close to you — frank langdon x f!reader
NOW PLAYING CLOSE TO YOU — GRACIE ABRAMS
summary — the first time since frank langdon returned from rehab that he doesn't feel like a failed husband, an absent father, a recovering addict, or an exhausted resident repeating his fourth year.
pairing — frank langdon x f!reader
word count — 5.8k
tags/warnings — 18+ mdni, smut, one night stand, divorced!frank langdon, alcohol use, unprotected sex, oral sex (m receiving), medical innacuracy, no use of y/n, happy ending
jamie's corner — this is the first fanfic I've written in years and I'm very happy with myself... let me know what you think!
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
The air in the karaoke bar was thick with the scent of spilled beer and the ghost of a hundred off-key dreams. The exact kind of sensory overload Frank Langdon thought he’d craved after twelve hours in the sterile, high-stakes quiet of the hospital, even though the pulsating neon lights did little to chase away the shadows of the day’s shift.
It was Santos’ idea, of course. “Primal scream therapy,” she’d declared, her voice cutting through the post-shift haze as they’d shuffled out of the lockers room. And so, there they were: Mel, his anchor and best friend, humming along patiently; Ellis, offering dry commentary on the song selections; Whitaker, with his earnest, farm-boy smile; Javadi, tired from the grueling shift she had, but who agreed to be there rather than having to go back home to her parents straight away; and Santos, who Frank tolerated like a persistent, irritable rash.
“I’m so happy we’re here,” Mel smiled happily looking at her friends. She nudged him with her elbow, “You should really go for it… Screaming into a microphone and exorcise the demons, I mean.”
He offered a weak smile, the familiar weight of the last six months settling on his shoulders.
Six months out of rehab and divorce papers, Frank felt like a ghost in his own life. The divorce from Abby had been a quiet, grim agreement. He’d been absent, buried in work and then in the chemical fog of benzos, and she’d been unbearably, rightfully exhausted. She hadn’t even been cruel about it. Just final. Her waiting until he was out of rehab to serve the papers felt like a mercy, which somehow made it worse. He couldn’t even blame her. He agreed with her. But the emptiness that followed was a different kind of ache, one that karaoke and cheap non-alcoholic beer couldn’t touch.
“Yeah… I don’t think screaming into a microphone would help me,” he looked down at his drink, stabbing a lime with his straw.
“That’s because your problem,” Ellis raised her eyebrow with a smirk, “is a simple biological deficit. All this moping is just unused energy.”
Frank frowned, looking up and meeting the woman sitting across from him. "What does that mean?"
“It means that you need to get laid, Kendall Roy.” Trinity rolled her eyes, sighing. Whitaker and Javadi both choked on their drinks, Ellis hid her laughter with a cough, and Mel shot her a warning look.
“Wait… Did you just call me Kend—?”
“It’s clogging your aura. Or your chakras. Whatever.” She shrugged, her eyes glinting with mischief. “And judging by the glacial pace of your marriage’s demise, we’re talking a years-long drought. Probably since you conceived Penny.”
Victoria kicked her under the table. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice. I’m prescribing a cure.”
Frank and Trinity locked eyes — a familiar, silent standoff. One time, after yet another argument between the two, the woman vented once again to her roommate and the boy told her that the reason why she and Langdon didn't get along — in addition to what had happened between them in the past — was because they were planets locked in a hostile orbit, too similar in their cynicism to ever comfortably align.
And he was right.
But for Mel’s sake, they’d declared a truce, resulting in this odd, prickly détente.
“Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Santos. I’ll take it under advisement.”
Seeking refuge, Frank stood and muttered something that passed for bathroom or another drink or maybe nothing at all. No one stopped him.
At the bar, it was marginally quieter. Or maybe it just felt that way.
“Another one?” the bartender asked, already reaching.
“Yeah. Same thing.”
He rested his palms against the counter, head dipping for a second. Just a second. Long enough to feel the ache behind his eyes, the ghost of exhaustion that no amount of sleep had fixed lately. Someone hit a particularly painful high note behind him and the room erupted in a mix of cheers and laughter.
Then… A soft collision.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, stepping back, one hand half-raised as if he could rewind the moment by sheer reflex.
