglasses are slightly crooked on his nose, lashes resting heavy against his cheeks.

For once the almighty Frank Langdon looks soft.

You ease the door shut behind you, gentle, careful. The last thing you want is to wake him. He looks like he fought a war yesterday. Which, knowing this place… he probably did.

You move quietly around the counter, grabbing your own coffee, but the old machine makes that obnoxious grinding noise and-

Frank shifts and one eye cracks open, “You’re loud,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You blink at him. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

His mouth twitches, it’s not quite a smile, but close.

You lean against the counter, studying how beat he looks. “You sleep here?”

“Power nap,” he corrects automatically.

“You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Oh but you absolutely do.”

Now he opens both eyes, fixing you with that tired, unimpressed look he saves just for you, it’s one that should feel intimidating but never quite does.

“Do you have a clinical reason for being this annoying this early in the morning,” he asks, “or am I special?”

You grin into your coffee, “Missed you too, Langdon.”

That does something to his face. It’s small. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren’t already watching him like it was your favorite hobby.

But his shoulders drop a fraction and his voice, when he speaks again, is quieter, “You just saw me twelve hours ago.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, pushing off the counter. “Long time.”

“You look exhausted,” you murmur.

His eyes flick up to yours, “Long shift,” he says finally.

You hum, soft. Understanding. Always too understanding with him.

“C’mon,” you say gently, nodding toward the coffee machine. “I’ll make you a fresh one. The one you’re holding looks like it fought in the Civil War.”

“…You’re not funny.”

You’re already turning away, grabbing a clean cup.

“I’m hilarious. You’re just sleep-deprived.”

Behind you, there’s a quiet rustle of movement before Frank sitting up properly now, rubbing a hand down his face, “Thanks.”

You pause.

Because Frank Langdon doesn’t say thanks very often.

But you don’t make it a big deal out of it, you just glance back over your shoulder and give him a small, easy smile, “Yeah,” you say lightly. “You’re Welcome.”

“Anything else I should know before the shift gets underway?” you asked Dana, looking up from your notebook.

“New RN shadowing me today but that shouldn’t impact you…oh! Our senior resident who was on medical leave is back today too. That’ll certainly cause some waves” Dana said with a huffed laugh and shake of her head.

“Why would someone taking medical leave make waves?” 

Dana shifted her full focus, assessing you intently for a moment. “He was away for addiction treatment, said some pretty nasty things to staff before accepting help. Actually…can you keep an eye on him? I’ll introduce you two, I know you worked in substance abuse before this. Better to have both of us checking in than just me, especially with the little lost lamb starting today.”

“Sure that works, should I know what was said and to who or?” you questioned, unsure if it would be helpful or harmful information to have. 

Dana opened her mouth to answer just as Lena called out “The prodigal son returns!” 

You’d been leaning against the desk but turned to take in the new arrival, your eyes widening as they met Frank’s. Shit. 

You half listened to Frank, Dr. Langdon, catch up with the two charge nurses before Dana wrapped an arm around your shoulder and introduced you to him.

“Good to meet you Brenner, always glad to have another social worker on board” Frank greeted, lips thinned out in a forced smile. 

You nodded without adding anything, earning looks from Dana and Lena. “Can we maybe chat on your way to rounds? Get to know each other a bit?” you offered and he nodded. You quickly fell into step beside him, an awkward silence stretching.

“Thanks for um…not mentioning we know each other back there” Frank finally offered, his bright blue eyes briefly meeting yours before turning away again. 

“It’s no one’s business, I’m glad to see you’re still clean and doing well. Things are going okay?”

He nodded, “Yup, went to intensive outpatient now regular meetings, I mean… you know the drill” he shrugged pausing a few steps from where the other doctors congregated. 

“Well, look this doesn’t have to be weird” you offered. “I was just an intern who sat in on groups, I didn’t directly counsel you or anything.”

He chuckled softly, meeting your gaze again, “Sure but I’d say you had some pointed insights from time to time.”

This time you dropped your gaze first, nodding in agreement. “What happened stays between us, it wouldn’t be appropriate for anyone to know how we met before this. I promise.” 

Frank opened his mouth to reply but Dr. Shen called for him. You two stared at each other another moment before he nodded and departed, leaving you to reflect that Dana didn’t know half the waves that were crashing today. 

***

Frank tried his best to lock in on Dr. Shen but his brain was moving in a hundred different directions. Normally, his ADHD helped him at work but the difficulty focusing, overwhelming nerves from being back, and unexpectedly finding out you were an ED social worker at the Pitt was a lot to process. 

He forced himself to close his eyes for a brief second and take a full breath, trying to rely on the skills he’d learned over the last ten months. 

“You’re here!” a voice rang out and his eyes flew open to meet Mel’s eager gaze as she awkwardly patted his shoulders rather than give him a hug.

“In the flesh, good to see you Dr. King” he smiled genuinely. A moment later, Dr. Santos emerged from around a corner and the tension rose in the room significantly. She simply nodded at him before turning into another room to deal with a patient. 

Frank began to step towards the man in the bed but stopped abruptly as Robby approached. “Dr. King, could you actually take over this case for Dr. Langdon? He’s going to be helping Donny out in triage.” 

“Triage?” he questioned before he could stop himself and everyone’s attention whipped to him.

“I can do chairs with–” Mel began but Robby cut her off with a shake of his head. 

“Nope, please take this patient so that Dr. Langdon can start the day on triage” Robby repeated, breezing by without a look back. Mel uncertainly faced Frank so he just nodded towards the patient.

“It's fine Mel, I’ll see you later in the shift.”

He turned to follow Robby without waiting for a reply, “Robby?” 

“Yes, Dr. Langdon?” he questioned, eyes focused on another task rather than Frank. 

“I think I could really be of better use back here rather than out in chairs.” 

“It’s fine, we’re used to covering for you back here anyway.” 

Frank sighed, his temper flaring. “I’d hate to think this was punishment for…”

He trailed off as Robby’s furious gaze finally rose to meet his. Frank was briefly transported to the ambulance bay ten months ago, all of the shitty things he’d yelled at Robby ringing in his ears. “You’re right, I’ll head out there now. I was actually hoping we could talk so I could–”

“Not now, later” Robby dismissed him, turning and leaving the hallway abruptly. Frank sighed, scrubbing a head down his face as he rocked on his feet slightly. He had so many people to make amends to and didn’t know where to begin. 

“The thing is Frank, amends aren't about you. They’re for the person receiving the apology, not the one completing the steps.”

Your voice from September rang through his mind and he shook his head before turning to find Donny. Now was not the time to go even further down memory lane. 

***

You watched the various encounters Frank had along his way to the waiting room, trying to gain an understanding of who Frank had been before you met him as a social work intern in the final month of your placement. Santos was nearby completing chartwork when Mel eagerly bound over to you both. 

“Dr. Langdon is finally back!” Mel cheered again, settling at the desk on Trinity’s other side. 

