mika !

For hours, a chaotic agony was ripping through your lower back and abdomen.

Frank laced his fingers lightly through yours. He had explicitly stepped away from the charts today to just be your partner. Yet, you could feel the slight tremor in his hand, see the rigid set of his shoulders, and read the quiet dread masking his handsome features.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart," he murmured. He used his free hand to brush a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

"Frank, something... something feels wrong," you gasped, your voice breaking as another contraction peaked. It wasn’t just the blinding pain of childbirth; a deep sickness was blooming in the pit of your stomach. A wave of intense nausea hit you, making your head spin violently. "I feel really sick. Like... I'm going to vo-vomit or pass out."

Frank’s eyes flicked briefly to the monitors, his medical brain instantly calculating, but he consciously forced it down. He was on boyfriend duty today. He had to trust his colleagues. "It’s the transition phase, baby. Nausea, feeling overwhelmed, thinking you can't do it, remember? Completely normal."

The attending nurse entered, checking the monitors and offering a comforting nod. "Dr. Langdon is right. It's totally normal to feel sick at this stage. You're doing great, mom."

But it didn't feel normal. It felt like your body was collapsing in on itself.

When the time came to push, the room was filled with sharp commands and agonizing effort. You cried out as the final wave of pressure took over. And then, the sharp cry of your baby cut through the room.

Frank let out a breath that sounded like a sob, leaning down to press a kiss to your sweating temple. "It's a boy, baby."

They placed the crying newborn on your chest, but instead of the overwhelming rush of warmth you had expected, a violent chill swept through your veins.

Your teeth began to chatter. Not a mild shiver, but an uncontrollable rattling.

"F- Frank..." you wheezed, your arms trembling so violently you could barely hold your son. The nurse quickly and gently took the baby from your chest, sensing the sudden shift in the room's energy.

"I've got him, it's okay," the nurse said, her voice losing its casual warmth.

"I'm... I'm cold," you whispered, your jaw locking as a severe tremor racked your entire upper body. Sweat was pouring down your face, but you were freezing from the inside out. Your vision began to vignette. "I, I don't feel well."

Frank’s hand went to your forehead. The instant his palm touched your skin, his expression shattered. You were burning up.

As a doctor, he knew exactly what the combination of severe tremors, a sudden fever, and your fading color meant. But as your boyfriend, as a new father, he was completely paralyzed by the sheer terror of it. He forced himself to step back physically, refusing to interfere with the attending medical team, knowing he was too emotionally compromised to touch a single instrument.

The attending doctor moved quickly, lifting the sheets. The moment they did, the atmosphere in the room turned to ice.

"We have a postpartum hemorrhage," the doctor announced sharply. "Get a new line open, hang oxytocin, and get me two units of packed red cells on standby. Now! Move!"

Your eyes fluttered, heavy and uncooperative. Through the fog, you saw Frank. Right now, he was a man staring down his worst nightmare, completely at the mercy of the doctors swarming around you.

"Frank? What is happening?" you whimpered, your body violently jerking from the tremors. You felt a terrifying emptiness spreading inside you, a numbness creeping up your legs.

"It's okay, I'm here," he said, his voice cracking as he leaned over you. He poured all of his energy into you.

"I'm scared."

"Hey, hey, they're taking care," he said but he squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, swallowing down the medical terminology screaming in his head, choosing instead to just hold you. "Let them do their jobs. Look at me. You're okay."

It was a nightmare: the clatter of medical instruments, the frantic shouting of orders from the medical team, the alarm of the vitals monitor as your blood pressure plummeted.

The chaos in the room escalated. Frank knew the meaning of the rapid shallow breaths you were taking. He knew what it meant when the monitor's alarm shifted from a warning beep to a continuous whine.

"Blood pressure is dropping!" the attending doctor called out, his voice tense. "We need to move. Call the OR, tell them we’re coming down right now. Postpartum hemorrhage, secondary to uterine atony, suspected shock."

