Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After being forced out of the makeshift morgue by the closest thing he had to a father, Jake wheeled down the hallway, surrounded by the frantic ER staff he’d known for most of his life. The chaos of the moment only amplified the isolation that gripped him, making him feel more alone than ever. As he passed, Dr. Langdon caught sight of the raw panic and anguish carved into Jake’s bloodied face. Without a second thought, he stepped forward, grabbing the handles of Jake’s wheelchair.

“Hey, man,” Langdon tried to keep his voice steady, though the exhaustion and distress of the day were starting to seep through. “I got you.”

Langdon hurried Jake into an empty trauma room, where Jake’s emotions finally broke free. Tears streamed down his face, and an overwhelming inability to catch his breath made it impossible for him to speak. Langdon locked the wheelchair and knelt in front of him. Despite his own children being much younger, his paternal instincts kicked in without hesitation. Without a word, Jake collapsed into his arms, surrendering to the torrent of sobs that had overtaken him.

“She’s really gone,” Jake gasped between sobs, his voice rising unintentionally with the terror that was consuming him. “I couldn’t save her... she’s dead.”

Langdon, despite having experienced similar grief himself, found the right words escaping him. He could only offer comfort through his presence. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly, rubbing Jake’s back in slow, reassuring circles. “Let it out... try to breathe.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Langdon noticed Dana walking towards the room and frantically waved his arm to get her attention. He didn’t know she had already been looking for Jake.

“There you are,” Dana said, her voice tinged with a mix of worry and relief as she quickly assessed the room. She hesitated at first, not wanting to interrupt the moment of solace, but couldn’t help feeling a quiet comfort that it was Langdon who had gotten to Jake first. She knew that bond—an unspoken brotherly connection—that neither she nor Dr. Robby could replicate. “What can I do?” she asked gently, her concern etched in every syllable.

“Can you grab him 10 milligrams of Valium and 1000 milligrams of Tylenol?” Langdon asked, his voice calm but urgent as he continued to hold Jake. “And something to wrap his leg—he’s bleeding through the dressing.”

“Say no more,” Dana said, barely getting the words out before she was already on her way to fulfill his request. She returned moments later, her concern still evident as she couldn’t help but ask, “Have you seen Robby?”

“No, just him,” Langdon replied as he and Dana quickly helped the still-wailing teenager into the nearby bed. “I got this. Can you call his mom?”

Dana nodded, though a brief hesitation crossed her mind at the thought of leaving Langdon alone with the Valium. Still, she trusted him completely. She made sure to draw the curtain and close the door behind her, ensuring they were shielded from any curious onlookers.

“Here, bud, take these. They’ll help,” Langdon said softly, handing Jake a small plastic cup with three pills, followed by a bottle of water, his voice a lifeline in the storm of Jake’s grief. Jake, hands trembling, swallowed the pills without thinking, the world around him a blur.

“She’s really dead,” Jake cried, “she was just talking to me, I held pressure, Robby said he tried everything, and she’s still gone.”

“I know,” Langdon said, his voice a steady presence in the chaos. He kicked a stool to Jake’s bedside and sat down, offering his hand. “Just breathe, big deep breaths. I got you.”

Jake lay back in the hospital bed, tears continuing to carve clean paths through the blood on his face. He focused on taking Langdon’s advice. In through the nose, out through the mouth, remembering the guidance Robby had once given him when he needed it most.

Several minutes passed as the two men sat together, Jake slowly beginning to feel the effects of the Valium and Langdon’s comforting presence. Unbeknownst to him, Langdon was grateful for the change of pace. Though he shared in Jake’s devastation to some degree, he appreciated the brief respite from the chaos of the shooting’s aftermath. As he began cleaning the wound on Jake’s leg and applying a more thorough dressing than the nurse was able to manage during the earlier pandemonium, Langdon couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief in the quiet moment.

Jake, now more lucid, broke the silence. “Shouldn’t you be out there? I mean, I appreciate you being here, but don’t you have lives to save?”

“No, I actually shouldn’t be at the hospital at all,” Langdon began, unsure whether he should explain himself further. The dread from Robby’s confrontation a few hours ago still lingered just beneath the surface of his thoughts, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it—even in the midst of a mass casualty. “I don’t know where Robby went, Dana called your mom but I don’t know if she can get here. I need to stay with you.”

Jake felt relieved at Langdon’s reassuring presence. He knew he shouldn’t be angry with Robby, but given the circumstances, he couldn’t help it. Langdon, however, had been like a brother to him, and that made the moment a little easier to bear. “Why couldn’t he save her? He saves people every day, why did Leah have to be the one to die?”

“Man…” Langdon sighed, frustration in his voice as he tried to find the right words, unsure if Jake would understand. “That bullet went straight through her heart. Even if she were our only patient, I don’t think we could’ve saved her.” He didn’t want to sound callous, but he hoped Jake would appreciate the honesty—and maybe it would help him understand enough to preserve his relationship with Robby. He took his gloves off, tossed them in the biohazard bin by the wall, and slowly sat back down on the stool. “He did absolutely everything, and then some. Even broke MCI protocol for her. There was literally nothing else anyone could’ve done. I’m so sorry.”

Jake nodded lightly and turned his head away, tears beginning to stream down his face once again, but quietly this time. “I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to do now? How can I come back from this?”

Langdon sighed, letting his head fall against his arms, which were resting on the side rails of the hospital bed. “Don’t think too far ahead right now, bud. Just feel your feelings as they come.” He searched for the right words, trying to think of what he’d wished someone had said to him all those years ago, as the memories he’d spent so long suppressing began to surface. He lifted his head, leaning back slightly, rubbing his knees as he cleared his throat. “Can I tell you something personal?”

Jake turned towards Langdon, immediately sensing the deep-rooted pain in his eyes as their gazes locked. He gave a weak nod, silently signaling that he was ready to listen.

“When I was your age… I lost my high school girlfriend,” Langdon hesitated, realizing he had never said this out loud to anyone, not even to Abby. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. “It was a car accident… a drunk driver hit us. I got out with a little crack in my collarbone, but she didn’t make it.” He leaned forward again, resting his head on the side rail, struggling to push down the emotions creeping up. After a deep breath, he forced himself to remember why he was confiding in Jake. Sitting up straight, he reached out for Jake’s hand, locking eyes with him. “I know exactly how you’re feeling right now, man. I’ve been there. The heartbreak, the rage, the survivor’s guilt... I’ve felt it all. Through undergrad, med school, residency, finding the woman of my dreams, starting a family… I’ve never stopped thinking about her. But I promise you, man, I swear to God, it does get easier.”

Langdon quickly wiped away the tear that had escaped, but Jake saw it anyway. Just then, the door slid open, and Dana peeked around the curtain. “Are you guys okay? Do you need anything?” she asked, her voice soft with concern.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” Langdon replied, surprised by the haste in his own voice. He cleared his throat again, trying to calm himself. He knew Dana wouldn’t judge, but he still didn’t want her to see that he’d been crying. “Do we have an ETA for his mom?”

“She’s on her way, stuck in traffic,” Dana responded, her gaze flickering with concern as she took in the emotional weight in the room. The tension in the air was thick. “Robby was out getting some air with Abbott. It’s still chaos out there, but it’s starting to slow down. Jake, can I get you anything?”

“No, ma’am, thank you,” Jake replied, his voice soft and distant, foggy from the Valium. He hadn’t even remembered her presence earlier, the drug’s effects blurring everything before it.

“Alright, kid. I brought you both some water anyway,” Dana said, handing each of them a bottle. She followed up with her signature motherly tone, giving Jake a gentle smile. “Gotta stay hydrated, baby.”

After giving Langdon a nod of approval, Dana pulled the curtain back and closed the door behind her as she left. Jake pressed the cool water bottle against his forehead, though he wasn’t in any physical pain. The cold and condensation felt soothing, grounding him in the moment. Langdon stood up and walked across the room, pulling a small pack of wet wipes from a supply cabinet. He handed them to Jake with a soft, reassuring look.

Jake pulled out a wipe and began gently cleaning the dried blood from his face, his movements slow and deliberate. Langdon sat back down, taking a sip of water, the weight of emotion still hanging in the air. After a moment, he met Jake's gaze. “So… what did you do? How did you cope?” Jake asked desperately, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Langdon let out a shaky sigh, realizing the sips of water did little to ease his nerves. He locked eyes with Jake once more. “This has to stay between us. Consider this room like Vegas… and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” He cracked a wry smile, trying to inject a moment of lightheartedness, but quickly followed it with a stern, “I’m serious.”

Jake furrowed his brow, not sure what to expect, but gave a reassuring nod as he responded, “Of course, man.”

“I coped by using drugs,” Langdon blurted, figuring if he thought too carefully about his words, he’d never get it out. “It’s been almost 20 years since I lost her, and I’ve been struggling with addiction on and off ever since.”

Jake struggled to hide the shock from Langdon’s confession. He’d known him for four years and had no idea—he was almost in complete disbelief. “Oh…” was all he could manage to say.

“No one really knows,” Langdon continued, his voice heavy with a mix of regret and resignation. “I guess I shouldn’t be proud of hiding it so well. A damn intern found me out and told Robby a few hours ago, and he threw me out. That’s why I said I shouldn’t be here. But I couldn’t not come back when I got the code triage text, you know?”

Jake was still completely stunned and speechless, but he understood and didn’t want Langdon to feel ashamed. “I had no idea. I don’t know what to say…” Jake’s voice trailed off, the weight of the moment settling between them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Langdon said, sensing the shock he’d just added to Jake’s already devastating day. “What I mean is… you don’t have to be like me, man. You’ve got Robby, your mom, Dana, me… a whole ER full of people who love you and care about you. I promise you, you will get through this. You’ll carry Leah and this entire day with you for the rest of your life, but you can’t let it destroy you. Let it make you a better person.” Langdon wasn’t entirely sure what he meant or where the words were coming from, but he hoped they’d resonate.

“Thanks for telling me,” Jake finally responded, his voice soft but sincere, hoping Langdon wouldn’t regret confiding in him. He didn’t think any differently about the man he considered an older brother, and he found some comfort in his words. “I’ll remember that…I just… I already feel lost without her.” He swallowed hard, as if the words themselves were too much. “But I guess I’m lucky to have so many good people in my corner. I won’t let it destroy me.”

"Take it one day at a time, Jake. You're stronger than you realize," Langdon said gently, giving his shoulder a reassuring tap. "Don’t be afraid to lean on the people who care about you. You’ve got this, and you’ve got me." He didn’t know how he’d managed to keep going all these years, but he was determined to make sure Jake didn’t have to walk that same lonely, destructive road.

Jake gave a faint smile, his eyes slowly lifting to the ceiling as he let out a slow, deep breath. The reality was starting to settle in, and yet it still didn’t feel real. His mind was reeling, caught between anger, disbelief, and the aching emptiness of his loss. This was just the beginning of a long, agonizing journey. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding on until now. All he wanted was a moment of peace, even if it was fleeting. “I’m so tired,” he murmured quietly. “If I sleep… will you stay? At least until my mom gets here?”

“Of course, man. Do whatever you gotta do. I’ll be right here,” Langdon replied. He stretched out his arm, his hand forming a fist, and Jake, without hesitation, bumped his fist against Langdon’s. It was a small gesture, but one that reminded them both they were in this together.

Jake rolled onto his side, facing away from Langdon, and quickly surrendered to his emotional exhaustion. Langdon quietly propelled the stool towards the head of the bed, leaning against the wall behind Jake. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet of the room settle around them, as they both sought a brief moment of peace in the chaos of the day.