“He sure is,” Santos replied flatly, not looking up from her tablet. 

“What’s the story there?” you asked innocently and didn’t miss the flash of hurt that crossed Trinity’s face. 

“Oh Dr. Langdon is the best,” Mel replied enthusiastically. “He had to um…take a medical leave to deal with an issue but I’m so happy he’s back.” 

“That’s great” you replied to Mel, who nodded in agreement before buzzing off to another patient’s room. “You okay, Trin?”

She sighed, finally looking away from her tablet to meet your concerned gaze. “It’s complicated and if he got the care he needed then good for him but I want nothing to do with him.”

“What actually happened?” you whispered, sliding your chair closer to hers. 

She sighed, clearly debating how much to share. “Dr. Langdon has some addiction issues which he left to seek treatment for.” 

You frowned, taking in her ire. “It’s good he got help though.” She nodded before trying to turn her attention away from you. “I don’t understand, you don’t have any of these feelings about Cassie and she also has a history with substance abuse. Hell, she had legal issues until a few months ago and you love working with her.” 

“Yeah, well Cassie didn’t steal pills from a patient and then treat me like shit for realizing what she’d been doing,” Santos replied angrily, surging to her feet. 

You quickly grabbed her wrist, gently pulling her back down to her chair. “Hey, I’m not taking sides here, okay? I just…Frank is a wild card since I’ve known you all six months now and I wanted to understand what to keep an eye out for. So thank you, seriously. For what it’s worth, you’re an amazing doctor–whatever he said to you back then was just him projecting onto you. I’m here if you need me, okay?” 

She assessed your face, searching for proof of your honesty. She sighed, “I’m sorry I snapped, it's just, being right about Dr. Langdon made a lot of staff around here resent me. Him being back is just…I thought I had more time, you know?”

You opened your mouth to respond but Perlah breezed by, urgently grabbing Santos away to discuss their pediatric case. You mulled over what Trinity had shared, debating your next move. You stood, making sure to connect with all the patients the night shift social worker had handed off to you half an hour ago. Luckily, they were all stable so you breezed through introductions before beginning your search for Robby.

You found him about to enter your section of the ED before he quickly stopped, pivoting back around. Your brows furrowed until you saw Frank determinedly making his way towards Robby.

“Even if I somehow get cleared to go back, my mentor he just…he’ll never forgive me. He trusted me implicitly and I purposefully used that to get away with shit.”

Your memory flashed to a group session from mid-September, when Frank finally began to open up instead of projecting, blaming, and avoiding taking responsibility. The first time you actually felt like you could get through to him somehow. 

You sighed standing and following Robby’s path, pausing on the corner when you saw them having a tense discussion. You didn’t want to interrupt or eavesdrop so you waited until Frank frustratedly turned back to chairs before softly calling out, “Dr. Robby?”

He turned to you and his face was full of fraught emotions: anger, sadness, hurt. “What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you in the staff room for a minute? I’m sorry, I know you’re busy but–”

“Hey, kid, you never have to be sorry. Let’s go and I can grab another coffee.”

***

Frank watched as you approached Robby, eyes wide and sympathetic, before Robby gently grabbed your shoulders, pivoting you towards the breakroom. He really hoped that it wasn't about him but suspected it was. You’d promised not to say anything but he knew how the ED worked–everyone in everyone’s business. 

He made his way back to triage, going through a few patients before returning to Louie who he thought would be a good person to begin amends with. He was shocked at how quickly the man accepted the apology, and was about to say how grateful he was when your voice rang out behind him.

“Louie! How are you today?” You asked and he turned to see a beaming smile take over your face. He forcibly ignored the flutter it brought to his chest, focusing instead on how happy Louie was to see you.

“Shrink, how’s it going?” he asked jovially and you laughed, shaking your head. 

“You know I’m not your shrink, right Louie? You’d have to get some actual treatment for that.” 

“I know but my nickname for you really stuck, huh? Heard Robby call you it the other day too.” 

You nodded, pulling up another chair to sit beside him. The earthy, calming scent that radiated off your skin tried to send him back to months ago but he forced himself to stay here in the moment. “Fair enough. But seriously, what’s going on?” 

Louie nodded towards Frank so he quickly explained what needed to be done. “You know this is a temporary fix, right? The best way to stop this from recurring is to–”

“Get sober, stay healthy long enough to get on the transplant list, and maintain a healthy recovery” he responded and you sighed, nodding in agreement. “I know you have to come tell me that every time I visit y’all here. But I have to remind you that–”

“You’re not a quitter, I know, Louie” you smiled softly at the man, real care in your eyes. “And you’re right, I do have to come say all of that but I also do because I care about you and I want you to care about you too. You deserve that, you know?” 

“I don’t know about that but I do know you’re one of the good ones” Louie replied, gently tapping the top of your hand with his own affectionately. “How about this? If I ever want to quit, you’re the first person I talk to, alright?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal there” you smiled, squeezing his hand before excusing yourself to see another patient. 

“I swear man, if anyone’s gonna get me to put down the bottle, it’s that woman” Louie said to Frank, shaking his head in fondness and annoyance. 

“I don’t blame you, my man. Let me get you back to the team for that drain, alright?” 

***

“Hey, can we talk for a minute?” Frank asked from behind you.

“Of course, let me close out this note. Want to talk out in the bay? I could use the fresh air.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

As you finished typing your note, you noticed the way he rocked from toe to heel, eyes constantly scanning the ED. You knew about Frank’s ADHD but this seemed to be more than just that. “Okay, lead the way.” 

“So um…I have a favor to ask” Frank began as soon as you were outside. 

“Already?” you replied, half joking. 

He forced a laugh you knew was fake and felt your stomach tighten anxiously. “Could you um…maybe put in a good word to Robby for me?” 

You tilted your head in confusion. “How would I do that without mentioning our history? I’ve only ‘known’ you for half a shift” you replied with air quotes. 

“I mean, he can know. Once he’s forgiven me, everyone else will follow suit and I can just really dive back in where I left off here.” 

You paused for a moment, taking in Frank’s intensity, the way he was almost manic trying to convince you to follow his plan. “No.”

You turned to leave and he quickly stepped in front of you. “No?” 

“No, Frank, I think that’s a terrible idea on multiple fronts actually.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re treating me like you did when I first got into rehab.”

“Well you’re acting like it” you snapped, eyes blazing. “I mean really, Frank, after what you said can you blame Robby for wanting some space?”

“Wait a minute, were you asking around about me?” he asked, voice rising. 

“Of course I was! You of all people should know the social worker is here for staff as much as patients and your return is causing a lot of upheaval.”

“Upheaval, really?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Look, I did what I had to do to get back here. I did the rehab, the IOP, the counseling, the NA meetings. My life was upturned for almost a year and I’ve earned my way back here!”

“No one’s saying you haven’t Frank! But you hurt people and you have to actually acknowledge that.”

“I already started amends” he replied and you chuckled darkly.