“Oh! No, that was me,” you replied, a quick, breathy laugh escaping before you could stop it. “I turned without looking.”
You both paused there for a second, caught in that small, suspended recalibration strangers share when they’ve accidentally stepped into each other’s space. The noise of the bar pressed in around you again: off-key singing, scattered cheers, the low hum of overlapping conversations.
You were holding a microphone in one hand, your drink in the other, something bright pink, condensation slipping down the glass, half-melted ice clinking softly as it tilted.
“Were you—?” Frank gestured vaguely toward the stage, glancing past you at the rotating wash of colored lights.
“Not yet,” you said, grimacing as if the thought alone caused you physical discomfort. “I’m being forced. It’s a whole thing.”
“Karaoke peer pressure is real.”
“Extremely. Borderline criminal.”
“I think there are laws about it somewhere.”
That earned a smile from you, quick, but genuine. It softened your whole face in a way that caught him slightly off guard. Almost without thinking, you set the microphone down on the counter beside you, freeing your hand.
You held it out, introducing yourself.
“Frank,” he said, taking it. Your handshake was brief, a little awkward, both of you aware of how unnecessary and oddly formal it felt in a place like this: sticky floors, neon lights, someone butchering a chorus behind you.
“Celebrating?” he asked, nodding toward your drink, then toward the general chaos of a table he assumed was yours — voices rising, someone laughing too loudly.
“My friend just got promoted,” you said, glancing over your shoulder for a moment before looking back at him, a smile lingering. “Huge deal. So now we’re here, making questionable choices in her honor.”
“Seems appropriate.”
“What about you?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, studying him now with a bit more focus. “You don’t look like you’re having questionable-choice fun.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight. “That obvious?”
“A little,” you said, not unkindly. “You’ve got that… ‘I’d rather be anywhere else but I’m trying to be polite about it’ posture.”
“Wow,” he muttered, a hint of amusement creeping in despite himself. “That’s… Uncomfortably accurate.”
“What can I say…” you replied, lifting your chin in mock pride. “I’m very perceptive.”
The bartender slid his drink across the counter. Frank nodded his thanks, fingers curling around the glass, the coolness grounding. Your gaze flicked to it almost immediately.
“No alcohol?” you asked, casual but curious.
“Not tonight,” he said, just as casually.
“Fair enough.” You lifted your own glass slightly, the ice shifting again. “This is my second and I’m already negotiating with future me about how much I’ll regret it.”
“Future you is right to be concerned,” Frank said, bringing his glass to his mouth, a small grin forming despite the earlier reluctance still clinging to him.
“Future me is always right,” you said. “Present me just ignores her.”
That earned a real smile. Quieter, but more genuine this time. It lingered a second longer than he expected.
“So, what do you do, Frank?” you asked.
He hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but it was there. “I’m a doctor.”
Your eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering openly across your face. “Oh. Okay, that’s significantly more impressive than whatever I was expecting.”
“Don’t be too impressed,” he said lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “Mostly it’s just long hours and bad coffee.”
“Still,” you said, studying him now with a different kind of attention, something more thoughtful. “Explains the posture.”
“The posture?” he echoed, one brow lifting.
“Yeah.” You gestured vaguely toward him, searching for the right words. “You look tired in a very specific way. Like… Bone-tired. Not just ‘I stayed up too late watching something’ tired.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just considered that, rolling it around quietly, before giving a small, acknowledging nod.
“That’s… Not inaccurate.”
On stage, a man missed his cue entirely. The lyrics rolled on without him, merciless and bright on the screen. The crowd cheered anyway, a mix of encouragement and amusement.
You laughed, shaking your head, some of the tension easing out of your shoulders. “I’m up soon. That’s going to be me.”
“What are you singing?” he asked, his blue eyes clear, observant, settling on you with genuine curiosity now.
“Something I will immediately regret.”
“Bold strategy.”
“Thank you. I like to commit.” You chuckled softly, bringing the straw to your lips, taking a quick sip.
A small pause settled between you, not empty, but easy. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.