Langdon awoke to the sound of soft footsteps entering the room, groggy and disoriented, unsure of how much time had passed. He quickly pulled his phone from the right leg pocket of his black scrub pants and saw it had only been about twenty minutes. Looking up, he saw Robby standing at the foot of Jake’s bed, who was still sound asleep. Langdon held his finger up to his lips in a "shushing" motion, though Robby had already sensed the atmosphere in the room and knew better than to disturb Jake.

“How’s he doing?” Robby asked in a whisper as he glanced around the room.

“As you’d expect,” Langdon replied, his gaze shifting to the sleeping teenager. They both took in the scene of the empty pill cup, the water bottles, and the pile of blood-stained wipes on the bedside table. At some point, the wheelchair Jake had been sitting in earlier had been pushed to the corner, tipped on its side, though neither of them had noticed in the chaos. “I gave him some Valium and Tylenol, we talked a bit, he’s been out for maybe twenty minutes.”

“Good, he needs the rest,” Robby said, nodding in understanding. Then, his expression shifted, and he shot Langdon a harsh look. “Valium, huh? Do I need to pat you down? Take another visit to your locker?”

“Seriously?” Langdon replied, sensing the lingering anger in Robby’s tone but had been hoping they could put it aside for Jake. “I ordered a single dose, Dana dispensed it. I never touched it.”

Robby sighed and shook his head, a hint of regret in his eyes as he realized he was letting his anger get the best of him. Still, he couldn’t let it go. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m still fucking furious, and we need to talk.”

Langdon had known for hours that this conversation was coming—that it had to happen eventually—but still, he was struck with a wave of anxiety. His palms grew sweaty, and he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “Go ahead,” he forced out, trying to brace himself for whatever his mentor was about to unleash.

“I’m still fucking furious at you,” Robby repeated, his voice tinged with frustration. “But you’re still my best resident, and I can’t lose anyone else today. Today of all days…”

Langdon, along with the entire ER staff, knew today marked the anniversary of Dr. Adamson’s death, Robby’s mentor. It had been four years since he’d worked this shift, and he would have been better off avoiding it today as well. The day had turned out to be the worst shift he’d had since the height of COVID, the weight of his mentor's passing still looming over him. Langdon knew better than to challenge him now; the tension in the room was palpable.

Robby slowly wheeled another stool around to Jake’s bed, where he was still asleep. With Dr. Langdon still seated, his back leaning against the wall, Dr. Robby sat down in front of him, positioning himself closer to Jake’s bedside.

"Frank," Langdon knew it was serious when Robby used his first name. "You and I are going to leave this room and go straight to HR together. One of two things is going to happen." Robby paused, trying to make sense of the blank expression on Langdon's face, though the emotion behind it was hard to read. "Option one: you turn yourself in. You confess everything—that you’ve been using, that you’ve been impaired on the job, and that you've been stealing medications. You’ll be relieved of your position as chief resident, effective immediately, and given the chance to enter a physicians rehab program. After completing it, we’ll consider bringing you back, but under strict conditions."

Langdon sighed, his anxiety spiking once more, though he knew this moment was inevitable. “What’s the other option?” he asked.

“Let me finish,” Robby snapped, his anger bubbling to the surface again. “Option two is I tell HR everything I know—everything I’ve uncovered, with all the evidence—that you’ve been hiding this and had no plans of coming clean. You’ll be permanently fired, your medical license will be revoked, and you could face criminal charges.”

Langdon closed his eyes slowly, dropping his head as his fingers nervously fidgeted with the bracelet his son had made for him. He knew which option he had to take—for the sake of his family and his career—but the questions gnawed at him. What about his dignity? Would his colleagues find out? What would they think of him? And, if he completed rehab, would he even want to come back to this hospital? The weight of those uncertainties pressed down on him, and for a moment, he just sat there, lost in the storm of his thoughts.

Robby didn’t give him any time to dwell on the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. “We need to do this now, Frank. No more waiting. I’m not the only one who knows, and I’ve already delayed taking action long enough. We have to go now. You can figure out your decision on the way up.”

Langdon took a deep, shaky breath, realizing just how much he’d been bouncing his leg throughout the conversation. “I know… I just… I promised Jake I’d stay here until his mom comes.” He wasn’t trying to stall, but he didn’t care what Robby thought. In that moment, being a good friend felt more important than Robby’s urgency. “What if he wakes up and I’m not here?”

“Cut the shit, Frank,” Robby’s voice hardened, the tone Langdon knew all too well. “He’s out cold, Janey’s on her way, and Dana can stay with him until she gets here. We’re going now.”

They both stood up simultaneously, and Robby pulled back the curtain, opening the door to let his protege walk ahead. They made their way to the nurse’s station, where Dana was speaking on the hospital landline. She hung up quickly when she saw the two doctors approaching.

“We’re going upstairs,” Robby whispered, his voice low. He hadn’t told Dana what had happened or what he’d found in Langdon’s locker, but she didn’t need the details—she already knew. “Can you stay with Jake? His mom should be here soon.”

“Absolutely, cap,” Dana replied with a nod of approval, her expression one of quiet understanding.

As they walked toward the elevator, Langdon’s mind began to race. He couldn’t shake the image of Dr. King, the new colleague he’d taken under his wing earlier that day. He remembered how relieved she sounded when she saw him return for the MCI. He’d heard that she was upset by his absence prior to the shooting, though he had no control over the circumstances of that sudden departure.  

“Robby, wait,” Langdon lightly jogged to catch up with Robby’s quick strides. “Can I just say goodbye to Mel real quick?” He paused, trying to discern what reaction would come from his mentor. “She just… she deserves to know that I’ll be gone.”

Robby shot him a weary, stern glance, frustration creeping into his voice. He was done with what he saw as Langdon stalling, but the exhaustion in his bones kept him from arguing this time. “Fine. Go. She’s by South 20. Make it quick. I’ll be waiting by the lockers.”

Langdon quickly shuffled toward South 20, and sure enough, he found the second-year resident he’d grown fond of, standing by one of the shooting victims who had a superficial bullet wound to the arm.

“Hey, Mel, you got a sec?” 

Dr. King immediately noticed the urgency in his voice. “Dr. Langdon! What do you need?”

He gestured for her to follow him to a quieter corner of the room, hoping to find some privacy away from their loose-lipped colleagues. As they moved, Dr. Santos, who had been assisting with the patient next to Mel's, met Langdon’s gaze. The disapproval in her eyes was unmistakable, but Langdon’s brief glance back was filled with sorrow and apprehension, rather than any animosity toward the intern.

“Is everything okay?” Mel asked, her sharp intuition picking up on Langdon’s discomfort. She noticed how he leaned against the wall, avoiding eye contact, and her concern deepened.

“I’m fine, I just have to tell you…” Langdon started, but realized he didn’t have time to think of how to tell her exactly what she deserved to hear–the truth. “I’m leaving, and I’ll be gone for a while. I just wanted to say goodbye, and that I really enjoyed working with you today. I hope you’re still here if I come back.”

“ If you come back?” Mel repeated, her brow furrowing slightly, though she tried to keep her tone neutral, not wanting to seem too eager.

“It’s complicated… I can’t get into it here,” Langdon said, noticing the sorrowful expression that quickly spread across Mel’s face. He fumbled for his phone, pulling it from his pocket and opening a new contact page. He held it out to her, offering a small, apologetic smile. “If you want to give me your number, I’ll text you sometime. I just can’t explain it all right now.”

Mel grabbed his phone and quickly typed in her personal number, her fingers moving a bit faster than usual. She again tried not to seem too eager, but couldn’t help but feel the weight of urgency in Langdon’s voice and demeanor. As she handed the phone back to him, she caught his eye, offering a soft, understanding smile.

“Truly, Mel, I loved working with you,” Langdon said, his voice shaky as his nerves began to show. “You taught me a lot today. You’ll do great wherever you go, and I’m not gonna ask you to stay here, but I really hope I get to work with you again.” His words came out quickly, almost rushed, but the sincerity in his tone was undeniable. He’d told her how highly he thought of her throughout the shift, but this moment felt different—more important, more final.

“Thank you, Dr. Langdon,” she replied softly, her gaze fixed on him as she sensed the ache in his voice. “I loved working with you too, I learned a lot today, and I have no intention of leaving. So, I really do hope we can work together again.” Her words were genuine, carrying an unspoken understanding, though she was still unaware of the deeper reasons behind his departure.

Langdon gave her a quick smile and extended his hand, which she shook firmly. He squeezed her hand gently, his gaze lingering for a moment as if trying to convey everything he couldn’t say in words. He longed to pull her into a hug, desperate for comfort, but he held back—aware of Dr. Santos's watchful eyes across the room, the judgment and contempt clear in her expression. It wasn’t the right time.

“Alright, then. I’ll text you sometime. Goodbye, Dr. King,” Langdon broke their brief silence, though their hands were still intertwined.

He let go first, and still confused and concerned by his urgency, the only response Dr. King could muster was a quick “Goodbye, Frank.” Hearing his first name from her gave him the opposite reaction of when Robby said it. From Mel, it was comforting, reassuring, grounding, as if she were offering him a lifeline in the midst of everything falling apart.

Langdon walked toward the lockers alone, hands buried deep in his pockets, the tension in his chest easing slightly as he approached Robby. The older doctor gave him a steady, expectant look.

"Ready to go?" Robby asked, his voice low but firm.

Langdon exhaled slowly, his nerves still frayed but now grounded in the reality of what had to happen. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Let's do this."

Chapter Text

Weeks after the shooting, Janey was at a loss for how to get through to her son. No matter what she said, Jake remained distant, locked away in his own grief. Desperate, she turned to the only person she thought might have a chance—her ex-boyfriend.

Maybe a change of scenery would help, even just for a moment. Maybe Robby could break through where she had failed.

Robby agreed without hesitation. Despite the strain between them, despite the fact that they’d barely spoken since that night in the ER—the night it felt like they both lost what little they had left—he took Jake in.

The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just heavy. The TV flickered, muted, casting a dull blue glow across the living room. 

Jake sat on the couch, slouched forward, staring blankly at his phone. He hadn’t touched the pizza that was growing cold on the coffee table in front of him.

Robby stood near the hall doorway, arms crossed, watching him with that same unreadable expression he’d worn for weeks now. The one that wasn’t exactly pity, but wasn’t exactly anything else, either.

“You shouldn’t shut everyone out, Jake,” Robby said finally, his voice measured but firm.

Jake didn’t look up. “I’m not.”

Robby exhaled, undeterred. “It’s been weeks. You haven’t talked to anyone. You barely leave the house. Your mom’s worried about you. I’m worried about you.” His voice dipped, softer now, but no less certain. “You can’t just bottle this up.” He hesitated, then added, “When was the last time you even ate, or drank something that wasn’t coffee?”

Jake’s grip tightened around his phone, jaw clenching. “I’m fine,” he said, sharply.

Robby sighed again, concerned. “You don’t look fine. You need to–”

Something inside Jake finally snapped. He exhaled loudly and threw his phone onto the coffee table with more force than necessary, causing a clatter that echoed through the room’s oppressive silence.

“Jesus, can you just stop?” His voice was sharp now, cutting through the still air. “Stop telling me what I need to do. You don’t need to check on me every five seconds.”

Robby didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression only hardened. “I do when you’re acting like this. You’re clearly not taking care of yourself.”

Jake scrubbed a hand over his face, his fingers pressing hard against his temples. He was exhausted—not just from grief, but from this conversation. From all of them. From the way Robby hovered like he was waiting for Jake to break apart. 