“What with Louie?” Your cold response stopped him in his tracks. “One thing I know about you, Frank, is you are a very, very bright man. So, you know the steps but you don’t understand them. You’re acting like a med student, following the letter of the 12 steps law instead of reflecting on the actual goal of them.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Come on, this is day one shit. Impact over intent. Do you think it helped Louie to learn what you did? Did those amends make him feel better or was it a way for you to say you’re doing what you’re supposed to? I mean, really he said you needed the pills more than him so it was fine and you didn’t even correct him!”

“So what you’ve been skulking around all day eavesdropping and gossiping about me?” 

“Jesus, Frank” you replied, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration as you took a deep breath. “Louie is also my patient, I hung back at the curtain to let you finish your little amends bullshit. And I’m not gossiping about you, I’m supporting the people you hurt while you’re actively trying to manipulate me into vouching for you so you can just skirt past the hard shit!” 

“That’s bullshit, the last ten months have been hard for me. I didn't skirt through anything!”

“How do you think they were for Robby? Or Santos? When we first met, your goal was to stop, and these are your words, ‘being so self-centered you hurt people around you.’ Well what the fuck do you think all this is?”

His blues eyes were bright with fury as he shook his head at you but, beneath that, you saw real pain too. “Stop therapizing me.”

“You can’t have it both ways. You can’t ask me to vouch for you as a social worker and then dismiss me when you don’t like what I have to say.” 

He held your gaze but you refused to back down. He finally shook his head, scoffed, and stormed back into the ED. 

***

“I guess my number one goal, other than getting clean obviously, is to um…really work on myself. I know I can be self-centered. I know that can hurt people around me even when I don’t realize it. And the last few months…I’ve caused a lot of hurt.” Frank said during his second week in rehab. His withdrawals had just let up and the havoc he’d wreaked on his life was catching up with him.

“That’s where amends come in but that’s quite far down the line, Frank. That’s a great goal though, to want to consider others before yourself” the lead counselor responded. 

“Exactly, I just really want to get through these steps and get back into work and make sure everyone knows I’m a changed man.”

“If I may?” You tended to be quiet, only adding insights occasionally but they always seemed to land with the other patients so he nodded. “The thing is Frank, amends aren't about you. It’s for the person receiving the apology, not the one completing their steps.”

“I know and I genuinely want to make amends, earn people’s forgiveness.” 

You shook your head and he was taken aback at the disapproval. You looked a few years younger than him but somehow seemed far wiser than he could ever hope to be. “You said you want to make sure people know you’ve changed or for them to forgive you. Those things are out of your control and not really the point. I hope, for everyone’s sake, that happens for you. But amends is about atonement–considering how your words will impact people, doing your best to truly apologize without ever expecting anything in return. To simply acknowledge the pain you caused.” 

“Sure, sure, that makes sense” he responded but he couldn’t fully wrap his mind around it. What was the point of all this if he never got back anyone’s respect? If he put his medical career on hold and no one ever forgave him? 

Days had passed since he’d last spoken to you and he’d felt frozen ever since, unsure what his next move should be. He couldn’t believe he was grappling with those same questions and concepts from so early on in rehab. Why wasn’t he getting this right?

He sighed, checking the clock, grateful to see it was the final hour of his shift on a Friday. He felt like he needed the weekend to regroup. But as he watched you accept a hug from an elderly patient being discharged home, he did know one thing–he needed to apologize to you before the weekend. Once the woman and her family had shuffled away, he made his way to you. “Hey, can we talk outside quick?”

“Sure” you replied, forcing a fake smile that physically pained him to witness. 

“I wanted to um apologize to you” he started, crossing his arms so he could hide his shaking hands at his sides. 

“For what?” 

“For not listening to you ten months ago” he offered and you finally met his gaze fully. “You were right Monday and you were right then I just…I so badly want to get my life back to normal. I want to go back to being Robby’s favorite and being put up for fellowships and to feeling confident and sure of myself. And when I asked you to vouch for me, I put my own desires before your comfortability or the feelings of anyone I actually owe an apology to. So, thank you for checking me and I’m sorry I raised my voice at you. I hope we can move past this but understand if me crossing that line was too much to forgive.” 

A long pause took hold and Frank fought every instinct in his body to say more or fidget or bounce on his toes. And, to his shock, he was rewarded by you pulling him into a hug. It took a moment for his brain to catch up but he happily wrapped his arms around your shoulders, resting his chin on the top of your head. 

“I’m really proud of you, Frank” he thought he heard you mumble into his chest but he wasn’t certain if that was happening now or just in his memory from nine months earlier.

***

“I’m really proud of you, Frank” you’d whispered as you stepped back from the embrace you’d tentatively pulled him into. 

“Thanks, that means a lot” he replied honestly, smiling down at you, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m going to miss seeing you every day in groups but I know you’ll do amazing things once you get your license.”

You ducked your head shyly but nodded your thanks. “You only have a couple of weeks left here and then we’d be saying goodbye anyways.” 

Your eyes rose to his and the sweet moment skirted into the tension that had been brewing the last month. The too long eye contact, the not so casual brush of your hand along his shoulder as you moved past him. He was married and you knew better. But you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes dipped down to your mouth. You couldn’t pull back your hands as they tentatively landed on either side of his ribcage. 

“This is a really bad idea” you whispered, taking a step closer. 

“Agreed” he breathed out, standing stiller than you’d ever seen him, both of you afraid to break the spell of this moment. You took a deep breath before leaning up and placing a peck to his cheek, your lips lingering there a moment before removing yourself from his hold, your hands dropping to your sides. 

“Glad we’re on the same page then” you’d joked sadly, turning away from him. 

From the way Frank had frozen, you suspected the same memory was replaying through his mind so you cautiously moved away. “I really am, I can only imagine how difficult it is for you to come back to the Pitt and sort through everything.”

“Thanks, yeah, I’m um…really grateful you’re here. I mean, I don’t want to be inappropriate or rely on you too much but it’s nice to have someone here that knows me from rehab, that wasn’t here when I self-destructed.” (you know?)

You nodded, squeezing his hand briefly and the cold metal of his wedding band made you drop it immediately. “How’s um, your family doing with everything?”

“Oh well actually…I’m living alone right now, Abby and I separated pretty shortly after I left rehab.” 

“But…” you trailed off, motioning to his hand. 

“Yeah um, could you not mention that to anyone? I just don’t want people to start asking questions about my marriage when I’m already playing catch up and stirring the pot by existing here.” 

“Sure, yeah of course. You’re still seeing your kids though, right?” 

His face broke into a genuine smile as he nodded, “Yeah, they spend every other weekend with me. The other weekend I’m doing my outpatient therapy. I want things to be steady for them, you know? It’s been…it’s been hard on them but the last couple months have been easier with this routine we have set. I miss them a ton though.”

“Yeah, I bet.” 

“Can I ask you a question that’s not totally appropriate?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

“Sure” you breathed out, butterflies filling your stomach. 