The words floated over Frank, each one hitting him like a physical blow. He didn't argue. He just gripped your hand tighter, his knuckles stark white, his chest heaving as he tried to swallow down a sob.

"F-Frank..." your voice was barely a breath now. The violent tremors were starting to exhaust your muscles, leaving you weak and dangerously still. The fever burned against his palms. "Babyboy?"

"He's safe, sweetheart. He's right here in the nursery, he's perfect," Frank lied smoothly. He hadn't even looked at the bassinet; his eyes hadn't left your face for a single second. "He's okay but I need you to stay with me, okay? He's waiting for you."

The bed brakes clicked and made you flinch.

"Dr. Langdon, we have to move her now," a nurse said gently.

"I'm staying until the double doors," Frank said.

During the sprint down the hallway, Frank walked briskly alongside you, practically running backward, his body hunched over yours to stay in your line of sight.

"Hey, we'll be waiting for you," he said.

You tried to hold onto his gaze, but your eyelids felt like lead. And the fever made everything spin. "I love you," you whispered, the words slipping out just as the world began to completely fade.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Then came the sound of the double doors of the surgical suite. The doors swung shut, the small square windows offering a brief glimpse of the blue surgical scrubs before you were wheeled around the corner, completely out of sight.

The heavy double doors of the surgical suite remained firmly shut.

For a long moment, Frank stayed collapsed against the corridor wall.

Then, a distant cry echoed from down the hall, snapping him out of his trance.

Frank forced himself to his feet. He sanitized his hands automatically with the hand sanitizer outside the neonatal unit before stepping into the quiet lit of the nursery.

A nurse looked up, her eyes filled with deep sympathy. "Dr. Langdon... she’s in good hands down there. Do you want to hold him?"

Frank couldn't speak. He just nodded, numbed by the sheer weight of everything happening at once. The nurse gently lifted the small baby from the incubator and transferred him into Frank’s arms.

The moment the baby's weight settled against his chest, Frank’s breath hitched. He sat down in a nearby chair, his eyes locked onto the tiny pink face peering up at him.

The baby had stopped crying, settling instantly against his father's warmth, his tiny hands tucked up near his chin.

Frank looked at the baby’s features, a fresh wave of emotion crashing over him.

"Hey there," Frank whispered. He brought his shaking hand up, using the side of his index finger to gently stroke the baby’s impossibly soft cheek. "You're really beautiful... you know that?"

Frank let out a watery breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked closer.

"You got your mom's nose," he murmured, his voice cracking. He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against the baby’s tiny head, inhaling the sweet new scent of him. "The exact same nose. You look so much like her already."

The baby made a snuffling sound, shifting slightly in his grip. Frank tightened his arms around him, holding him close.

"Mom is in surgery right now," Frank whispered. "She... she got really sick, really fast. But she’s fighting. She’s so strong. And we're just gonna wait for her up here, okay? Just you and me. We’re gonna wait right here."

Frank looked back down into his son's eyes, his expression softening into some intensely fierce, fierce with a father's protective love.

"You're gonna be good to her, hm?" Frank said, his thumb gently caressing the baby's tiny hand. "When she gets back, we are gonna protect mama. No matter what. We're gonna take care of her, yeah?"

The baby let out a tiny sigh, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep, completely safe in his father's arms.

Frank kept rocking him, staring at the door, holding onto his son and praying with everything he had for the heavy double doors downstairs to open.

_

You slowly blinked your eyes open, the heavy fog of the anesthesia finally lifting. You still felt incredibly weak, your muscles sore and your body entirely exhausted from the trauma, but the burning fever and the chills were completely gone.

The first thing you felt was the warm of Frank’s hand holding yours.

He was sitting in the chair right beside your bed, hunched forward, his eyes fixed entirely on your face. He looked exhausted, but the moment he saw your eyes flutter open and focus on him, the crushing tension in his shoulders completely vanished.