Letting out a hollow, bitter laugh, his next words came out harsher than he intended, but he didn’t care enough to stop them. “Acting like what? Like someone whose girlfriend just got shot in front of him?” He shook his head, anger bubbling over. “You don’t get it, okay? I lost her. Nothing you say is gonna make that better.”

Robby’s voice softened, just a little. “I know it hurts, Jake, but you can’t—”

“No, you don’t know!” Jake’s voice rose, raw and unfiltered. “You don’t get it! At least Frank does, and you sent him away!”

The room froze. The silence that followed was instant, absolute.

Robby went completely still. His breath hitched—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Jake to notice. His head lifted, eyes narrowing slightly. “...What?”

Jake shook his head, still too angry to care about the landmine he’d just stepped on. “Yeah. His girlfriend, when he was my age? Drunk driver?” His voice was clipped, resentful, as if Robby should already know.

Robby doesn’t react at first, his expression staying the same. His mind was already rewinding through the years of memories, trying to find the cracks he apparently never noticed. His body remained rigid, his breathing steady, but Jake could see the shift in the way his shoulders tensed just slightly, the way his jaw locked in place. His eyebrows turned inward and a pained expression etched onto his face.

With that, Jake understood. Robby hadn’t known. And that realization only made Jake angrier.

“Of course you didn’t know.” His voice curled into something bitter, a breathy, mocking chuckle breaking from his lips. He shook his head. “Because you never actually gave a fuck about him, did you?”

Robby’s eyes darkened, as if to give a nonverbal warning. 

Jake ignored it and stood up with his arm stretched out, finger stabbing the air between them, aimed directly at Robby like a loaded weapon. “You never cared enough to even ask why he was using,” he spat. “You just pushed him out and sent him away.” A pause, then, quieter, but no less cutting—“Am I next?” 

The words felt like daggers stabbing Robby directly in the stomach, twisting with each accusation. Jake could see it in the way Robby’s expression tightened, the way his shoulders squared even more than usual, as if bracing for impact. Like the words had landed exactly where Jake wanted them to.

But Robby didn’t yell. He didn’t argue. He just stared. A long, suffocating silence stretched between them, thick with something unnamed. Jake’s chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his anger coiling tight.

Then, without a word, Robby turned and walked away.

Jake watched him go, his pulse pounding, frustration still smoldering under his skin. But as the footsteps faded down the hall, something about it didn’t feel like victory.

A sudden sound—footsteps again, quicker this time. And then Robby was back, appearing in the hallway, his entire body wound tight. But it wasn’t quiet restraint holding him together anymore. It was something raw, something breaking open—anger, grief, the crushing weight of failure finally catching up to him.

"It should have been me." The words tore from him, rough and unsteady, louder than he meant. But it didn’t matter. The dam had cracked, and now everything was spilling out—every failure, every moment he hadn’t seen the people he cared about falling apart until it was too late.

"She had my ticket, Jake." His voice shook, barely able to keep up with the storm unraveling inside him. "I killed her." He let out a shuddering breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know how it feels? Langdon—he—" He stopped himself, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t know. He never knew. Dr. Langdon had been drowning right in front of him, and he never once thought to ask why. Just like Jake was drowning now.

Robby swallowed hard, his throat tight, his pulse pounding against his ribs. "She went in my place," he forced out, a little quieter this time, his voice cracking. "And I couldn’t even save her."

For a second, he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes wild with something Jake couldn’t place. Just like I couldn’t save Adamson. Just like I couldn’t save Langdon. Just like I don’t know how to save you.

Then, just as quickly as he came, he turned away, the silence between them confirmed what he already knew– he had failed them all. Nearly choking on the sobs rising in his throat, he didn’t bother trying to stop them.

The sound of his retreating footsteps was heavier this time.

Jake sank back down on the couch, completely inadvertent, like his legs had a mind of their own and gave out underneath him. And as he sat there, the heavy air pressing in around him, he realized—

This wasn’t a fight he’d won. If anything, it felt like he’d just lost something much bigger.

Chapter Text

After three long, grueling months in an impaired physicians rehabilitation center, Dr. Langdon was finally heading back to The Pitt. He was supposed to be ready. His mind was clear—for the first time in years, free from benzodiazepines—but that didn’t mean it was at peace.

Uncertainty gnawed at him with every step. He had no idea what he was walking into, no clue who knew the truth. He trusted Robby’s discretion, but Dr. Santos was another story. He wouldn’t be surprised if her penchant for gossip escaped the confines of the ER and allowed the entire hospital to hear whispers of his downfall.

Robby had asked Langdon to come in early for a one-on-one meeting. The request wasn’t unexpected, but it still made his stomach twist. The two had barely spoken since the night of the shooting, when Robby had all but dragged him to the HR office, where Langdon made the so-called “right” decision.

He knew that Robby had tried to visit him in rehab, but Langdon couldn’t bring himself to face him. He was still carrying the anger from their confrontation at the lockers that fermented into bitter resentment. The only visitors he allowed were his wife and kids, just one hour a week. His children were too young to understand the full extent of what was happening, but old enough to notice when he was gone. That was hard enough. Facing anyone else felt impossible.

On his way to work, Langdon recalled something Dr. Ellis, the night shift version of himself, always said: The only way out is through. Focusing on that sentiment, he stepped into the emergency department, walking with what he hoped was a confident stride. He tried to put on just enough of a facade to hide the turmoil beneath, careful not to appear too eager, for fear that his true emotions would slip through the cracks.

“Hey, kid! You’re back!” Langdon was grateful that Dana’s familiar voice was the first one he heard, but the last thing he wanted was a big welcome. She continued, “how are you feeling?” 

“Hey, Dana, I’m feeling great,” Langdon replied, hoping that she would take him at his word, and that his tone wouldn’t reveal anything more. He kept his voice steady, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Ready to get back to business. Where’s Robby?”

Dana gave him a quick pat on the back, flashing a smile. “He was waiting for you in the staff lounge, but Abbott was having a tough time keeping up with an MVC that just rolled in. He’s in trauma one now.”

“Perfect. Might as well jump in,” Langdon said, already feeling a weight lifted. The chance to dive straight into work was exactly what he needed, anything to delay whatever speech Robby had prepared.

Langdon followed the noise toward the trauma bay, but paused just before stepping through the door. He realized this would be his first time treating an MVC with a clear mind—without the fog of impairment that had always kept his thoughts drifting to his late girlfriend. The realization hit him harder than expected. He shook his head quickly, as if trying to physically push the memories away. His hands, already slick with sweat, struggled to pull on his gloves as he used his back to nudge the door open.

Robby looked up from stabilizing a mangled leg that was barely attached to an unconscious patient. “Oh hey, you’re here,” he sounded startled as if in the ensuing chaos he forgot he was the one who asked Langdon to arrive early.

“You know me, I do try to keep my appointments.” Dr. Langdon responded with a smirk, hoping the natural wit that he was known for would make everyone else in the room forget that he had been absent for three months. 

"Wait for me in the staff lounge, I’ll be out in a minute," Robby said quickly, his eyes darting between Langdon and the maimed limb he was still grasping.

"You don’t need help here?" Langdon asked, trying to keep his voice steady, but struggling to read the emotion on Robby’s face.

"Nope, we’re good," Robby replied, his tone clipped. "Don’t want too many cooks in the kitchen." 

He couldn’t stop replaying his argument with Jake weeks after the shooting, still burdened by the realization of what he hadn’t known about Langdon’s past. He didn’t want to see his student any differently now that he knew the root of his addiction, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t need help with the MVC, but deep down, he also wanted to shield Langdon from it, knowing he’d be feeling vulnerable on his first day back. Though he would never dare to admit this.

Langdon exhaled quietly, peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the bin. He made his way toward the staff lounge, doing his best to ignore his discomfort. The frantic pace of shift change buzzed around him, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was watching him. Residents and med students started filing in, gathering by the lockers, chatting amongst themselves. Normally, he’d be right there with them, exchanging playful jabs with Dr. Collins, but today he couldn’t bring himself to join in. The thought of them all talking about him made him feel sick with dread.

Entering the staff lounge, he shifted uncomfortably, the silence pressing down on him in a way he wasn’t used to. He’d never spent much time here before—he preferred the constant motion and noise of the ER. Having trouble being still, he sat at the dining table frantically bouncing his leg and scratching at the skin between his thumb and index finger. He focused hard on steadying his breath, trying to push away the panic rising in his chest. The proverbial devil on his shoulder started telling him he wasn’t ready, he was back too soon, he needed more time. Shaking his head again, he stood up and paced around the room, pulling at the neck of his scrub top as if it was choking him. The only way out is through, he repeated in his thoughts.

“Sorry about–” Robby hurriedly busted in the room, but his words faltered when he saw the blatant display of anxiety before him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and chose his tone carefully. “Sorry about that. You okay?”

Langdon cleared his throat, forcing his posture to relax, hoping his mentor didn’t see too much of his brief panic. “I’m great, just ready to get back to work, if you’re ready to rip off the bandaid.” 

Robby settled into a chair at the dining table and motioned for Langdon to do the same. Langdon hesitated before sitting with his arms crossed.

With a deep breath, Robby got straight to the point. “I know you met with HR a few days ago. Do I need to remind you of your restrictions?”

“Nope, believe me, I’m well aware,” Langdon replied quickly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He knew this conversation was necessary, but with shame pressing in around him, he just wanted to get it over with. 

Robby caught the quick tightening of Langdon’s fists before he forced his hands open, rubbing his palms against his thighs. He was trying to control it, but the frustration was all over him.

Langdon was aware. Too aware. His restrictions had been drilled into him, each one a new leash around his neck. Mandatory therapy, NA meetings, random drug tests—humiliating, but necessary. But the real kicker? The babysitting. Needing another doctor’s approval to order controlled substances, being outright barred from dispensing them. A walking liability. A risk.

He exhaled sharply, staring at the table like it had personally offended him.

Robby tensed slightly. “I hate that I have to do this, but…” he pulled a urine specimen cup from his hoodie pocket and placed it on the table between them. “You know this is a condition of your return.”

Langdon’s eyes locked onto the cup. His fingers twitched, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe. His silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.

“Frank,” Robby prompted, voice firm but cautious.

Langdon exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw still tight as he grabbed the cup and stood. He took two steps toward the staff bathroom before hesitating, sensing movement behind him. He turned, eyes burning as they locked onto his mentor, walking behind him. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

“Yeah… I have to watch,” Robby let out with a sigh, the words strained, as if he hated saying them more than Langdon hated hearing them. “Trust me, I might enjoy this even less than you do.”

Langdon let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh yeah?" His grip on the cup tightened. "Are you the one about to piss in a cup with your boss breathing down your neck? Shut the fuck up."

Robby didn’t flinch at the vitriol in Langdon’s voice, though something flickered in his eyes—sympathy, maybe. But Langdon didn’t want it.

Neither spoke a word as the task was completed. Langdon placed the filled cup into an opaque biohazard bag and handed it off, gaze locked somewhere over Robby’s shoulder. His fingers flexed at his sides, the only sign of how tightly wound he was.

"Happy?"

Robby sighed, setting it aside. "Frank—"

"Can we just move the fuck on?" Langdon cut in, dropping back into the chair, arms crossing tight over his chest. He was teetering on the edge, and they both knew it.

Robby cleared his throat, eager to shift gears. “Gladly,” he said, forcing a lighter tone as he sat back down, “I know you work well with Dr. King, so I’ve got the two of you on triage today. Should be a good way to ease back in.”