“Did I totally make up the closeness and feelings we developed over that month when I was in rehab?” he asked quietly. He looked so vulnerable in that moment, like he couldn’t stop himself from asking even though he was scared of the answer.

“No, you didn’t” you admitted, equally quiet. It had been wildly inappropriate–you knew that. Sure, you were a student and he wasn’t your actual clinical patient but it still sidestepped an ethical boundary. And now, you two working together and having this hidden history didn’t seem to make pursuing those feelings any more practical. 

“Could I maybe make you dinner tomorrow night, then?” 

“Will you be wearing that ring?” 

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “No, definitely not. I’m serious, we’re working through the divorce and I only wear it when I’m in the Pitt. Ask Dana, she caught me without it the other day and I had to bullshit that it must have fallen off in my car.” 

You laughed at that, knowing with total certainty that Dana had not bought his lie. “Then yeah, I’ll give you my number and you can text me the place and time.”

***

Frank had forgotten how stressful and shitty dating was. He’d been with Abby since his freshman year of college and his nerves were fraying as he waited for your arrival. So, he threw himself into making the one dish he’d mastered since becoming a single man–lasagna. Easy, fairly cheap, filling, and pretty delicious if he didn’t get too distracted during the final cheese broil step. 

The oven dinged just as the door bell rang and he cursed softly as he quickly turned off the oven, darted to the front door, pulled it open as he called out “Meet me in the kitchen!” over his shoulder before frantically pulling the tray out. 

He heard your quiet laughter before he saw you enter the kitchen, having paused to take off your shoes and hang up your coat in the hall closet. “How’s it going, chef?”

“Please don’t insult actual chefs by calling me that” he quipped and you chuckled, easily settling in at the small table in the kitchen’s corner. “I also don’t want you to get your hopes up too high about my cooking.”

“Wow, you really know how to woo a girl, huh Frank?” 

He laughed as he brought the tray over. “I really don’t but I’m trying my best.”

“Well that’s all I can ask, I suppose. I mean, it looks edible” you stated, inspecting the lasagna before picking which piece you want. As you took a bite you rolled your eyes and he felt his heart drop to his stomach.

“What?”

“How typical, you play up how shitty a cook you are so the solid food tastes like it should have a Michelin star.” 

He threw his head back in laughter, finally plating a slice for himself. “It’s a total ADHD crapshoot if I’ll burn the cheese or not.”

“Ah, that explains the warm welcome at the door.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, I figured you’d appreciate it in the long run when I served edible food.”

“Oh trust me, you have my gratitude” you teased while taking a bite of the side salad. “Have you always been into cooking?” 

“God no it’s only been recently that I’ve had to” he explained but then felt embarrassed for admitting that he, a grown man, didn’t learn to cook until he was going through a divorce.

“Oh so it’s a side effect of losing your trad wife” you stated with sympathetic eyes.

“...you’re fucking with me, right?” 

“Of course I am” you cackled and he felt his face flush as he took another bite so he didn’t have to respond immediately.

“Fair enough I suppose” he sighed. 

“You two were college sweethearts, right?” you asked tentatively. 

“Yup, met during welcome week freshman year.”

“Damn” you replied softly. 

“Damn indeed” he agreed, not sure how deep he wanted to dive into the subject. Was it weird to talk about your soon to be ex-wife on a first date? He felt like it must be but you’d brought her up.

“I don’t think I ever mentioned to you I was engaged before” you offered quietly and his eyes shot back up to yours. 

 “No you definitely didn’t.”

“I figured it’s fair to share some of my shit since I know so much of yours. Even the playing field and all that” you shrugged, smiling but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I was with him for like five years and we were three months out from the wedding when a girl DMed me on Instagram asking how I knew Matt.”

“Shiiiiit” he breathed out. “When did that happen?”

“Mmm a little over a year ago now. It fucking sucked but was definitely for the best.” 

He nodded sympathetically as you both finished your plates. “I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to cheat on you.”

He watched as you ducked your head, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap before finally looking up at him. “Well, some people are just shitty, you know?” 

“Shitty and blind and stupid if he thought he could do better than you.” 

“Frank!” You replied, genuinely laughing. 

“What?! I’m being serious! If you showed me a picture of this guy I guarantee you I wouldn’t even believe that he’d manage to bag you in the first place.” 

“First of all, there’s no way I have a picture of him on my phone anymore and secondly, even if I did, we are not going down that particular rabbit hole” you chuckled, standing to grab his plate.

“Jeez, what are you doing? There’s no way you’re cleaning up dinner.”

“You cooked!” 

“Yeah and? I’m hosting and not a caveman.” 

You sighed dramatically before handing over the plates which he took to the sink. “I insist on drying.”

“Fine, deal” he relented, shaking his head at you. A peaceful silence fell as they fell into a rhythm of washing, handing dinnerware off, and Frank pointing out where something went in the tiny kitchen. 

“I like your place, it’s cozy” you offered, hopping on the counter as he dried off his hands. 

“That’s a very kind of way of saying my home is small but at least clean.”

“Oh my gosh” you rolled your eyes and he couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his face. He couldn’t get enough of teasing you. “It is not! It’s in a nice neighborhood, it’s clean but lived in, you’re one dude, how much space do you really need?” 

“I suppose that’s fair,” he mumbled. “There’s no way I can renew here though, I only have one bedroom for both kids and it won’t be long until that’s not going to fly with them.” 

You nodded in understanding. “How old are they again?”

“Tanner is four and Hannah is about to be three.” 

“I feel like one bedroom is fine for at least a few more years, no? My sister and I shared a room fulltime until she turned ten.” 

“I know it’s just…never mind, I don’t want to, like, bring up my home life when we’re having a nice time together.”

“Frank” you said sternly and he looked up at you. “I know what dating you comes with, which…actually must be unappealing now that I’ve said it out loud. It’d be much easier for you to date someone new.” 

“I don’t want to date anyone else,” he said instinctually. 

“That’s sweet, but really? Is this your first date since you two separated?” When he nodded you continued. “And you’ve been with Abby since you were like 18. Why do you want to jump right back into a relationship?” 

“Well it is our first date, I don’t have any delusions we’ll marry within the week or anything” he replied and you snorted. “But seriously, no I don’t know what my life will look like six months from now. But I do know that I never stopped thinking about you after your internship ended. And I know that I feel really lucky that you’re here now, even giving me a chance when, like you said, you know what comes with hypothetically being with me.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry” you offered and he slowly approached, placing a hand on either side of your hips, bracketing you onto the counter. 

“What’s this really about?” 

“Don’t therapize me” you argued weakly and he shrugged, throwing you a grin. 

“I’m learning from the best.” 

“Oh fuck off, Frank” you laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. “I guess it’s just…I don’t know. My ex definitely did a number on me which is part of it. But I also know how important this time is for someone in recovery. I don’t want to be a lifeboat when you actually are better off with someone else.” 