"Hey," he whispered. "Welcome back, baby."

You looked up at him, then searched for your baby. He was beside your bed. Your eyes met Frank’s again. The relief on his face was palpable, but beneath it, you could still see the lingering shadows of the terror he had carried for hours.

"Hi, love," you whispered, your voice a little raspy. "What... what happened?"

"You had a postpartum hemorrhage," he explained. "Your uterus didn't contract down the way it was supposed to. It’s called uterine atony. Because of that, you started bleeding very heavily, very quickly."

You nodded slowly. "The shaking..."

"That was your body going into shock from the blood loss," Frank murmured, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin. "It’s a systemic response. They moved you to the OR to stabilize you. The surgeons did an incredible job. They stopped the bleed, got your vitals back up, and made sure you were safe."

"Is... Is he...?"

"Our boy is perfect," Frank said quickly. He stood up and moved over to the clear bassinet beside the bed. With gentle hands, he lifted the swaddled bundle, supporting the baby's head as he brought him over to you. "Look at him. He’s just been waiting for his mama."

Frank carefully adjusted your pillows, helping you shift into a comfortable position, making sure not to strain your abdomen. He placed the baby gently into your arms, guiding your hand to hold him securely against your chest.

Meeting your son for the first time, a tear slipped down your cheek. He was so tiny, so perfect, completely unaware of the storm you had all just weathered.

He looked so much like Frank, but with the tiny features Frank had whispered about in the nursery.

A soft knock on the door broke the quiet and a nurse stepped into the room. "Knock, knock. I see mom is awake. How are we feeling?"

"Tired," you admitted weakly, looking down at the baby, who was starting to root around against your hospital gown. "Can I feed him? Although I'm.. weak."

"That is completely understandable given what your body went through," the nurse said gently, walking over to the opposite side of the bed. "And yes, you can."

Frank immediately moved to give the nurse room. He didn't step in with medical instructions; he just watched you with pure adoration, completely content to let the nurse guide you.

The nurse deftly used a few extra pillows to prop up your elbows, taking the weight of the baby off your exhausted muscles. "Let's try a cross cradle hold since you're resting," she murmured, gently showing you how to guide the baby's head. She helped you get your son positioned, showing you how to wait for him to open his mouth.

"There you go," the nurse encouraged softly as the baby latched on perfectly. A sucking sound filled the room. "He’s got a great latch. You're doing wonderful."

The nurse gave your leg a reassuring pat, smiled at Frank and quietly slipped out of the room to give you three some privacy.

You looked down at the tiny miracle cradled against you. Slowly, you raised your hand, your fingertips tracing the soft curve of his cheek.

"Hi, beautiful boy," you whispered, your voice laced with awe. "Hi... I'm your mama. I'm so sorry I scared you."

The baby made a tiny grunting noise, adjusting his latch, his little fist pressing firmly against your chest.

"You are so strong, aren't you?" you murmured softly, a tear of pure happiness escaping your eye and tracking down your face. "You waited for me. Thank you for waiting for me, sweet boy. We're gonna be okay now. I promise. Mama's right here."

Frank watched the two of you, his chest heaving as a wave of intense emotion hit him. Hearing your voice wrap around your son for the first time broke him. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away the tear that had traced down your cheek, before leaving his hand to rest against your face, his palm warm and steady.

"You''re so beautiful," Frank whispered, his eyes glassy as he looked between you and your son.

"I'm okay. We're okay," you whispered back, looking up into his eyes, seeing the dad and the partner who had held onto you through the worst of it.

"Yeah," Frank breathed, a smile finally breaking across his face as he looked down at his son nursing. "We've got her, buddy. We're gonna take care of mama."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

The elevator doors open onto the emergency department.

You step out.

And there he is.

Frank is standing at the central desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, listening to one of the residents ramble about a consult.

For a moment neither of you move.

It's been six years.

Six years since graduation.

Six years since the worst fight of your life.