Langdon nodded, jaw still clenched. The only thing stopping him from snapping was the relief that Dr. King was still around. He had intended to text her as promised, but between limited phone access and the growing weight of explaining himself, the words never came. At some point he figured it’d be a better conversation to have in person, anyway.

Langdon let out a slow, measured breath, grounding himself. "Thanks," he muttered, but the words were stiff. Forced. He wasn’t grateful. The idea of being handled made his skin crawl. "But I don’t need an easy day. I’d rather be challenged… keep my mind occupied."

His hands twitched in his lap. Too much time to think? Too dangerous.

“Oh, have you seen that waiting room?” Robby responded with a smirk, trying to lighten the air. “Trust me, you’ll have your hands full.” 

Langdon barely nodded. His chest still felt tight, like he was bracing for something worse.

"Oh, also," Robby added, tone shifting, "Dr. Santos is working today. If I see or hear any hostility toward her, we’re heading straight back to HR." He hated using HR as a threat again, but it needed to be said. He knew Langdon was aware of who had turned him in.

Langdon bit the inside of his cheek, fraught with tension, but he kept his voice even. “Trust me, I’m over it. It’s done. I’m just here to work.” 

Robby studied him for a long moment, as if trying to gauge whether that was bullshit. Langdon held his stare, daring him to push it.

Finally, Robby gave him a small nod. “Alright then. We’ll check in at the end of the day.” 

He hesitated. His posture shifted, tension creeping into his frame. Like there was something else he wanted to say.

Langdon didn’t care. He just wanted out of this room before his frayed control snapped even more.

But then–

“Glad to have you back, buddy.”

Langdon exhaled sharply through his nose, but didn’t respond.

Robby turned for the door, but before he could leave, Langdon finally spoke. "Wait."

Robby turned back, eyebrows raised.

Langdon hesitated. His throat felt tight.

“Does everyone know why I was gone?” The words tasted like acid, laced with vulnerability, and it made Langdon feel small. He hated himself for asking. It shouldn’t matter to him as much as it did. 

Robby’s face softened just slightly as he walked back to the table where Langdon remained seated. There was a look of desperation, almost pleading. Robby started to speak, but paused, sensing the weight of Langdon’s emotions.

“I don’t know, Frank,” Robby said softly, shaking his head. “Whenever I was asked, I just told them you were on medical leave.” He locked eyes with Langdon. “It’s not my place to say more.”

Langdon’s throat bobbed. He believed him. Their colleagues, however, knew better than to gossip in front of the boss.

He swallowed hard and stood abruptly. "So... I’m good to go?"

“Yeah,” Robby nodded. “Dr. King asked about you all the time, by the way—at least once a week.”

Something in Langdon’s chest twisted, but he shoved it down.

Robby glanced at his watch, eyes widening when he realized they were almost running late for rounds. "You’ve got 12 hours to catch up with her. Let’s go."

The thought of Dr. King being so eager for his return brought a faint smile to Langdon’s face, though guilt lingered. He regretted not reaching out to her, but it had been outside of his control. Still, the idea of her hearing the truth from anyone but him, twisted into rumors, filled him with dread.

He followed Robby out the door, but the simmering frustration never really left.

It wasn’t over. Not even close.

The staff lounge door swung open, and Langdon and Robby emerged into the ER, where Drs. Collins, Santos, McKay, King, and Mohan were gathered around the nurse’s station, finishing up the night shift report. Students Javadi and Whitaker stood by, ready for the next set of instructions.

“Good morning, team,” Robby said, his voice authoritative yet rushed. As he briskly walked towards the elevator, he called out a few instructions, without stopping. “Dr. King, you’re with Dr. Langdon in triage. Go ahead and get started. The rest of you, I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Langdon fought the urge to look down at the biohazard bag Robby was carrying. He was the only one who knew it contained the sample for his drug test. At least, he hoped he was.

With all eyes on him, Dr. Langdon approached his colleagues at the nurse’s station with his best attempt at feigned confidence. 

“Well, look what the wind blew in,” Dr. Collins was first to break the ice with a warm, teasing smile. As she pulled him into a hug, she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, we’re not throwing a welcome back party.”

The two senior residents maintained a friendly yet competitive rivalry, challenging each other to improve while providing unwavering support. Dr. Langdon wouldn’t label himself a suck-up, but his eagerness to tackle the toughest cases often said otherwise—always striving to impress their attending and prove he was the best. He felt like he had even more to prove now. Dr. Collins, however, had a personal history with Robby and saw no need to seek validation. Poised and effortlessly skilled, her calm confidence made her excellence undeniable.

Langdon offered a faint smile as his colleagues welcomed him with casual shoulder rubs, light pats on the back, and murmured “good to see you”s. Dr. Santos hovered at the edge of the crowd, her expression uncertain. As the group dispersed to prepare for rounds, Langdon’s gaze landed on her.

"Santos, a word?" Langdon’s voice cut through the bustle of the ER, loud enough to be heard but not exactly inviting. 

A few nearby heads turned, some exchanging wary glances. The tension between them wasn’t a secret.

Santos stiffened but nodded, forcing confidence into her posture as uncertainty made her stomach flip. She had no idea what he wanted, and that alone made her nervous. Their only shared shift had been a mess of hostility—snide remarks, passive-aggressive corrections, loud confrontations. She thought turning him in was the right thing to do. She knew it was. But knowing didn’t make this easier.

Without waiting for her to respond, Langdon turned and walked toward an empty treatment room. Santos followed, hesitating only briefly before stepping past the thin curtains that separated them from the rest of the department.

The second they were alone, the energy between them shifted—thick, heavy, strained.

Langdon exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to, uh…" He paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Apologize."

The word landed awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to saying it.

Santos blinked, eyes flicking to him briefly before settling back to the floor. She didn’t respond. She was used to his anger, to the defensiveness that flared when they argued. This version of Langdon felt... off.

He looked up from the floor, still trying to look anywhere but her eyes. "I should’ve taken my concerns to Robby instead of lashing out at you. You didn’t deserve that." He glanced at her, just for a second, before looking away again. "So… yeah. I’m sorry."

The words were out, but they didn’t settle right. Langdon meant it, but the whole exchange felt unnatural. He still had no idea what had happened in his absence, no clue what she might have said or who else knew. Did she tell everyone? Did they all look at him differently now?

Santos shifted her weight, her hands stuffed in her pockets, eyes fixed on the floor between them. "Okay," she said, though it came out forced, more like a question than a response.

Langdon nodded stiffly, stuffing his hands in his own pockets like it was some kind of defensive reflex. "No hard feelings on my end." He cleared his throat, hoping she understood what he wasn’t saying—that he didn’t hate her for turning him in. He really didn’t. It was inevitable and could have been anyone, but should have been someone else. "So if you’re good, we can just… start over." 

Santos didn’t respond right away, her gaze drifting over him, cool and assessing. She didn’t soften. If anything, she seemed to pull back even further. "Yeah. Fine." Her voice was almost dismissive now, her shoulders barely moving. "We’ll move on."

Langdon gave a short nod, his throat tight as he held her gaze for a moment, searching for some sign of warmth that wasn’t there. But it didn’t come. The silence between them stretched—longer than it should’ve been, heavier than it had to be. Neither of them made a move to leave right away, like there was more to say, but neither was willing to take the first step.

Finally, with a stiff nod, they both turned and walked in opposite directions.

The tension lingered, unresolved. Langdon wasn’t sure whether he felt better for having apologized or worse for the fact that he still didn’t know where they stood.

As Langdon made his way back to the nurse’s station, he spotted Dr. King in the corner, beaming at him—her bright, warm smile lighting up the room, fingers splayed excitedly at her sides. The morning had already been an emotional rollercoaster, and though there was so much left to say, Langdon wasn’t ready to disrupt the moment with the truth of his absence. He caught her vibe immediately and leaned into it, effortlessly amplifying his own enthusiasm. 

“Mel! Triage dream team, let’s go!” he called, jogging over to meet her with an eager high-five.

She grinned and smacked his palm before continuing toward the front of the ER together. He’s actually back! she thought to herself, not yet sensing that anything had changed. 

The morning in triage started smooth enough—at least as smooth as an ER ever could be. Dr. King was in her element, eager and attentive, and Langdon quickly settled into the rhythm of teaching, ignoring his anxieties and letting his medical expertise take the wheel. The way she looked to him for guidance reminded him of how he used to be with Robby—before everything went sideways.

Their first patient was a seven-year-old boy curled up on the exam table, his mother wringing her hands beside him. Mel went through the motions of an initial assessment, but as soon as she reached his abdomen, the child flinched hard.

“Pain with palpation?” Langdon asked, stepping beside her.

“Yeah, especially in the right lower quadrant.”

Langdon crouched to the kid’s level, his voice easy and warm. “Hey, buddy, can you jump for me? Just a little.”

The kid tried, barely lifting himself off the bed, then yelping in pain.

Mel’s brow furrowed. “Positive jump test?”

“Looks that way. What are you thinking?”

“Likely appendicitis, ultrasound and labs to confirm?”

“Perfect, go for it.” He responded.

It was a textbook case of appendicitis, but Mel still beamed at the affirmation. Langdon felt the warmth of it, and for a fleeting moment, he almost forgot about the restrictions hovering over him.

Almost.

The next patient—a woman in her forties with a history of kidney stones—brought that reality crashing back. She writhed in pain on the exam table, her face tight with discomfort. Mel scanned her chart, then handed it to Langdon for confirmation.

“CT confirmed a kidney stone, looks like it should pass on its own. UA shows an infection, too,” Mel noted. “Cipro for the infection, tamsulosin, zofran, and… she’ll need pain management. Is Percocet okay?”

Langdon’s grip on the tablet tightened. For a split second, he didn’t answer. Then, without looking up, he said, curtly, “You’ll need to run that by Robby.”

Mel hesitated, caught off guard. That was… odd. She glanced at Princess, who had already been watching the exchange with curiosity.

Langdon cleared his throat and adjusted his tone. “Great diagnosis, great treatment plan. Just confirm the Percocet with Robby.” His voice was measured, even. Too even. He handed the tablet back to Mel and turned, walking out without another word.

Mel exchanged another glance with Princess before she hurried after him. “Hey, sorry—did I do something wrong?” she asked, voice low.

“Nope, you’re fine,” Langdon said, shaking it off, his usual ease slipping back into place like Cinderella’s slipper. “Let’s just keep moving.”

And so they did.

As the shift wore on, the weight on Langdon’s chest lightened. For the first time in a while, he felt useful. Ankle sprains, ear infections, weird rashes, plenty of cuts to suture; it wasn’t until a more complex case came in—a middle-aged man with an altered mental status—that Dr. Santos ended up beside him.

The patient was confused, fidgety, his words slurred. Blood sugar was normal, no obvious signs of a stroke.

"Tox screen’s still pending," Santos muttered, eyeing the patient. "Could be anything."

Langdon nodded, focused. “What’s your differential?”

Her hesitation felt heavy, lasting a little too long, eyes flicking to him with distrust. She didn’t hide her annoyance well.

"What's your differential, Santos?" Langdon repeated, keeping his voice calm, but with a sharper edge this time.

She huffed before speaking in a clipped tone, "Alcohol withdrawal, infection, metabolic disorder, overdose—"

He cut her off, not bothering to hide his impatience now. “And?”

“And?” she shot back, like he’d insulted her. “Fine. You want me to finish? Hepatic encephalopathy could still be on the table. Happy now?”