Frank glanced back toward his table. Dennis caught his eye and raised a hand, gesturing him back awkwardly, Mel and Parker were too engrossed in their conversation to notice their friend and the woman who had somehow caught his attention. But Santos and Javadi… God, they seemed to study attentionally the scene unfolding at the counter before their eyes.
He looked away again, almost immediately.
You followed his gaze, then looked back at him. “You escaping something over there?”
He hesitated, then exhaled lightly. “I… Yeah. Sort of.”
You nodded, no prying, no follow-up questions. Just a quiet understanding. “Then you picked the right place to hide,” you said. “No one pays attention to anything that isn’t the stage.”
He glanced at you. “Except you.”
“Except me,” you agreed, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Another beat passed, but this one stretched a little longer.
“Do you always read people this quickly,” Frank asked, turning his glass slightly between his fingers, “Or am I just particularly easy to figure out tonight?”
“Mm,” you hummed, pretending to consider it. “Bit of both. You’re giving me a lot to work with.”
“Good to know I’m broadcasting.”
“Only to trained professionals,” you said lightly. “It’s a niche skill.”
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And what qualifies you as a trained professional?”
You took another sip of your drink, eyes flicking up at him over the rim of the glass. “Years of people-watching. Bad dates. A deeply ingrained curiosity about strangers.”
“Bad dates, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. A rich and varied history,” you said. “You learn patterns after a while.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Not yet,” you replied, a small smile forming. “You’re doing okay.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
The conversation slipped forward easily after that, almost without either of you noticing. It wandered, starting with harmless things, like music and the absolute chaos happening on stage, then drifting into work, then sideways into stories that didn’t quite have a point but were worth telling anyway.
You told him about a trip that went wrong in three different ways but somehow still ended up being one of your favorites. He told you about a patient who insisted on bringing him homemade food every week as thanks, whether he wanted it or not. You compared worst coffee experiences. Argued briefly — lightly — about whether karaoke required confidence or just a lack of self-preservation.
And Frank felt present. He wasn’t a failed husband, an absent father, a recovering addict, or an exhausted resident repeating his fourth year. He was just a man making a woman laugh. A very beautiful woman.
At some point, you both stopped checking the room.
The noise faded into something distant, background instead of barrier.
“You’re not as miserable as you were forty minutes ago,” you pointed out eventually.
“I noticed that,” he admitted. “I think I got… Distracted.”
“By the high-quality entertainment?” you asked, gesturing toward the stage, where someone was aggressively off-key.
“Obviously.”
You gave him a look. He smiled, this time without hesitation.
“Right,” you said. “Of course.”
Your name was called then, cutting through the noise.
You froze for half a second, eyes widening. “Oh no.”
“Showtime,” Frank said, amused.
“This is a mistake,” you muttered, grabbing the microphone from the counter. “A huge mistake.”
“I believe in you,” he said.
“That makes one of us.”
You hesitated for just a second longer, then glanced back at him. “Don’t leave,” you said, almost offhand, but not quite. “Please.”
“I won’t,” he replied softly.
The song was, objectively, a disaster.
You missed cues, laughed through half the lines, and at one point just gave up entirely and let the crowd sing for you. But you committed to it fully, and that seemed to be enough. The room responded with cheers, applause, a few dramatic whoops when you took an exaggerated bow at the end.
When you made your way back, a little flushed, a little breathless, he was still there.
“Told you,” he said.
“That I’d regret it?”
“That you’d survive it.”
“Barely,” you said, though you were smiling.
You reached for your drink again, finishing what was left in one go, then set the empty glass down with a soft clink.
“Okay,” you said, exhaling. “I think I’ve fulfilled my obligations for the night.”
“Heading out?” he asked.
“Thinking about it,” you said, then looked at him. Really looked, like you were making a decision in real time.
There was a brief pause. Not awkward. Just… Deliberate.
“My roommate’s out of town,” you said, tone still light, but steadier now. “She won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just watched you, attentive.
You tilted your head slightly, a hint of a smile returning. “Which means I have a very quiet apartment, a couch that’s significantly more comfortable than anything in this place and… No one to judge my questionable choices.”
There it was. Clear enough not to be misunderstood, but not forced.
“If you don’t feel like going back to… Whatever you’re escaping,” you added, softer now, “You could come with me, Doc.”