Six years since the man who once knew every stupid thing about you walked out of your apartment and never looked back.

His eyes find yours.

The resident keeps talking.

Frank doesn't hear a word.

You can tell.

You know him too well.

His face goes completely blank.

Which somehow hurts more.

"Dr. Langdon?"

The resident says it twice before Frank blinks.

"What?"

The resident points toward you.

"New cardiology attending."

You almost laugh.

Attending.

The title sounds ridiculous considering the way your stomach just dropped into your shoes.

Frank swallows.

Then nods once.

Professional.

"Welcome to PMTC."

Not welcome back.

Not it's been a while.

Not even hello.

Just that.

You hate how much it stings.

"Thank you."

The silence stretches.

The entire department seems to notice.

People glance between the two of you.

Something is obviously wrong.

Nobody knows what.

Frank breaks eye contact first.

"Excuse me."

Then he walks away.

The rumors start immediately.

Because hospitals are worse than high schools.

By the end of the week people have figured out three things:

One.

You and Langdon know each other.

Two.

Neither of you seem particularly thrilled about it.

Three.

The tension is so thick people could probably slice it with a scalpel.

It gets worse when you're forced onto a trauma case together.

A twenty-three-year-old arrives after a motorcycle accident.

Massive cardiac contusion.

The entire team moves fast.

Frank is leading the emergency side.

You handle the cardiac complications.

For thirty minutes everything is fine.

Then Frank overrides one of your recommendations.

You stare at him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm stabilizing him."

"By ignoring cardiology?"

"I'm following the numbers."

You cross your arms.

"The numbers don't show everything."

Frank laughs.

Not a happy laugh.

The kind he only uses when he's angry.

"Still think you're the smartest person in every room?"

The words hit harder than they should.

Because once upon a time you were.

Together.

Valedictorian and salutatorian.

The pair nobody could beat.

Until everything fell apart.

You lower your voice.

"Some things never change."

His jaw tightens.

"No."

For a second something flashes across his face.

Hurt.

Old and familiar.

"No, apparently they don't."

The fight follows you home.

It follows him too.

Because that night Frank sits alone in the physician lounge staring at a vending machine.

And all he can think about is you.

At ten years old, beating him at spelling bees.

At sixteen, arguing over class rankings.

At nineteen, asleep on his shoulder in the library.

At twenty-one, kissing him in the rain after finals.

At twenty-six, screaming at him in a med school hallway.

The last memory is the one that stays.

The one neither of you ever recovered from.

A week later you're both trapped in an elevator.

Because of course you are.

The universe hates you.

The elevator shudders.

Stops.

The emergency phone crackles overhead.

Maintenance says it'll be twenty minutes.

Twenty.

Entire.

Minutes.

Frank leans against the wall.

You stare at the doors.

Neither of you speaks.

"You never answered my calls."

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

You freeze.

Slowly turn.

"What?"

His eyes meet yours.

"You disappeared."

Something sharp twists inside your chest.

"You left first."

Frank laughs bitterly.

"That's not what happened."

"Really?"

The years of anger come rushing back.

"You told me I was selfish."

"You were."

You stare.

He immediately regrets saying it.

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

"You know what?" you say quietly. "Forget it."

"No."

Frank pushes away from the wall.

"No, because we've spent six years pretending we don't care."

His voice cracks slightly.

"And I am tired."

The confession hangs between you.

You hate that it affects you.

You hate that you still know exactly what his tired sounds like.

"You think I wanted this?" you ask.

"I don't know what you wanted."

"I wanted you."

The words slip out.

The silence afterward is devastating.

Frank's entire expression changes.

Like somebody punched the air from his lungs.

Because for the first time in six years—

Neither of you is angry.

Just two people who loved each other for most of their lives and never learned how to stop.

The elevator remains stuck.

And for the first time since you arrived at PMTC, Frank looks at you the way he used to.

Like you're still his favorite person.