Langdon's jaw tightened, but he kept his face neutral. He didn’t have time for her attitude. He forced himself to stay calm. “Good,” he said flatly. “What do you want to do?”

“What do you want to do?” Santos snapped, without thinking. She knew it was his job to lead, but she wasn’t about to make it easy for him. She didn’t want to be there with him– didn’t want him there at all.

Langdon’s eyes flicked to her, the look sharp and calculating, a silent challenge. So, that’s how it’s gonna be? His voice was low, controlled, but rigid. “UA, labs, ultrasound. Get a CT. Check ammonia levels too. Don’t want to miss anything.” He kept his tone tight, like it took all his restraint to keep it from breaking.

Santos threw him another look that could’ve melted glass but didn’t respond. She turned back to the patient, her hands moving with stiff efficiency.

Langdon exhaled slowly. This wasn’t how he’d hoped it would go, but it was better than the confrontation he expected. Still, he couldn’t ignore the undercurrent of hostility. He hadn’t expected her to warm up to him, but damn, he didn’t think it would be this bad.

The moment passed, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Just a temporary ceasefire.

As the shift wound down, Langdon leaned against the counter at the nurse’s station, rubbing his temples. It had been a good day. Long, maybe even weird, but good. And yet, the moment he stopped moving, stopped talking– the fear, the uncertainty, the dread all came creeping back in.

He glanced over at Mel, still energized, still riding the high of a busy shift. She didn’t know yet. She didn’t know why he was really gone.

But eventually, she would.

Across the room, Santos spoke quietly to another doctor, her words too low for Langdon to catch, but the sharpness was unmistakable.

He didn’t need to hear it to know what she was saying.

At the end of the shift, Dr. Langdon went up to the roof for a smoke break, taking in the Pittsburgh skyline surrounding him. It was a habit he wasn’t unfamiliar with, though he wasn’t entirely fond of it. He convinced himself that he simply enjoyed the almost painful bite at the back of his throat that came with each drag, rather than accepting that he replaced one addiction with another. 

After a few moments, a friendly voice approached behind him. “Hey,” Dr. King said, a little surprised. “I didn’t think I’d find you up here.”

In his absence, Mel had come to see the rooftop as a rare sanctuary—her own small refuge from the chaos beneath it. She ended most of her shifts there, staring at the stars that managed to fight through the city’s light pollution, reflecting on the day’s events. It had become an essential part of her nightly routine, a time to decompress. While she typically relished the solitude, Langdon’s company didn’t bother her, though the harsh aroma of his cigarette made her wrinkle her nose. She stepped closer, circling around him with a subtle awkwardness as she tried to stay upwind. 

“Yeah,” he replied, exhaling slowly, a charming grin spreading across his face as he teased, “You come here often?”

“I do, actually,” Mel replied, unaware of the playful, almost flirtatious, undertone in his words. “Almost every evening. I like looking at the stars. It’s peaceful.”

Langdon smiled at her innocence and gave a small nod, his eyes still on the city skyline. Mel stood beside him, closing her eyes for a brief moment to breathe in the cool night air.

In any other setting, the two hated silence. Langdon struggled with it, having a fervent need to occupy his mind with any kind of stimulation, finding stillness unsettling. Mel, too, felt like silence in the company of another person meant something was missing– like she had to be saying something to keep them engaged, like she existed to entertain. But this was different. This silence was comfortable. There was a kind of mutual understanding between them, a quiet ease. They didn’t need to fill the space with words; it was enough just to be present together.

Mel was the first to break the silence. “So, um, I know you don’t owe me anything, and you don’t have to say anything…” Her words spilled out quickly, as though they’d been bottled up all day—which, in truth, they had.

“I’ve been wanting to,” he cut in, his voice steady but with a touch of rawness. “I don’t owe you an explanation, but you deserve one.” He had three months to choose his words carefully, yet in the moment, they seemed to scatter, too many to catch.

Mel looked up at him, her eyebrows lifting slightly in anticipation. Her lips were pressed together, as if holding back a thousand questions. Her gaze was fixed on him, eyes searching, breath held, waiting for him to find his courage.

“I was using drugs, Mel,” he blurted out while looking straight ahead, avoiding any eye contact,  the words tumbling out more confidently than he felt, but still distant. He caught himself, realizing he was overthinking it. “I was struggling for a long time. I’m still struggling. On your first day here, Robby found out and nearly fired me. I ended up going to rehab. That’s why I was gone.”

Mel didn’t say anything at first. She just watched him, her face unreadable, though there was something softer around the edges—like she was turning his words over in her head, letting them settle before she reacted. She shifted slightly, rubbing her arms against the night air, but not out of discomfort. More like she was steadying herself.

Finally, she exhaled. “I know.”

Langdon’s head turned slightly toward her, his shoulders tensing just enough to be noticeable.

“Dr. Santos told me.” She swallowed, glancing away, immediately regretting that she threw her under the bus. “Not right away. But a couple weeks after you left, I asked her if she knew where you went. And she just… said it. Like it was nothing.” She looked down at her feet, cringing to herself, realizing she kept digging the hole deeper.

She shook her head slightly, like the memory still doesn’t sit right with her.

“I hope you’re not mad,” she rushed the words out quickly. “She only told me because she knew I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I was probably being really annoying, I kept asking…”

Langdon sensed her panic and cut her off. “It’s fine, I’m not mad. I knew there’d be talk. I just wish you heard it from me first, but that’s my fault.” 

“Well, I didn’t believe her.” Her voice was quieter now. “I mean, I barely knew you, but it didn’t make sense. I thought she was making it up because she was mad that you yelled at her. But the way you worked, the way you helped me that day… you didn’t seem like someone who would—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

Langdon exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “I guess I’m full of surprises,” he said with a slight grin, knowing he probably shouldn't be making light of the conversation. He wanted to ease Dr. King’s nerves, even though his own were hanging on by a thread.

A beat of silence. The sounds of the city hum around them, filling the spaces where words fail.

Finally, Mel looked at him again. Her expression wasn’t judgmental. If anything, it was sad. Not pitying, just sad.

“I guess I was just hoping she was wrong.”

Langdon took a long drag of his cigarette and watched the smoke swirl around the cool air as he exhaled slowly. 

“Well,” he paused, glancing at her briefly before looking away again. “She wasn’t. I guess she saw what no one else did. On her first day, no less.”

There was a bitterness in his words, a realization that cut deeper than he was willing to admit. The thought that he’d spent years surrounded by some of the same people—Robby, Collins, Garcia, Dana— but especially Robby, and none of them noticed that he was a walking cry for help. Or maybe they did, but just didn’t care. The thought stung more than he expected.

He looked down at the ground for a moment, taking another drag before he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I’m sorry I let you down, Mel.” His words were heavy, weighted with something more than just guilt. “Maybe I had too much pride,” he continued, his voice rougher. “I don’t know. But I never… connected with a junior resident like I did with you. And I just…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish without sounding like he was asking for something from her.

The last thing he wanted was for her to pity him or see him as someone to be fixed. He swallowed the rest of his thoughts, leaving the space between them filled with apprehension.

“I just don’t want you to think less of me,” he said softly, his gaze a little distant, doubting if it was something he even deserved.

Mel’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by his assumption that she’d be dismissive. She understood why he’d think that, though, given what she’d overheard in his absence.

“Oh no, no, not at all,” she quickly replied, shaking her head with urgency, trying to clear away any doubt that might be present in his mind. “You’re an incredible teacher. Honestly, when I first came to the pitt, I was so excited, but everyone else seemed so… off. Like they were all carrying something heavy. But you—” She stopped herself for a moment, finding the right words. “You were the only one who still had that fire. You understood what I needed, even before I knew how to ask for it. You made me feel seen in a way no one ever has, and we’d only worked together a few hours. When you left, I was worried I’d never find that again, but today…” She trailed off, a slight sense of embarrassment catching up to her. “It felt exactly the same. Like you never left.”

Her gaze dropped, almost shyly, surprised by how much she just revealed. She felt a flush of vulnerability creeping up her neck, and she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye just yet. But she knew he was smiling, that much she could sense.

He stamped out the cigarette, the faintest chuckle escaping him. I was so messed up that day , he thought. But he knew she was genuine, and didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Thanks, Mel,” he said, his smile still lingering. “That actually means a lot.”

She looked back up at him then, the relief washing over her as their smiles met. Her honesty and vulnerability didn’t scare him off, after all. If anything, it felt like the small gap between them just closed a little more.

Langdon and Mel spun around simultaneously at the sound of heavy footsteps echoing behind them. Mel jumped, clearly startled by Robby’s sudden presence. She grew anxious, wondering how long he had been standing there and how much of their conversation he had overheard. Langdon turned back around quickly.

“So, this is the triage dream team, huh?” Robby’s voice sounded easy as he walked towards them, with his gaze fixed on Langdon, who tensed at the sound of his comment. Then he shifted, addressing Mel. “Dr. King, could you give us a moment?”

She hesitated. “Oh… yeah, absolutely. Have a good night, Dr. Robby. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Langdon,” she stammered, unable to meet either of their eyes. She quickly turned and scurried away toward the stairwell, eager to escape.

Langdon stepped lightly under the protective bars lining the edge of the roof, settling on the ledge with his legs dangling over the side. He pulled another cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it, drawing in a deep, steady breath, bracing himself for whatever Robby had planned to say.

Without a word, Robby joined him on the ledge, facing the opposite direction, feet planted firmly on the surface of the roof. He studied his mentee for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Seriously?” he said, glancing at the lit cigarette between Langdon’s fingers. “You see the irony here, right?”

Langdon exhaled sharply, the smoke escaping his lungs in a cloud that blurred his vision. He paused, shooting Robby a look of hostility. His words, when they came, were sarcastic, bitter. “Save it, believe me, I hear it enough from my wife.”

Robby looked away as the silence fell dense, as Langdon could feel his rage roiling just beneath the surface. He didn’t want to feel it, didn’t want to deal with it, but it was there, clawing at him. Every word Robby had ever said—every time he’d walked away, every time he hadn’t asked why, every time he’d been left to fend for himself—it all rushed back.

"You never told me," Robby’s voice cut through the cool night air, quieter than he intended but heavy all the same.

Langdon froze, his body stiffening. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, still refusing to look at Robby. “What?” he asked, his tone flat. There was a lot he never told Robby, who had made it clear long ago that they were colleagues, not friends.

“The accident... when you were Jake’s age...” Robby trailed off, unable to bring himself to verbalize any of the details he knew.

Langdon’s laugh was devoid of humor, irritated, as he flicked the ash off his cigarette harder than he needed to. He wasn’t upset that Jake had revealed his secret, at this point not even sure why he still thought it should be a secret. “It never came up.”

Robby swallowed hard. “I should’ve seen it.” He sounded rough, thick with something unspoken. “I should’ve known it wasn’t just about the drugs. It was grief. It was trauma. And I never—I never thought to ask why.”

Langdon shook his head, his lips pressing together as the emotion hit him like a wave. “Yeah. You should’ve.” His voice was steady, but the tension in his jaw, the darkness in his eyes, told a different story. He let the silence fester, and his gaze stayed fixed on the city below, his mind too cluttered to look at Robby. “But would it have changed anything?” He questioned in almost a whisper, as if asking the question made him fear the answer.

Robby opened his mouth, then closed it. The hesitation was answer enough.

Langdon scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.” His tone was sharp now, dangerously close to resentment. He turned to finally look at Robby. “Be honest with yourself. You didn’t want to know. You were just trying to cover your own ass.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. “That’s not true.”