The noise of the bar swelled again around you, but it felt distant, like it belonged to a different moment entirely.
Frank held your gaze for a second, something shifting behind his expression. The hesitation was still there, but thinner now, worn down by the ease of the last half hour.
“Yeah,” he said finally, a small, certain nod following. “Okay.”
Your smile widened, just slightly, not triumphant, not surprised. Just… Satisfied.
“Okay,” you echoed.
You fumbled with your keys at the door, your heart pounding from the electric tension that had built since the first moment at the bar. Frank stood close behind you, his breath warm on your neck, one hand lightly resting on your hip. The moment the lock clicked open, you pushed the door wide and turned into him, your lips crashing together in a hungry kiss. His mouth was firm and insistent, and you melted against him, your fingers tangling in his shirt as you pulled him inside.
The door slammed shut behind you, but neither broke the kiss. Frank's hands roamed up your back, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed flush. You could feel the hard line of his arousal against your thigh, and it sent a thrill straight to your core. You nipped at his lower lip, drawing a low groan from him, and he responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, teasing dance.
You stumbled backward through the entryway, shedding jackets and shoes in a haphazard trail. Your apartment was dimly lit by a single lamp in the living room, casting soft shadows that made everything feel more intimate, more urgent. You broke away just long enough to gasp, “My room's this way,” but Frank was already pushing you down the short hallway, his strong arms wrapping around your waist.
He kicked the bedroom door open and lowered you onto the bed, but you tugged him down with you, not willing to let go. You kissed again, slower this time, savoring the heat building between the two of you. Frank's fingers worked at the buttons of your blouse, exposing the lace bra, and he trailed his lips down the jaw to your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin there. You arched into him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm, taut muscles of his chest.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Frank murmured against your collarbone, his voice rough with desire. It had been six months since his divorce, and longer still since he'd been with anyone but his ex-wife, back before med school, even. The anticipation made every touch feel amplified, like his nerves were on fire.
You smiled, pushing him onto his back and straddling his hips. You ground against the bulge in his jeans, eliciting another groan. “Me? Did you see yourself?” You peeled off the blouse, tossing it aside, and unhooked the bra, letting it fall away to reveal your full breasts. Frank's eyes darkened with lust as he reached up, cupping them, his thumbs brushing over the hardening nipples.
You leaned down to kiss him again, Your hair falling like a curtain around the both of you, while your hands fumbled with his belt. The clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room, and you tugged his jeans open, fingers brushing the straining fabric of his boxers. Frank lifted his hips to help you slide them down, kicking them off along with his socks. Now in just his boxers, his cock tented the thin material obscenely, and your mouth watered at the sight.
But you weren’t done undressing him yet. You yanked his shirt over his head, exposing his toned torso: broad shoulders, a light dusting of hair across his chest leading down to his abs. He looked good, real, not like the polished guys you usually avoided. You traced your nails down his sides, making him shiver, then hooked the fingers into his boxers and pulled them down slowly, inch by inch, until his cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
Frank watched you with hooded eyes, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “I...” he started, but you silenced him with a finger to his lips.
“Touch me, Frank,” you whispered, guiding his hand to your skirt. He didn't hesitate, unzipping it and pushing it down your legs along with the panties. Now you were both naked, skin against skin, and the air between you crackled. His fingers explored your folds, finding you wet and ready, and he circled your clit with just the right pressure, making you moan.
You rocked against his hand, kissing his chest, his nipples, working your way down his body. The scent of him, musky and masculine, filled your senses, heightening your arousal. When you reached his cock, you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking firmly from root to tip. Frank hissed, his hips bucking slightly.
“Fuck, that feels good, baby,” he said, his voice strained.
You looked up at him, eyes locking with his blue ones as you leaned in, the tongue flicking out to taste the bead of pre-cum at the tip. He was salty and warm, and you savored it before swirling your tongue around the head, teasing the sensitive underside. Frank's hand fisted in the sheets, his other tangling in your hair. Not pulling, just holding, as if anchoring himself.