“Can you let me make that decision?” 

You sighed, meeting his gaze before nodding. “There are a million reasons this could blow up in our faces.” 

“It could affect our work life,” he agreed.

“You could end up wanting to reconcile with Abby.”

“You might realize you don’t want to date someone less than a year into their recovery.” 

“I could make your recovery harder.” 

“You may get sick of me.” 

“You may end up not as interested as you think you are.” 

As you two spit out hypotheticals, he knew the banter was deeper than that–that really, you were both sharing your fears with one another before moving any further. “So, with all that in mind, do you want to call it quits after one date?” 

You studied his face for a long moment and he let you see all of his emotions–his fears, his insecurities, his desire for you. “No I don’t but I do have one stipulation” you said quietly, leaning down so your faces were mere inches apart. 

“Anything” he agreed without thinking, desperate to finally kiss you. 

“Nothing romantic happens until you retire your wedding ring for good, the Pitt included.” 

He sighed deeply, hanging his head as he processed your words. “That’s fair but it scares the shit out of me that everyone will notice and ask questions and gossip.” 

“Well, once you’re ready to face that you know where to find me” you offered simply and he simply nodded as you slipped off his counter. “Thanks for dinner, Frankie, I had a really good time. Maybe next weekend you don’t have your kids we can go out?” 

“Really?” he asked, surprised. 

“Really. Regardless of if you pony up, I enjoy your company. So yeah, let’s hang out next time we’re both off and free.” 

***

Three months out of the Pitt did Robby a lot of good yet walking back in for his first shift was like slipping into an old pair of jeans–familiar and worn in, if slightly less comfortable than sweatpants. 

It had been a busy day but that hadn’t stopped him from noticing how often Frank sought you out. How every spare moment he was at your side, running his mouth about something. You didn’t look upset but there was no way you were being anything but polite.

“Kid!” he called as you emerged from a room, Frank a step behind. “Chat with me?”

“Sure boss” you replied, smiling, as you followed him out to the ambulance bay. Fall had descended on Pittsburgh but the crisp air was a welcome reprieve from the sterile air of the ED. “What’s up?”

“If Frank is bothering you, I'm happy to step in.” 

He registered the surprise that crossed your face but was taken aback when it flickered into annoyance. “Why do you think Dr. Langdon is bothering me?”

He scoffed out a laugh, running a hand through his beard. “Kid, he’s following you around like a puppy dog, how could that not be annoying?”

A long moment stretched between you and Robby’s mind scrambled to figure out what he was missing. He’d felt protective of you since your first day in the Pitt and that sense of duty had never wavered. He thought he knew you pretty well so what had he missed while he was gone? 

“Look, I know you two have history and it’s valid you don’t want to be around Frank.”

“That’s not–”

“But” you cut him off, sharp gaze flicking up to his own, “Frank is my friend.”

“Look, kid, I’m sure he spun a nice version of what happened–”

“Robby, Jesus Christ” you laughed coldly, shaking your head. “You’re not listening to me.” 

“Okay, okay I’m sorry…continue.” 

Her gaze assessed him before she nodded. “No one else knows this but I have his permission to tell you. Frank was a patient at my final internship, at the substance abuse rehabilitation center. I know everything that happened before he went for treatment. I know what he said to you, and Santos, and that he was stealing pills. But he’s worked really, really hard to get himself back on his feet and he’s a good guy.”

Robby couldn’t help the scoff that left his mouth which earned him a glare. “He betrayed my trust, he betrayed his Hippocratic Oath.”

“Yes, he did.” 

“He hasn’t even bothered to apologize to me!” 

“Oh don’t bullshit me Robinavitch, you avoided him like the plague the one shift you two shared before your sabbatical. You didn’t give him the chance and he, respectfully, is following your lead and giving you space.” 

Robby crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.” 

“I know and appreciate that” you replied, squeezing Robby’s shoulder briefly. “But right now, he’s trying and he’s making progress. Santos agreed to talk to him after this shift.” 

Robby blew out a surprised breath. “Really?”

“Really. So, please, just think about having an actual conversation with him when you’re ready? I can’t promise you won’t still be pissed or want nothing to do with him but I think you owe it to yourself, and to him, to talk.” 

He sighed as he heard sirens approaching, finally nodding his head in agreement. “Fine, I’ll think it over kid but no promises.” 

Robby quickled moved away from you before he could say the real reason he’d been avoiding Frank: his firm belief that he was equally, if not more, responsible than Langdon for what he’d allowed to happen in his ED. 

***

Trinity didn’t give a shit about what Frank had to say. But, she respected the 12 steps process and its importance to someone’s recovery. More so, she respected that his behavior had changed since he came back. He approached her early on and when she declined to talk to him, he moved along while still being professional. He never spoke down to her and he stopped himself from reacting when she pushed his buttons or snapped at him just to get a rise from him. He was trying, so she guessed she could too.  

“Hey” she heard him greet her before he stepped into view.

“Hey” she offered but nothing more, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Fair enough” he replied, mostly to himself. “So, I want to start off by saying I’m not expecting you to forgive me or for us to be friendly or anything. I just want to acknowledge that I was an asshole to you and you can do with that what you will.”

She nodded her agreement so he continued. “Your first day here, you easily saw past a mask that I had been meticulously building for months. You saw me for who I was in that moment and it scared the shit out of me. So I lashed out and I spoke down to you and I actively campaigned to get you out of the Pitt. And I’m sorry for that. I wouldn’t admit it to myself then but you’re an excellent doctor. Sure, you made mistakes and had issues with chain of command but you care about the patients and you’re quick to learn. It was my job to nourish that, not squash it, so I’m sorry for what I said. You deserve to be here and I had no right to say otherwise. I was wrong and I was a real dick to you so I apologize.”

She weighed his words, taking in the sincerity that was apparent in them. “Fine, you’re forgiven but if I so much as see you look at a med student or newer resident the wrong way I will destroy you, got it?” 

“Got it” he agreed, and for the first time since his apology began his eyes left her face. She followed his gaze to see you walking out of the ED, turning the opposite way of them to go home. 

“What is up with you two?” 

“What? Nothing.” 

She rolled her eyes, hopping off the pillar she’d been sitting on. “Look, she’s an amazing person and I honestly have no idea what she’d see you in, no offense.”

“Um, offense very much taken.”

“But I see that you two are close. You treat her well and she lights up when you’re together. So, figure out whatever the fuck is going on and get your head out of your ass, Langdon.”

“But Abby…”

“Dude you don’t have your ring right now and I’ve noticed when you come in early it’s not on either. My point stands, get your shit together and don’t fucking hurt her. She’s way too good for you.”

“I know she is.”

“Good” she replied, saluting him before turning on her heel and walking away. 

***

“I have to run outside for a quick call but good luck with Robby, okay?” you encouraged Frank a few weeks later, giving his hand a quick squeeze. 