“The hell it isn’t.” 

Robby bristled. “You were stealing drugs, Frank.”

“Yeah, no shit, Robby, I’m an addict!” Langdon yelled, swinging his legs over the ledge and quickly standing back on the roof, throwing his cigarette aside with a fury that felt like it might consume him. He had bottled up the anger of his last shift for the entirety of his rehab stint, and suddenly, he was cracking. “I knew what the fuck I was doing, I was fucking drowning. And then you, of all people, made damn sure I knew exactly how much of a disappointment I was.”

Robby, taken aback by the outburst, stood quickly in anger, now eye-level with Langdon.

“You left me no choice!” he thundered back. “You stole from my ER, Frank! I had to stand there in front of people who trusted me, and pretend I had no idea how the hell I let it happen!”

Langdon flinched, his nails digging into his palms. “Great! See? All you cared about was your fucking reputation.”

“That’s not fucking fair.”

“Oh, you wanna talk about fair?” The dam broke. It all poured out. “You didn’t give a damn why I was using. You knew me for four years, Robby. Four goddamn years . And an intern– on her first fucking day– figured it out before you did.” His words cut through the air like daggers. He took a step forward, his breath becoming heavier. “You didn’t ask because you didn’t fucking care. And now you wanna sit here and act like if I’d just given you some sob story about my dead girlfriend, you would’ve done something different?”

“You think I didn’t care?” Robby’s voice was steel, leveling a stiff finger at Langdon’s chest. “I should’ve reported your ass to the board the second I found those pills. Let them yank your license and be done with it.” He took a sharp breath. “But I didn’t. I tried to flush them. I tried to return them to Louie so no one else would find out, to protect you. I got you into rehab. I saved your career.”

Langdon’s fists stayed clenched, his pulse pounding in his ears. “I didn’t fucking need rehab, Robby!” He swallowed, chest heaving with frustration, tears welling in his eyes. “I needed you . I looked up to you. More than you’ll ever know. You weren’t just my attending, you were the closest thing I had to a father.” His breath hitched, his admission shocking even himself. 

But he kept going. “And when I was at my lowest, you shipped me off to strangers like a problem you didn’t wanna deal with.” His voice wavered, shaking as it broke. He didn’t look at Robby, not now—not when he knew what would come next.

Robby sucked in a sharp breath, but the words refused to come. He stood there, his body rigid, the realization pressing down on him. The anger he’d been holding onto dissipated, replaced by guilt, regret, and helplessness. He hadn’t known, hadn’t understood how much Langdon had been depending on him.

Finally, Robby let out a breath, the words coming quiet, almost hoarse. “I’m here now,” he said—like that alone could make it all better.

Langdon scoffed again, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Oh great, thanks a lot,” he muttered, wiping his face before Robby could see the tears. “It’s too fucking late.”

Langdon started toward the stairwell, shoulder jamming into Robby’s as he passed.

“I could’ve gone down that same road, you know.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

Robby’s voice cracked as he spoke, his walls crumbling. “I lost Adamson. I lost Leah. I can’t get through to Jake. And I failed you.” He paused, trying to control his emotion. “You think I haven’t thought about it?”

Langdon swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to keep walking. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to punch something.

“But you didn’t. So, congratulations, you’re stronger than me.” Langdon continued walking, no longer fighting the tears.

“Would you just wait a second?” Robby called after him.

But Langdon didn’t stop. “No, actually, I have to go find a fucking meeting,” he shot back, dripping with rancor. “That’s a ‘condition of my return’, remember?” He added, mockingly. 

He reached the door to the stairwell, gripping the handle so tightly his knuckles went white. Then, just before disappearing down the stairs, he threw one last parting blow over his shoulder—sharp, cutting, spiteful.

“And don’t worry, boss, I’ll be sure to save up some piss for you tomorrow.”

And with that, Robby remained alone on the rooftop.

Langdon flew down the stairwell, half-running, half-falling, the echo of his footsteps chasing him. He didn’t dare to check if Robby was behind him. He just kept moving—legs fast, head down—straight to his locker. Scrubs off. Clothes on. No eye contact, no detours. He couldn’t afford small talk. Couldn’t risk someone looking too closely.

If he spoke, it wouldn’t be words– it would be a shatter.

It must’ve shown, because no one tried to stop him.

By the time he reached his car, his body gave up the illusion, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all day. 

Abby had asked him not to smoke in the car. Begged, really. But that felt like a rule for someone steadier than he was tonight. His hands fumbled with the lighter, flame flaring in the dark—a tiny rebellion. The first drag scorched his lungs, but it gave nothing back. No relief. 

He wasn’t ready to go home. Couldn’t take Abby’s kindness—not when it would gut him—and couldn’t face the house, which felt more like a museum of the life he was failing to live. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to walk into a room full of strangers and say hi, I’m Frank and I’m ruining my life. Even turning the key in the ignition felt impossible.

So he sat there, with silent tears sliding down his face. Not the dramatic kind—just quiet, inescapable grief. Rain bleeding into the pavement.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket. He pulled it out with the hesitation of someone disarming a bomb, thumb hovering over Abby’s name. Then his sister’s. His best friend.

All lifelines. All too close. Too real. They couldn’t know.

His thumb drifted elsewhere—somewhere safer, with less history.

Hey Mel, it’s Frank. I’m sorry I didn’t text you when I was gone, but I am now so you have my number. You were great today. Let me know if you need anything.

He hit send before he could overthink it, then tossed his phone onto the passenger seat as if it had burned him.

Was that a cry for help? A breadcrumb? A need to feel tethered to someone– anyone? He stared at the screen, half-expecting it to offer answers. It didn’t. 

His eyes shifted slightly. The glove box.

His hand moved before his brain could catch up, yanking it open. Buried beneath a mess of registration papers and faded receipts, something rattled. 

His stomach turned to ice. There it was. The secret stash. A leftover contingency from the version of him who always planned ahead. Back when “just in case” meant “inevitably.” 

Maybe it still did.

And now? Now they were in his hand, the tiny tablets pressing into his palm like a brand.

His breathing slowed. His mind stalled. His tears kept falling. No sobbing, no heaving—just water, like his eyes had sprung a leak. 

The noise, the heaviness, the relentless ache in his chest—it could all go quiet. Just one. Just one, and the edges would blur, the world would stop spinning so fast. He wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to feel. Wouldn’t have to remember. 

Just one.

The cigarette burned between his fingers, forgotten.

He dropped it out the window. He didn’t need it, not when the real thing was right here, begging for him, promising peace. 

He closed his eyes and traced each pill with his thumb, the smooth surface almost soothing beneath his touch. Ativan. Klonopin. Librium. Xanax. He knew them–his old friends–without even looking.

Only seconds had gone by, yet it felt like an eternity. He knew better. God, he knew better. But knowing and resisting weren’t the same thing.

Just one. No one has to know.

The buzz of his phone snapped him back.

His fingers tightened around the pills before he forced himself to look at the screen. 

Hey Frank! Don’t worry about it! I’m glad you could confide in me. I’m looking forward to working with you more! Feel free to reach out if you want to talk.

He read it. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

Something broke open inside him—silent, but seismic.

His breath came sharp and ragged, as if his lungs were trying to escape his chest. For a moment, he just stared, pulse pounding in his ears.

He slid the pills back into the bottle and slammed it into the glove box like it would start screaming if he didn’t shut it fast enough.

He wasn’t okay. But he hadn’t folded. Not yet.

He needed to go somewhere that didn’t care what he’d done yesterday, only that he showed up today. He needed noise. Candor. Chairs in a circle. A stranger who wouldn’t flinch if he told the truth.

He needed a meeting.

Frank sat in the last row like a ghost, elbows pinned tight to his ribs, chin lowered as if shame had weight. The voices around him rose and fell, stories threaded with regret, anger, and hope. Some sounded optimistic, like they’d clawed their way out. Others trembled; the storm was still overhead.

He didn’t need to wonder which one he was. He could feel the tide rolling back, like water retreating before a tsunami.

And then he saw her.

Dr. Cassie McKay.

She sat near the corner, posture composed and confident. She didn’t say much, but when she did, it didn’t tremble. Clean. Undiluted. She didn’t dress it up, didn’t soften the truth. 

He didn’t need the details. He already knew the shape of her past, the rumors, the cautious mumbles around her name. He’d always wondered how much was true, but never asked.

Now he didn’t have to.

At some point, her eyes found his.

Just a flicker. A single glimpse across the space. Not surprise. Not pity. No judgment. Just recognition.

They didn’t need to exchange words, the simple glance said enough—two people who had once held power in their hands and nearly destroyed themselves with it.

Frank looked away first. His hands suddenly felt foreign, too warm, too visible. The beat of his heart rose like a siren, not from panic, but from recognition.

He wasn’t ready to be seen like that.

Not by someone who understood.

Not by someone who didn’t look away.

When Frank got home, the lights were low, kids already in a deep sleep. Abby sat curled on the couch, waiting, the faint glow of her laptop screen casting light across her face, her posture small and tucked in one of his old hoodies. But her eyes had already lifted, watching him the second the door latched shut.

“You’re late,” she said softly, not accusing, just observing.

He lingered in the entryway, keys in hand, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Yeah.”

She closed her laptop with a gentle snap and set it aside. “You okay?”

He could lie and say yes, or that it was just a bad shift, but he was too exhausted to dodge it.

"I went to a meeting," he said quietly, dropping his keys aside and his backpack on the floor. "NA."

Abby’s expression lifted, revealing something between hope and caution. "You did?"

He nodded, staring at the floor, and didn’t move closer. Again unable to speak, still unsure of what would come out.

All the things he couldn’t say lived on his face instead: the grief, the wear, the slow unraveling of something that had been holding him together by threads. Abby saw it instantly when he finally looked up.

“Frank…”

She crossed the room in just a few swift steps and wrapped her arms around him, as if trying to keep him from slipping away. He didn’t react at first—held still like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then, slowly, he let himself sink into her embrace, pressing his face into her shoulder.

She pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his stiff shoulders, grounding him. "I’m proud of you for going, but Frankie—" Her voice wavered. "I need to know that you’re going to keep trying. That you’re not just—"

“I don’t know.” The words fell out of him, stripped bare. “I want to. I do . But tonight…” A lump formed in his throat. “It was close.”

His hand shook slightly as he moved to grasp her waist, the memory of the moment still fresh. He could almost feel it again—the pills in his hand, how easy it would’ve been to just give in, to forget the fight for a second. The relief would’ve been instant, no questions, no struggle.

“I’m scared,” he choked. “Of myself. Of how easy it would’ve been to just—.”

She pulled him back into her warm embrace and cut him off. "But you stopped."

"I stopped,” his voice trembled, like he still couldn’t believe it.

He leaned into her, his body tense with the things he hadn’t said, the things he’d been trying to bury. She didn’t rush him. Didn’t try to fix it. She just held him, letting him breathe with her.

After a long moment, Abby gave him a soft smile, reaching up to touch his cheek gently. “You don’t have to have it all figured out,” she whispered. “Just—keep trying.”

Frank let the words settle around him. For the first time in a long while, they didn’t feel like a burden to carry. He nodded, his voice steadier now. “I will.”

She lifted herself just enough to kiss his forehead softly, then took a step back, giving him space but not letting him slip away. "That’s all I need to hear."

As he stood there, caught between the fragile threads of what he wanted to believe and everything he still couldn’t control, Frank knew one thing for sure—he was far from ready to face tomorrow, but maybe for the first time, that was okay.