You took him into your mouth slowly, inch by inch, lips stretching around his girth. He was thick enough to make your jaw ache just a little, but you loved it, the fullness, the way he throbbed against your tongue. You bobbed your head, sucking gently at first, then harder, hand working what you couldn't fit. The wet sounds of your mouth on him filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and occasional curses.
Frank watched you, mesmerized by the sight of the lips wrapped around his cock, cheeks hollowing with each pull. “You're incredible,” he panted, his free hand reaching down to caress your cheek. You hummed in response, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth.
You varied the pace, sometimes taking him deep until he hit the back of your throat, other times pulling back to lick along the shaft, tracing the veins with your tongue. Your other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten under the touch. Frank was close, you could tell by the way his thighs tensed, the way his groans grew deeper.
But you didn't want him to finish yet. Reluctantly, you released him with a pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening cock. You crawled back up his body, kissing him deeply so he could taste himself on your tongue. “Not yet,” she murmured against his mouth. “I want you inside me.”
Frank flipped you over in one fluid motion, pinning you beneath him. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through the slick folds. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on. He pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you completely. Both moaned at the sensation, your tight heat enveloping him, him buried to the hilt inside you.
He started thrusting, slow and deep at first, building a rhythm. You met each movement with your hips, nails digging into his back. The bed creaked under you both, the room filled with the slap of skin on skin, gasps and whispers. Frank leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, and you cried out, walls clenching around him.
Faster now, harder. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hand slipped between the both of you, rubbing your clit in tight circles as he pounded into you. The pressure built, coiling tight in your belly.
“Cum for me,” Frank growled, his own control fraying. And you did, shattering around him with a keening moan, pussy pulsing and milking his cock. The sight and feel of your orgasm pushed him over the edge. He thrust deep one last time, burying himself as he came, hot spurts filling you.
You collapsed together, sweaty and spent, his weight a comforting press against your body. Frank kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. “That was... Amazing,” he said softly, still catching his breath.
You smiled, tracing lazy patterns on his back. “Yeah…It was.”
The soft, rhythmic sound of Frank’s breathing had been your lullaby. You drifted in that warm, weightless space between dreams and consciousness, your body humming with a pleasant, bone-deep satisfaction. The scent of him — clean cotton, a hint of the bar’s cheap booze, and something uniquely, essentially male — lingered on your sheets and on your skin. It was the best sleep you’d had in months.
Then, a rustle. The quiet, deliberate shift of fabric. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool where he had been.
Your eyes fluttered open in the deep indigo darkness of the bedroom. The digital clock on your nightstand cast a faint red glow 4:47 AM. You turned the head on the pillow.
He was a silhouette against the window, the first faint hints of dawn outlining his broad shoulders. Frank was pulling his t-shirt over his head, the muscles of his back and arms shifting in the dim light. The sight was intimate in a way that felt startling, more vulnerable than the passion you’d shared hours before. Watching him dress felt like witnessing a secret ritual.
“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Running away already?”
He turned, his movements pausing. Even in the near-dark, you could see the apology in his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping gently under his weight. His hand found yours where it lay on the duvet, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. The touch was electric, a repeat of the spark that had jumped between you across a crowded bar.
“I need to head home,” Frank explained, his tone apologetic but practical. “Quick shower, change of clothes. I have rounds at the hospital at seven.”
“A doctor with rounds at seven. Of course you do,” you said, the words softened by your smile. Yet you couldn’t help feeling a ridiculous, sleepy pang of disappointment. This was the script, wasn’t it? A magical, impulsive night, and then a quiet exit before the sun. No fuss. No messy feelings. But nothing about last night had felt like a script. It had felt like a collision.
“It’s so early, though,” you whispered, stating the obvious, just to keep him there a moment longer.
“I know.” He leaned over you, and for a heartbeat, you thought he might kiss you properly, might slide back under the covers and let the hospital wait. But he hesitated. You could feel it in the stillness of his body, see the conflict in the set of his jaw. This was supposed to be simple. A one-night stand. A beautiful, passionate blip.
The kiss, when it came, was not on the lips. He bent his head and pressed his lips softly, so softly, to your forehead. It was a kiss that held a universe of unspoken words: tenderness, gratitude, a hint of bewildered awe. It was a kiss that broke all the rules of an unspoken agreement.