“Sure, yeah, thanks” he replied, mind churning a mile a minute. Robby had finally agreed to have a conversation and he didn’t want to fuck it up more, if that was even possible. He watched you pull out your phone as you wandered towards the ambulance bay, turning away only when he heard Robby’s voice rounding the other corner.

“Frank, ready when you are” Robby called and Langdon followed his former mentor into the staff room. 

As the door closed behind them, Robby turned with his arms crossed towards Frank. 

“Okay so um…where to start?” Frank said, releasing the deep breath he’d been holding for months. “I’m sorry for what I said to you after the mass shooting. It was a low fucking blow and classic addict deflection, so I’m sorry I kicked you while you were down. Beyond that, I know I betrayed your trust well before that. You put a lot of faith in me, as well as time and energy, and I let you down. I know I can’t make up for that but I deeply apologize for the harm I caused. I promise I am doing everything in my power to make up for it and ensure nothing like that happens ever again.” 

“That it? Okay, apology received, let's eto back to work” Robby replied curtly, turning to leave the room.

“What do you mean that’s it?” Frank snapped. He knew Robby didn’t owe him forgiveness but the brushoff stung. 

“I think it’s better than me saying what I actually want to.”

“No, it’s not. Look, I know I fucked up, okay? But we’re adults can’t we have a conversation? Say what you need to say, it can’t be worse than your silent disdain.” 

“Fine, if you insist,” Robby sighed, facing Frank again. “You betrayed your Hippocratic Oath. You illegally stole medication intended for a patient. Those are unforgivable actions.”

“I know,” Frank said quietly. “But you also gave me an avenue back into the Pitt, so why are you treating me so shittily when I’ve done what you told me?”

“So what, you think I’m going back on my word?” Robby scoffed, rolling his eyes as he scrubbed his hands down his face. “I trusted you, Frank! I wanted you to run this ED with me one day and instead you let this place destroy you and you tried to drag me down with you.”

“I am not destroyed!” Frank replied angrily. “I made mistakes and I’m atoning for them. You’re the only one who isn’t letting me step back into my role here and holding this grudge.” 

“That is bullshit and you know it, Frank.”

Dana’s voice cut through their bickering over the intercom: “Code brown ambulance bay!” Robby was still going on and on but Frank only heard the ringing in his ears–had something happened to you?

“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled and Robby did, shock evident on his face. “Look, I said my piece and you can do with it what you will, okay? Brenner went out for air right before we came in here so I need to go see if she’s that code brown. Are you coming or not?” 

“Lead the way” Robby said, snapping into attending mode. Frank’s terror must have been apparent because he felt Robby give his shoulder a squeeze before running ahead to the charge station to see what Dana knew. 

Frank’s eyes scanned the ED hoping beyond hope that you’d emerge from somewhere else, totally unscathed. How could he have been so stupid? He’d wasted so much time worrying about Pitt gossips instead of just being with you. He’d nearly convinced himself his hopes were a fantasy when, miraculously, you emerged from a room two doors down from the ambulance bay. 

The relief that coursed through him was palpable, the adrenaline still pumping as he made his way to you in sure strides. 

“Whitaker!” he called, drawing the student’s attention from his work station along Frank’s pathway. “Consider this a down payment on your own place so you can escape Santos’ pussy palace, alright?” 

Before Whitaker could sputter out a response, Frank was slamming his wedding band onto Dennis’ desk without missing a step. When he was within a few feet of you, your eyes widened at the sight of him. 

“Holy shit, Frankie, are you okay? You look–” 

He cut you off by crashing his lips into yours, one hand gripping your hips to pull you closer, the other cupping your cheek. He felt you melt into him for a moment before your muscles tensed. 

“Frank, we had a deal, you can’t just…” you trailed off as you shakily brought your hand up to grip the one on your face–his ring-less left hand. 

“Yeah, we did and I’m cashing in if that’s okay with you?”

Your only reply was to throw your arms around his neck to pull him back to you. Frank was glued to the spot as your mouths explored each other, months of pent up tension slowly bleeding into wherever your skin touched his. He would have stayed there forever if not for Louie’s voice ringing out from nearby. “Shrink and the doc?!” 

You quickly pulled away just as Frank took a step back, the heat rising quickly to his cheeks as he realized the whole ED was watching. He tried to ignore the look of smug satisfaction on Dana’s face only to be met with the eager shock on Mel’s. He didn’t even bother looking in Santos’ direction, sure he’d find some biting comment. 

“Everyone, back to work” Robby commanded, quiet but firm, as he emerged from central command. “You two, staff room.” 

Frank felt his heart sink–he could handle Robby holding a grudge against him but if the older man even thought about causing you trouble…

As the door swung quietly behind him, Robby turned to face you two. “One, that never happens in the ED again, understood?”

“Understood” yours and Frank’s voices chorused together.

“Two, you talk to HR at the end of this shift.”

“Understood.” 

“Frank” Robby began, sharp gaze turning towards him. “You are forgiven on the condition you treat her like the treasure she is, got it?”

“Got it” Frank breathed out in relief. Robby held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding at you both and leaving the room. 

“What happened? You looked terrified and I know for a fact your stubborn ass had that ring on before your talk with Robby.”

“Where the hell did you go?” he asked, eyes searching for injuries he logically knew weren’t there. “They called a code brown coming in from the ambulance bay I thought…”

“You thought what?”

“I thought something awful had happened to you and I was sick to my stomach. And then, I was furious with myself for wasting so much time worrying what the gaggle of gossips would say.”

“Well, they’ll definitely be saying lots of things now” you quipped, amusement evident in your eyes. “Where’d your ring end up?”

“It’s funding Whitaker’s escape from Santos and Garcia’s love nest.”

You cackled, shaking your head fondly, as you leaned your forehead on his chest. His hands instinctually rose to meet your hips as he dropped a kiss to the top of your head. 

“So are we doing this?” you questioned quietly. 

“If we aren’t, I sure stirred the pot for nothing” he sighed and you chuckled, looking at him. 

“We’re off in an hour, we’ll head up to HR then?” 

“Obviously, it’s the most romantic date option for any new couple.” 

he bothers you so much. i can see him hooking his finger with the waistband of your scrubs and underwear and snapping it harshly against your skin. you wince, and he laughs. when ur trying to catch up on charts, he leans his head on your shoulder to be nosy; you try to push him away, but he ignores you and gets closer. he barely lets u work. sometimes he steals ur energy drinks just to piss u off. thats all without mentioning the endless touching and groping he does. like grabbing your ass and thighs, and you have to yell at him because he's gonna get you two in trouble with robby and hr. other times, you're alone with him in the break room, and he'll slip his hands up your scrub top. sometimes he'll only leave them on your stomach, so you let him even when you shouldn't. then, sometimes, he can't help himself but grab your bra-clad breasts, squeezing until you squirm away and swat at him.

then, he always catches u in the breakroom, where coincidentally, you always end up alone with him. you don't even realize he's there until you hear the door click slightly after he closes it. "frank . . . ," you say his name sternly as he come behind you, his fingers digging into your hips.