Chapter Text

Robby stepped out into the early morning, rubbing a hand over his face as he scanned the nearly empty parking lot. Langdon had called on the way in, asking to talk before the shift. Now he stood by his car, hands shoved deep in his pockets, scuffing his shoe against the pavement like he was trying to burn off restless energy.

Robby hesitated for only a second before heading over. There was an edge to the stillness, the remnants of last night’s argument hanging over them like a storm cloud.

“I need you to take this.” Langdon held out the bottle of pills, forcing himself to meet Robby’s eyes. “I forgot it was in my car. I almost—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Just get rid of it.”

Robby didn’t reach for it right away. “Frank—”

“Don’t,” Langdon cut in sharply. “Don’t say anything. Just take it.”

Robby exhaled, then extended his hand. Langdon dropped the bottle into his palm and immediately looked away, jamming his hands back into his pockets.

“I didn’t take any,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I wanted to. Almost did.” He gave a half-shrug. “I don’t know if that means anything.”

Robby turned the bottle over in his hand, then tucked it into his jacket. “It does.”

“Yeah?” Langdon scoffed, shaking his head. “And what does it mean?”

“That you didn’t.”

Langdon looked up at him, searching for sarcasm, judgment—anything. But Robby’s face was calm. No anger, maybe some exhaustion, definitely understanding.

A silent beat passed.

“About last night…” Langdon began, his voice rough. He dropped his gaze to the pavement. “I was a mess. That wasn’t fair.”

“No,” Robby agreed evenly. “It wasn’t.”

“I just…” Langdon shifted his weight. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. One second I was fine, the next—” He trailed off, looking out into the distance, then back at Robby. “Yesterday was a good day. But maybe I just can’t do this anymore.”

Robby’s expression barely changed, but something flickered behind his eyes—concern, maybe even fear.

“Frank…” he said carefully, anxiously scratching his beard. “What are you saying?”

“This job…” Langdon’s voice was almost a whisper. “I don’t think I can do it.”

The words landed heavy. Robby said nothing for a moment, just studied him, trying to read past the cracks.

“You don’t mean that,” he said finally—soft but certain.

Langdon let out a dry laugh. “Don’t I?” He ran a hand down his face, pressing his temples. “I was faking it all day yesterday, Robby. I thought if I acted normal, maybe it’d feel normal.” His voice dropped. “I forced my way through every case, felt everyone watching me like some kind of sideshow freak, waiting for me to snap.” He shook his head. “And then I did. I almost threw it all away.”

“But you didn’t,” Robby pointed out. “You stopped.”

“Barely.” Langdon’s voice caught on the word. What if Mel hadn’t responded? He shook his head, gaze flicking back to the ground, remembering. “What happens next time?”

Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Listen to me. You’re tired, you’re angry, and you’re beating the hell out of yourself right now. I get it. But quitting? That’s not the answer.”

Langdon let out a bitter breath. “And what is?”

“You tell me.” Robby’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it was tough, direct. “You called me this morning, you asked me to meet you out here. Why?”

Langdon hesitated, then, matter-of-fact, “Because I needed you to get the pills away from me.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Robby said evenly. “If you were really done, you wouldn’t have called me. You wouldn’t have showed up today. You wouldn’t have stopped yourself last night.”

Langdon didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“I know you feel like hell,” Robby continued, his voice softer now. “And I know you’re scared.”

Langdon flinched, barely, but Robby pressed.

“But you’re here. And that means something.”

Langdon swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at the man in front of him. His throat felt tight, his hands shaky.

“Frank…” Robby’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “You said I was like a father to you.”

Langdon froze, heart pounding. His first instinct was to deflect, to laugh it off, bury it, pretend it didn’t cut so deep. But Robby’s gaze held him there—secure, kind, and unbearably human.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “I did.”

Robby didn’t speak for a moment, letting the sincerity simmer. He took a deep sigh and dropped his shoulders, his voice softened even more. “I know I’ve let you down. I didn’t understand how much you needed me. Not like that.”

Langdon’s eyes stung. He looked away, trying to blink it back.

“Well,” he said, voice cracking, “you’re here now.”

Robby nodded. “And I’m not going anywhere. But you have to let me in.”

Langdon shook his head faintly, not in disagreement—just overwhelmed. But Robby kept going.

“You don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here. Whatever you need. Just…” His voice cracked too. “Don’t give up on me now.”

Langdon exhaled shakily. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t. But something shifted in his posture—just slightly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper, holding it out.

“I went to NA. They gave me this. Proof of my attendance.”

Robby didn’t take it right away. “I don’t need it. I believe you.”

Langdon gave a faint, tired smile. “Yeah. But the board will want it.”

Robby’s fingers curled slightly at his side. He understood—but he hated the realization of how much pressure Langdon was under, trying so hard to get through it without complaint, still proving himself to people who hadn’t seen how far he’d come. For a second, he didn’t move. Just looked at Langdon like he wanted to take some of the weight off his shoulders and carry it himself.

Then, wordlessly, he took the paper and slipped it into his pocket like it was something he’d protect if it came to it.

They stood there a moment longer before Robby gave Langdon’s shoulder a light pat. “Come on. Let’s get inside before Mel hunts you down.”

Langdon huffed out something almost like a laugh. “She’ll probably tackle me if I’m late again.”

“Probably.”

They fell into step together, side by side. The weight hadn’t lifted, not really. 

But for now, at least, he could keep moving.

The emergency department thrummed with the low-grade bustle of a busy shift. Rounds were moving fast. Robby led the pack with his usual precision, moving bed to bed like he’d done it a thousand times. Because he had.

Langdon followed just a step behind, listening, but mostly keeping his head down. That was easier these days.

“Whitaker,” Robby called, snapping Langdon out of his thoughts. “You’re with Langdon today.”

The med student perked up, adjusting his posture. “Yes, sir.”

Langdon blinked. He wasn’t expecting that. “Uh—alright.”

Robby gave him a subtle look, as if to say, 'You can handle this'—a wordless vote of confidence.

Langdon exhaled. He could handle it. Probably.

If Robby had any doubts, he didn’t show it. He just placed a strong, firm hand on Langdon’s shoulder as they split off. Langdon barely had time to register it before the doors to the ambulance bay burst open.

The paramedic called out, “Twenty-six-year-old male, restrained driver, head-on collision. GCS ten, decreased breath sounds on the left. BP a hundred over sixty. Sats eight-two and dropping, we bagged him en route.”

Langdon leaned over the patient as they settled in the trauma room. No breath sounds on the left. Trachea shifted. Neck veins distended.

“Tension pneumo,” he said, not just for Whitaker, but to ground himself. “What do we do?”

“Needle decompression,” Whitaker replied, already reaching for the kit.

“Where?”

“Second intercostal, midclavicular line.”

He took the needle before Whitaker could second-guess himself. Don’t miss it. Don’t screw it up. He found the landmark, jammed the needle in, and was rewarded with a hiss of air.

The monitor ticked upward. Eighty-six. Eighty-nine.

Langdon’s jaw unclenched. “Chest tube next. Get it ready.”

Whitaker had already set the tray. Langdon reached for the scalpel.

But suddenly his fingers didn’t cooperate. Too tight. Too slick with sweat. The handle nearly slipped from his grip.

He blinked. Hard. Again.

His vision was swimming. The room’s edges frayed like static. A low-pressure whine built behind his ears—like a plane cabin that wouldn’t equalize.

He froze, scalpel hovering. His hand was shaking now. Not just adrenaline. This was something else. Something very wrong.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Dr. Langdon?” Robby’s voice, close and calm.

Langdon took a half step back, forcing a breath. “Whitaker, they let you do a chest tube yet?”

Whitaker hesitated. “Uh… no?”

“You’re up.” The words came out thin, hollow.

He handed over the scalpel before his hands could betray him further. Before Robby could stop him.

“Dr. Langdon?” Robby again. Sharper this time.

But Langdon was already retreating—backing out, finding the wall, pressing into it like it might fuse with his spine. He wiped his forehead with a trembling arm. Still soaked. Still dizzy.

Just breathe. Just—

His knees buckled slightly. He caught himself, hunched forward, hands on his thighs, trying not to throw up.

Robby stepped in smoothly, taking over without fanfare. Voice calm, guiding Whitaker through the chest tube like it was routine. Fast. Clean. Tube in, air out.

And louder than the trauma, louder than Robby’s voice, louder than anything—

What did he do with those pills? He’s still wearing the jacket he stashed them in. How good am I at pickpocketing? In a room full of people? I just need one. Just one.

His stomach churned. He shut his eyes tight. Stop. Don’t. Not now.

“Langdon.” Robby was beside him now, quiet, but not soft.

Langdon straightened up, barely. His face was pale, sweat dripping off his jaw. He didn’t answer.

“You need to step out.” A demand, not a suggestion.

Langdon didn’t hesitate. He pushed off the wall and walked out without a word, hitting the hallway like he’d been thrown through the door. 

Everything felt wrong. Fluorescents too bright. Walls too narrow. Every sound—a monitor beeping, a gurney wheel catching, someone laughing at the nurse’s station—too sharp. Too loud.

Maybe there’s something else in my car I forgot about.

He shook his head and dragged in a breath that caught halfway down his throat and held there, useless.

Don’t run. Don’t go to the lockers. Don’t go to your car. Don’t go looking.

He gripped the counter outside the trauma bay like it was an anchor. His pulse thundered behind his eyes.

The only way out is through. Just get through this fucking shift.

Robby followed a few minutes later, catching Langdon braced against the counter like it was the only thing holding him up.

“Frank…” he said, low and even.

“I’m fine,” Langdon muttered through clenched teeth. “Just give me a minute.”

Robby didn’t push. Just nodded once, gaze narrowing like he was filing the moment away for later. Then he turned and walked back inside.

Langdon stayed frozen, caught in the aftermath. A nurse passed by with a polite nod. Someone laughed down the hall. Life moved on.

He wiped his forehead again. Still sweating.

Then the door opened behind him again.

“Uh…” Whitaker’s voice. Hesitant. He stepped up beside him, just close enough to be noticed. “Everything okay?”

Langdon didn’t look at him. “Great,” he snapped, a little too quick, like he’d been asked the question one too many times and was done pretending it deserved an answer.

Whitaker nodded slowly. “Okay. It’s just… you handed me a chest tube.”

Langdon huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You did fine.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Langdon finally turned to look at him. Whitaker looked young all of a sudden—eyes wide, insecure, but not scared. Just observant. Too observant.

“You don't have to say anything,” Whitaker added. “But… if I was in that room, and you did that, then something’s wrong. And I figured, I don’t know, maybe just standing here with you is better than pretending I didn’t see it?”

Langdon stared at him. A bitter mix of emotions churned—gratitude, shame, fear. He couldn’t name it. “Ever feel like your brain’s trying to kill you?” he asked, voice cracking.

Whitaker didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. I think that’s called med school.”

Langdon’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“I don’t need to know your business,” Whitaker said, gentler now. “But I’m here if you need a second. Or someone to run interference.”

Langdon cleared his throat, pulling himself upright, shaking it off. “Let’s keep moving. What do you want to tackle next?”

Whitaker followed Langdon’s gaze up to the board, rattling off the cases listed before them. But Langdon didn’t hear him. There was an all too familiar voice buzzing in the background.

“I’m just saying,” Santos said to Javadi, her back to Langdon, her tone dripping with disdain. “If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t have let him back.”

Langdon froze. His pulse quickened again. His ears rang. He should’ve walked away. He meant to walk away. But his feet wouldn’t move.

Instead, he leaned casually against the nurse’s station, eyes still trained on the board, every muscle locked in place. She doesn’t know I’m here.