A warmth, entirely separate from the heat of the previous night, spread through your chest.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.
You sank back into the pillows, pulling the duvet up to your chin. “Be safe,” you murmured.
Then he was gone, the sound of the front door clicking shut a soft, final note in the quiet apartment.
You heard the soft click of your bedroom door, then the front door a moment later. The apartment settled back into silence. But the ghost of his touch remained on your forehead, a sweet, unexpected brand. You closed your eyes, a slow, irrepressible smile curving your lips as you drifted back into sleep, the memory of his hesitant kiss a promise hanging in the quiet air.
The emergency room felt like another planet.
Everything was too white, too loud, too sharp. Monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, carts rattled past, voices overlapped in a constant stream of urgency.
You sat on the edge of a hospital bed in Room 18, a thin blanket draped over your legs. Your head throbbed in a slow, insistent pulse that made it hard to think in straight lines.
You would later insist it was the rug.
Your roommate would argue it was the fact that you’d tried to carry a glass, your phone, and a half-finished slice of toast all at once.
Either way, it happened fast.
Your foot caught. The world tilted. There was that awful, suspended second where you knew you were going down and then the sharp crack of your temple against the edge of the counter.
Darkness blinked in and out.
Dr. McKay had been composed in a way that made everything seem both better and worse at the same time. Calm questions. Steady hands. A small light flashed into your eyes.
“Any nausea? Blurred vision? Sensitivity to light?”
“Yes,” you answered at least once, though you couldn’t remember to which.
“A precautionary CT scan,” McKay had said. “We’ll rule out anything serious. Bleeding, swelling. It’s likely just a mild concussion, but we don’t take chances with head trauma.”
Nurse Emma had smiled kindly as she adjusted your blanket. “We’ll take good care of you, okay?”
Then they were gone, the door left slightly open behind them.
Your roommate paced immediately.
“I knew that rug was a death trap,” she muttered. “I said it. Did I not say it?”
“You said it didn’t match the kitchen,” you replied faintly.
“Same thing.”
You let the head tip back against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment.
Footsteps passed. Voices blurred.
Then… Silence.
A pause in the doorway.
You opened your eyes again.
A very young woman stood there, one hand still on the doorframe as if she’d stopped mid-step. Dark hair, soft features, a gaze that locked onto you with sudden, unmistakable recognition.
You frowned slightly, but before you could say anything, she was gone.
Victoria practically skidded to a stop at the nurses’ station. “You have no idea who’s in Room 18.”
Dennis barely looked up from his chart. “If this is about the guy who tried to superglue his own—”
“Not that,” Javadi cut in. “A girl.”
Santos leaned back in her chair, unimpressed. “Thrilling. We’ve reached the part of the shift where women exist.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “That girl.”
The Filipina arched an eyebrow. “We meet a lot of girls, Crash. You’ll have to narrow it down.”
She grinned. “Langdon’s friend. Karaoke bar. The one he disappeared with.”
That got their attention.
“No way,” Whitaker said, straightening.
“Oh, way.”
“Well, well. The mysterious one-night miracle that let Langdon get laid,” Trinity’s mouth curved slowly into something wicked. She gave a soft, delighted laugh. “This just became the best shift of my life.”
A voice behind them cut through the moment.
“What became the best shift of your life?”
They all turned.
Frank stood there, a chart in his hand, expression neutral, but attentive.
Santos didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, Javadi was just telling us your little fling is in Room 18.”
The words hung in the air like a dropped glass.
Langdon blinked once.
“Excuse me?”
Victoria pointed down the hall. “Yeah, she looks slightly concussed but still very recognizable.”
He didn’t wait for the rest.
The chart hit the counter with a soft slap as he turned and strode — then outright rushed — down the corridor.
The door to Room 18 swung open with a sharp creak.
You looked up.
And everything inside you seemed to stop.
Frank stood there, slightly out of breath, his blue eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
“You—” you started.
“You’re—” he said at the same time.
Then both stopped.
Your roommate’s gaze snapped between them, instantly alert.
“You work here?” you managed, blinking at him.
Frank let out a short, disbelieving breath. “I mean... I told you, I'm a doctor.”