"i'm not even doing anything," he mutters like a lectured child against your neck as you focus on making ur coffee. he really isn't doing anything until you feel his erection against your ass. he whines when you try to step away, his arms sliding around your waist. he doesn't even care when you warn him that he can get both of you in trouble. instead, he just rolls his hard dick against your scrub-covered ass, groaning in your ear because he knows how it turns you on, even when you're trying not to be.

he's so mean; he'll have you sandwiched between the counter and his body just to pull away and leave the room—he jerks himself off in the bathroom afterward. he finds it amusing how annoyed you get.

sometimes he drags you into supply closet, and he'll eat you out or finger you until you're about to cum and pull away, dick throbbing in his scrubs from the way you whine. he's so entertained by the way you ignore him the rest of the shift.

all that just to fuck you when you get home, lying on your stomach and his body weight squishing you against the mattress with his arm around your neck, squeezing every time his dick shoves deep inside your pussy. "still mad at me, baby?" his lips brush your ear. his hips roll, dick kissing your cervix. your gummy walls clamp around him, brain empty—opposite of how frantic it were while you were working. he groans deeply and kisses your temple. "that's what i thought."

The night shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical had turned into one of those shifts that felt three hours longer than it actually was.

By the time the clock crawled past ten, everybody looked worn thin. The residents were slower, the nurses station was buried in half-finished charting, and the entire ER had that heavy end-of-shift feeling where nobody wanted to speak unless absolutely necessary.

You were leaning against the counter inside the break room scrolling through your phone to see if you missed anything happening during your shift. Frank walked into the room beside you, pulling off a pair of gloves with an irritated snap.

“The nurse order that last CT?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She put it in wrong.”

“You scared her.”

“I corrected her.”

“You stared at her in silence for like fifteen seconds first.”

Frank looked at you flatly. “Because she ordered the wrong scan.”

You bit back a smile and looked back at your charting.

That was basically how the two of you functioned.

Half your conversations sounded like arguments to anybody else. Somewhere over the last few months, sarcasm had become the default setting between you. It was easier than acknowledging whatever this thing was sitting underneath it.

It started small.

Him stealing your coffee during double shifts without asking first.

You stealing his chair at the nurses station just to annoy him.

Frank automatically handing you the right thing during traumas before you even asked for it. You knowing exactly when he was about to lose patience with a resident and stepping in before he snapped at them.

Nobody really noticed how often you ended up next to each other.

But you did.

- - -

He didn’t come back the same way he left.

And the hospital didn’t know what to do with that.

You did.

You didnt him like he was fragile. You didn’t suddenly get careful with your words or start watching him like he might break in half. The others did that. You didn’t.

You just… stayed the same.

Still arguing with him in trauma rooms like nothing had changed. Still rolling your eyes when he got sharp with residents. Still talking to him like he was just Langdon, not Frank Langdon, senior resident who had been gone for ten months in rehab for stealing Benzos while everyone filled in their own version of what that meant.

And you could tell he noticed.

Because with everyone else, there was distance.

With you, there wasn’t.

Frank moved beside you, shoulder brushing yours while he reached for the computer.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

“So are you.”

“I just finished charting.”

“Bullshit. You finished twenty minutes ago.”

You looked over finally. “Are you stalking my charting times now?”

“Unfortunately I know your habits against my will.”

“Sounds difficult for you.”

“It is.”

He said it completely serious, which made it worse.

You laughed quietly, shaking your head.

Frank glanced at you for a second too long before looking back at the monitor.

The thing about him was that most people thought he was hard to read because he was sarcastic and constantly annoyed at everybody. But once you worked with him long enough, you realized he actually showed everything. Just in smaller ways.

The way he hovered after bad cases.

The way he got quieter when he was exhausted.

The way he always knew what to say to help a patient.

And the way, after he came back, he always seemed to end up near you without thinking about it. Like you were the only place in the hospital that didn’t feel… different.

You noticed all of it.

Apparently he noticed things too.

“You missed lunch again,” he said suddenly.

You frowned. “What?”

“You missed lunch.”

“How do you even know that?”

“You get meaner towards the end of the shift when you haven’t eaten.”

“I do not.”

“You threatened to throw a pulse ox at Ogilvie.”

“He would've deserved that even if I wasn't in a bad mood.”

Frank snorted softly under his breath.

That stupid little sound did something annoying to your chest.

There’d been moments before this too.

A month ago he’d grabbed your hand without thinking after a patient died under your care, his hand lingering a second too long after things calmed down. Neither of you said anything about it after.

A couple weeks later Dana asked if the two of you were secretly married because “nobody argues that much unless there’s tension involved.”

Frank nearly choked on his coffee.

You hadn’t looked at him for the rest of the shift after that because every time you did, he looked like he was trying not to smile.

- - -

Frank leaned back against the counter beside you.

“Tough day?” you asked.

Frank let out a quiet breath through his nose, eyes still on the floor for a second before he answered.

“Robby rode my ass all day.”

Your expression softened slightly. “About?”

“You know exactly about what.”

Right. His first day back.

Ten months gone and everybody in the hospital suddenly acting like they didn’t know where to look when he walked into a room.

Some people were normal about it. Some very much weren’t.

You leaned back against the counter beside him. “He was hard on you?”

Frank gave a humorless little laugh. “Harder than usual.”

“That’s saying something.”

“Mm.”

You glanced at him carefully. “And Santos?”

“She barely talked to me unless she had to.”

“Ouch.”

“She kept looking at me like I was gonna pop open a pill bottle any second.”

Your face twisted immediately. “Frank…”

“I know.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw tiredly. “It is what it is.”

No. It wasn’t. But arguing that with him right now wouldn’t help.

You stayed quiet for a second before taking another sip of your coffee and immediately grimacing.

Frank noticed.

“That any good?”

“No. Tastes worse every time somehow.”

“Lemme see.”

You handed him the cup without thinking. He took a sip, made a face instantly, then looked at you like you’d personally offended him.

“That is actually disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still drinking it?”

You shrugged. “Too tired to care.”

That finally got a real smile out of him.

Not big. Not performative. Just real enough that it actually changed his face for a second instead of just tugging at it.

The silence after that felt different.

Not awkward.

Just… heavier.

Frank was still standing too close. Your shoulder kept brushing his arm every time either of you moved. Neither of you fixed it.

You became very aware of how tired he looked.

Not sloppy. Just worn down. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble coming in darker along his jaw than it had that morning. His scrub top wrinkled from a fourteen hour shift.

“You should go home,” you said quietly.

“So should you.”

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

Frank looked at you then. Fully.

It hit harder than it should’ve.

Because suddenly it didn’t feel like the normal flirting and sarcasm you’d both been hiding behind for months. It felt like standing too close to something you’d both been avoiding on purpose.

“You keep doing that,” he said.