“I didn’t know you worked in ER, though.”
“I didn’t know you’d be… Here,” he said, gesturing vaguely, as if ‘here’ covered unconscious kitchen accidents and improbable reunions.
“Oh,” your roommate said softly, leaning back with growing interest. “Oh, this is good.”
Before anything else could unfold, a voice called sharply from the hallway, “Dr. Langdon, Trauma Two. Now.”
He closed his eyes briefly, something like frustration flashing across his face.
“I-I have to go. Just… Give me a minute. I’ll come back.”
And then he was gone again, as quickly as he’d appeared.
The door swung shut.
Silence.
Your roommate turned slowly toward you, arms crossing. “Start talking.”
By the time Frank returned, your pulse had only just begun to settle, and your roommate looked entirely too pleased with herself.
“I’m going to get coffee,” she announced, already standing. “This feels like a two-person conversation. Preferably one I can interrogate later.”
“You’re not subtle,” you muttered.
“I’m not trying to be.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Frank lingered for half a second, as if making sure you two were truly alone this time.
Then he stepped closer.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice softer now, the professional edge giving way to something more personal.
“Like I lost a fight with my own kitchen,” you said.
He huffed a quiet laugh, relief flickering across his face. “Yeah, the kitchen usually wins.”
He lifted the chart slightly. “I brought your CT scan results.”
You tilted your head, studying him — taking in the scrubs, the tired eyes, the familiar expression that didn’t feel quite so distant anymore.
“So?” you asked lightly. “How’s my head, Doctor?”
He leaned in just enough that his voice dropped, meant only for your ears. “Oh, I can’t complain about it.”
Your breath caught. And then you flushed, swatting his shoulder. “That is so inappropriate, Dr. Langdon.”
“Highly,” he agreed.
You smiled despite yourself. “Good to know your bedside manner is questionable.”
“Only with specific patients.”
He glanced back at the chart, clearing his throat slightly.
“Your scan is clear. No bleeding, no swelling. Everything looks good. You’ll likely have a mild concussion. So rest, hydration, no screens for long periods, and someone should keep an eye on you for the next day.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
A quiet settled between both of you.
Not uncomfortable. Just… Full.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.
You looked up. “For what?”
“For leaving that morning.” His grip tightened slightly on the chart. “I didn’t plan it like that. I had to get to work, and I thought I’d come back after my shift, but…” Frank exhaled, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “I realized halfway here that I never asked for your number.”
You blinked. “You didn’t.”
“I know. Terrible form.” He shook his head. “And by the time I thought about going back, it felt… Strange. Like I’d be showing up uninvited.”
“You would have been,” you said, but gently.
“Exactly,” he replied. “So I figured… That was it. One night. And I’d just have to be okay with that.”
Your expression softened, the teasing fading into something more thoughtful.
“But the thing is,” he continued, quieter now, “I wasn’t okay with it. Not really.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve been divorced for six months. And since then, everything’s just felt… Off. Like I’m going through the motions.”
You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away.
“And then there was that night,” he said. “And it wasn’t like that. For the first time in months it felt… Easy. Real.”
The word lingered between them.
“So when I realized I might never see you again…” He let out a small breath. “That bothered me more than I expected.”
Your fingers tightened slightly in the blanket.
“And now you’re here,” he added, almost incredulous. “In the ER where I work. After a night where neither of us even mentioned where we worked.”
A faint smile returned to your lips. “Suspicious timing.”
“Very.”
You tilted your head. “Maybe my kitchen sent me here for a reason.” You laughed softly.
The tension shifted. Still there, but warmer now. Familiar.
“Listen,” he said, more certain this time, “I’d really like to do this properly. Take you out. No rushing, no disappearing, no… Accidental concussions.”
You studied him for a moment. Not weighing, not doubting. Just seeing him clearly.
“The full experience?” you asked. “Not just karaoke and poor decisions?”
“Hey!” he protested lightly, “That was an excellent decision.”
“Debatable.”
“Then let me prove it.”
A beat.
Then you smiled.
“Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And this time, when the silence settled between you, it didn’t feel like something unfinished.
It felt like something just beginning.