Your stomach tightened slightly. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

The way he said it made your chest go tight.

You looked down at the coffee in your hands. “You’re hard to read sometimes.”

“No I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Frank shook his head slightly. “No. People just don’t pay attention.”

The words settled between you.

Because the truth was, you did pay attention.

You noticed when he got quieter after losing patients.

You noticed he always ended up standing near you after rough traumas without seeming to realize he was doing it.

You noticed he watched you during procedures sometimes when he thought you weren’t looking.

And judging by the way he was staring at you now, he knew it.

The noise around you seemed farther away suddenly.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly.

“Like what?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before coming back up.

“Like you already know what I’m thinking.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Maybe I do.”

He smiled at that. Tired and brief, but real.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

Frank stared at you another second before reaching over and taking the coffee from your hands, setting it on the counter behind you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant like he’d been secretly dreaming about it for months.

It felt more like restraint finally snapping.

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you against him hard enough to make your breath catch. You grabbed the front of his scrub top automatically, kissing him back before your brain fully caught up.

He tasted like bad coffee and mint gum and exhaustion.

The kiss got deeper fast.

Months of tension packed into one thing neither of you were pretending not to want anymore.

When he pulled back, barely, both of you were breathing harder.

“That’s been pissing me off for months,” he muttered.

You blinked. “What has?”

“Not doing that.”

You laughed softly, slightly breathless. “Very romantic, Langdon.”

“I’m exhausted. That’s the best you’re getting.”

His hand was still firm against your waist. Thumb rubbing once unconsciously against your side through your scrubs.

You looked at him for a second. Really looked at him.

And suddenly this didn’t feel random anymore.

It felt inevitable.

“You wanna come over?” you asked quietly.

Frank’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Your place or mine?”

“Whichever has less chance of us falling asleep immediately.”

“Mine’s closer.”

“Okay.”

- - -

The drive to his apartment was quiet in a comfortable way.

Frank kept one hand loose on the wheel while the other rested against the center console near your leg. Every once in a while his fingers brushed your knee absentmindedly like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

His apartment looked exactly how you expected it to.

Messy, but functional.

Medical journals stacked on the table. Hoodie thrown over a chair. Half-finished takeout shoved in the fridge beside energy drinks and beer.

“You live like this?” you asked.

“I work sixty hour weeks.”

“Fair.”

The second the apartment door shut behind you, the tension came back immediately.

Frank looked at you for half a second before stepping forward and kissing you again.

Slower this time.

His hands slid under your top, palms warm against your stomach, dragging upward just enough to make you shiver.

He noticed immediately.

“You cold?”

“You know damn well that’s not why.”

That low laugh again.

“Just checking.”

You pushed his top up over his head, fingers dragging across warm skin and the hair on his chest. He watched your face while you looked at him instead of trying to act confident about it.

That felt weirdly intimate.

More intimate than the kissing honestly.

His hand settled at the back of your neck before he kissed you again, slower now, like he finally had time to.

The couch hit the front of your legs and Frank sat down without breaking the kiss. You went to sit on top of him, legs straddling him. One of his hands on your thigh while the other pushed through your hair.

“You have any idea how hard it’s been not touching you at work?” he muttered against your mouth.

You smiled slightly. “You touch me at work all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

His hand slid higher up your thigh above your scrub pants, slow enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You flirt with me constantly,” you pointed out softly.

“You flirt back.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Frank kissed you harder for that.

The tension between you had changed now. Less nervousness. More familiarity. Like both of you already knew each other too well for this to feel awkward.

By the time your scrub top came off, his breathing had gotten heavier. His hands moved over your skin slowly, like he was trying not to rush through any of it despite how long he’d clearly wanted this.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna say something?”

He looked at you for another second. “Nope.”

You laughed quietly.

His mouth dropped to your neck immediately after, kissing lower while his hand slid along your waist. The roughness of his palm against bare skin made heat curl low in your stomach.

Everything with Frank felt like that.

Not dramatic.

Not overly polished.

Just intense in this very real, very physical way that made it hard to think straight.

When he finally laid back against the couch cushions properly, both his hands gripped your thighs while he kissed down your chest, your fingers tangled into his hair automatically.

“Frank—”

“Mm?”

"Bed," you manage to pant, your voice thick with want.

He didn’t need to be told twice. In one swift motion, he hooks his arms under your thighs and hauls you against his chest, carrying you toward the bedroom like you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock through his pants, earning a deep, guttural groan from him.

The moment your feet hit the floor, you shove him back onto the mattress, hastily removing your pants, straddling his hips as you finally get to see him fully. His toned chest, the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his scrub pants, the bulge straining against the fabric. You rake your nails down his chest, relishing the way his breath hitches, kissing down his neck.

Frank’s hands grip your ass, kneading the flesh as he grinds up into you, the friction making you throb. "You’re gonna kill me," he mutters, his voice strained. You smirk, rolling your hips against him, loving the way his eyes darken with lust. "Only if you’re lucky," you tease, before shoving his pants down just enough to free his cock. You stroke him once, twice.

He grunts, flipping you onto your back in one move, pinning your wrists above your head as he settles between your thighs. You wrap your legs around his waist, your underwear doing little to hide how wet you are. His fingers find the waistband, yanking them down in one rough motion, leaving you bare before him. His gaze rakes over you, dark and possessive, before he lowers his mouth to your pussy, his tongue swiping through your folds with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes your back arch off the bed.

"Frank—!" You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he fucks you with his tongue, circling your clit with just the right pressure before dipping his hand to fuck you with his fingers. You’re already close, your thighs trembling around his ears, but he pulls back just enough to smirk up at you. "Not yet," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. You whimper, but he’s already working his way up your body, kissing, biting, sucking his way to your mouth.

When he finally lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, you’re a trembling mess of need. He teases you for a second, dragging the tip through your wetness before pushing in with one hard thrust. You gasp, your nails digging into his back as he stretches you, filling you completely. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he pulls back and slams into you again, his hips snapping against yours in a rhythm that’s relentless and perfect.

One of his hands grips your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse spike with adrenaline. "You take me so good baby," he breathes keeping his eyes locked with your, his voice rough with pleasure. You moan, your legs tightening around him as he picks up the pace, his cock pumping in and out of you with a force that makes the headboard thud against the wall. His other hand finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucks you, the combination of sensations sending you spiraling toward orgasm.

"Fuck, I’m close—" you gasp, your back arching as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

"Come for me, baby," he orders, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. The order pushes you over the edge, your pussy clenching around him as you scream his name, your orgasm ripping through you in waves. He follows you over the edge with a groan, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he comes, his forehead pressed to yours as he pants through the aftermath.

When he finally pulls out, he rolls onto his back, taking you with him so you’re sprawled half on top of him. You’re both breathless, your skin slick with sweat, your hearts pounding in sync. He presses a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"Worth the wait," he murmurs, and you can’t help but laugh, nuzzling into his chest.