Santos continued, “you don’t un-steal meds by showing up sober for a few shifts. And are we even sure he’s sober?”

The words scraped like glass across his skin. He glanced at Whitaker, but the med student didn’t seem to catch it—too focused on the board. Maybe he didn’t hear that. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe–

“He doesn’t belong here,” she kept going, like she was stating a fact. “He’s a liability. Some little rehab formality doesn’t change that.”

Nope.

Don’t react. Don’t move. Don’t give her anything.

His spine locked. Breath steady. Like nothing touched him.

“Dr. Langdon?” Whitaker’s voice cut through, snapping him out of it.

“Sorry, what?”

“Um, I said there’s a Mr. Shipley in triage with persistent vomiting? Sounds straightforward.”

Langdon blinked, robotic, the moment passing. “Right. Let’s do it.” 

He turned to go, then paused. Just long enough to be deliberate. He couldn’t let Santos see him slip. He refused to give her that satisfaction. He had to carry on– out of spite, if nothing else.

“Santos, you’re with me,” he said, his tone calm, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

Santos looked up at him, eyes wide with a flash of panic. Her stomach dropped as the full weight of what had just happened hit her. Did he hear everything? There was no way—he couldn’t have. But her voice was so clear. The doubt gnawed at her, and she stammered, her icy cool exterior crumbling.

“Oh… uh... okay…” she mumbled, her face flushing as her nerves betrayed her.

Inside the exam room, the 42-year-old patient lay pale and miserable on the bed.

Langdon shifted without missing a beat.

“Hey, Mr. Shipley, I’m Dr. Langdon. This is Dr. Santos and student doctor Whitaker,” he said, smooth as ever. “I hear you’ve had a rough time keeping things down?”

The patient nodded weakly, voice barely audible. “I can’t keep anything down. Every time I try, it just comes right back up.”

Langdon glanced at the vitals—dry lips, slightly tachycardic, borderline hypotensive. Dehydrated, but not circling the drain.

“Alright. Let’s start with some fluids.” He gave the nurse a quick nod, and she moved effortlessly into action.

He turned toward Santos, who stood a little too still. Her arms were uncrossed now, but tension clung to her shoulders. “You want to assess?”

She took a breath like it was heavier than it should be and stepped up to the bedside. “Let’s check for signs of obstruction or infection,” she said, voice low but steady enough. She pressed gently on the patient’s abdomen, then glanced back at Langdon. “If anything feels painful, let us know.”

Langdon’s eyes stayed on her—not critical, just focused. “Listen to bowel sounds while you’re palpating,” he said.

Santos flinched almost imperceptibly but nodded. “Right,” she murmured, reaching for her stethoscope with slightly fumbling fingers. It wasn’t like her. Normally confident, precise. Now she looked like she’d forgotten half her training.

Langdon didn’t let the silence stretch. “What’s your differential, Dr. Santos?”

She hesitated, then offered, “Gastroenteritis? Maybe early obstruction. We should run labs, rule out anything more serious.”

Langdon gave a quick nod. “Good. Order the labs. Draw the blood.”

She blinked. “Don’t nurses usually do blood draws?”

Langdon’s gaze didn’t waver, eyebrows drawn in, his voice a shade firmer. “You gotta know the basics.”

Santos swallowed hard, her hands already moving to prep. Her fingers weren’t quite steady. Her cheeks burned—not just from the task, but from the weight of what hung between them. Maybe he heard her. Maybe he didn’t. But he was watching now. Closely.

Usually she could bury her self-doubt and push through it. Not this time. Not with him standing there, silent and sharp.

Langdon turned to the patient again, voice as calm as ever. “We’ll get you sorted, Mr. Shipley.” Then, casually but clearly, “Dr. Santos? A word when you’re done.”

The color drained from her face. She gave a tight nod and focused on the draw, trying to will the tremble out of her hands. Whitaker hovered nearby, awkward in the silence, until Langdon handed him the tablet and walked out.

Santos followed a moment later, nerves buzzing like electricity in her fingertips.

Langdon turned as soon as they were clear of the room. She nearly collided with him. He turned to face her, still composed, still too calm.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scowl. He didn’t need to.

“You keep gunning for the hardest procedures, but if you’re shaky on a blood draw, that tells me you’re skipping the foundations,” he said. “That’s how people get hurt.”

He needed to stay in control. After everything that just happened—his own hands shaking, his own near-collapse—he couldn’t afford to look unsteady now. Not in front of her. 

She opened her mouth to interject, to defend herself. But he raised a hand slightly, not done.

“And for future reference,” he added, pausing just long enough to make it sting, “the ER isn’t soundproof. If you want to talk shit, do it in the staff lounge, the elevator, or the bar after your shift.”

Her breath caught. He heard me. She looked down, ashamed and furious all at once.

Langdon’s voice chilled. “So?” he asked. “Anything you want to say?”

She hesitated. Then, in a whisper, “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

Langdon’s eyes narrowed, a quiet fury behind them. He leaned in slightly, his voice smooth, but laced with tension. “Well, I’m here. Still doing my job. Funny, though, one simple blood draw almost had you folding.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, chest burning, pride bruised and raw.

Langdon didn’t stop moving until he reached the supply alcove by the trauma bay. He braced both hands on the counter and exhaled slowly, willing himself to stay still. The wall looked like it deserved a fist, but he resisted.

It wasn’t worth it. Not really. But god, it still burned. He stayed there a moment longer, until the adrenaline cooled in his veins.

A familiar shuffle of sneakers approached behind him.

“You good?” Whitaker asked carefully, standing just far enough back to give him space.

Langdon straightened, rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Let’s keep going.”

He started walking again, not waiting to see if Whitaker followed.

The next several hours passed in a seamless rhythm—cases moving like clockwork, each one flowing into the next. Vitals, labs, handoffs. A trauma in three, a septic workup in nine. A toddler recovering from a febrile seizure, a psych eval tucked into a hallway bed.

The pace was brisk, relentless, and Langdon kept himself locked in it, grateful for the forward motion. It was easier to ride the current than sit with the heat of what he’d just walked away from. Robby lingered nearby—close enough to authorize controlled meds, close enough to catch him if he stumbled—but never so near as to throw him off his game. Langdon moved with quiet precision, each step measured, each decision sharp. He looked steady now—cool, confident, collected. Like he’d stepped fully back into himself.

Still, now and then, he’d spot Santos in his periphery—charting at a workstation, conferring with another resident, head down in her notes. But neither of them spoke. The silence between them stretched longer with each hour, taut and cold as wire.

When Robby passed him in the trauma bay, he gave a quick update and nodded toward another incoming case. “I’ve got it,” Langdon said. Robby didn’t argue.

Now it was just him, Whitaker, and whatever came next.

Langdon pulled back the curtain to Room 12, Whitaker right behind him. The woman on the bed looked jittery, her leg bouncing beneath the thin hospital blanket. Her eyes flicked up, then away—uncertain, like she wasn’t sure whether to acknowledge them at all.

“Miss Halloway?” Langdon’s voice was steady, practiced.

She gave a quick nod. “Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Langdon, and this is student doctor Whitaker.” Whitaker offered a small, eager nod and a shy wave.

Langdon glanced down at the tablet. “Says here you cut your hand on some broken glass? Can I take a look?”

“Yeah, please.” She extended her hand, still avoiding his eyes. “It wouldn’t stop bleeding…”

Langdon carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage. The cut was still oozing, but slower now. Manageable.

“Whitaker, what do you think?”

Whitaker leaned in, eyes focused. “Doesn’t look too bad. Needs a few stitches, but no obvious tendon damage. Miss Halloway, can you—”

“Wait a second.” She cut him off.

Langdon glanced up. The woman’s voice had shifted—sharper. She was looking at him. Really looking at him. Her brow furrowed like she was trying to solve a riddle. 

“I know you from somewhere.”

Langdon stilled. A familiar prickle crept up his spine. “Oh yeah?” he forced a polite smile. “Been here before?”

“No, I—” She tilted her head, eyes scanning his face like she was flipping through a mental file. And then it hit. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

Langdon’s stomach dropped, still a bit confused.

“You were there.” Her voice pitched up, breath catching. “Last night. The meeting.”

The silence that followed was too long, too loaded.

Whitaker shifted awkwardly. “…What?”

Langdon’s jaw locked, fingers gripping the edges of the suture tray. “Miss Halloway, let’s focus on your—”

“I’m not crazy, that’s you .” Her hand trembled as she pointed at him. “You’re a fucking junkie .”

The word exploded in the small room like a firecracker. And suddenly, the entire ER seemed to fall still. Everyone heard it. The air turned dense with judgment.

Whitaker stared at him, wide-eyed. “Wait—”

“I don’t want a fucking crackhead stitching me up!” the woman yelled, her voice cracking with panic. “I don’t care if you’ve got a badge or a title—you shouldn’t be here!”

Whitaker’s mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

Langdon felt it—every pair of eyes on him. The room was too loud and too quiet all at once.

“Dr. Langdon.” Robby’s voice was low. Controlled.

Langdon didn’t move. His brain felt stuck, frozen in place.

Robby was suddenly beside him, eyes never leaving the patient. “Whitaker, finish the sutures.” His tone was firm. Final.

Miss Halloway recoiled, then scowled. “I don’t want some fucking student , either—“

“That’s enough.” Robby didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His tone was enough to shut her up, enough to make her flinch.

The tension in the room coiled tight, suffocating.

“Dr. Langdon,” Robby said, tight yet calm. “Step outside.”

Langdon’s fingers twitched at his sides. He could feel Whitaker’s stare burning into him, he could still hear the blood pounding in his ears.

He nodded, jerky, mechanical, then turned and stepped past the curtain.

Robby followed, but not before casting a sharp glance at the gawking staff. “Back to work. Mind your business.” His voice didn’t rise, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

Langdon walked blindly through the ER. He barely registered the faces that turned to watch him, the whispers just beginning to ripple. When the cold air outside hit his face, he drew in a breath—but the weight in his chest stayed right where it was.

Fucking junkie.

You shouldn’t be here.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Let the words echo. Let them hurt.

The door eased open behind him. He barely processed the sound—until Robby’s voice cut through the haze.

"Frank." Calm. Grounded.

Langdon dragged a hand down his face. "Don’t."

Robby ignored that. Stepped closer. Arms crossed. "Look at me."

Langdon hesitated, then forced himself to meet Robby’s eyes.

A long beat. Then—

"You okay?"

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped before Langdon could stop it. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Seriously."

Langdon’s pulse hadn’t slowed. His hands still shook. “She wasn’t wrong,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t be here.”

"She was wrong." Robby’s voice was edged steel. "And I don’t ever want to hear you say that again."

Langdon exhaled shakily. “She called me a junkie. A fucking crackhead? In front of Whitaker, all my coworkers.” His throat tightened.

“I know,” Robby let out a breath, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck. “I heard.”

Langdon shook his head, scoffing. "I told you this morning. I don’t think I can do this."

Robby’s expression shifted, jaw tightening with restrained anger—but not at him. At her. At the system. “Do you have any idea what it took to get you back here?” he said. The words were rough, but they landed with weight. “If I thought you couldn’t do this job, I wouldn’t have fought for you. But I did. You don’t get to walk away because one person lost her damn mind.”

Langdon looked away. His throat felt tight. Robby did care. Of course he cared. But it wasn’t just one patient. It was everyone. 

Robby let the silence sit for a moment. "Take a break. Have a smoke if you need to. Get your head right." A pause. Then, softer, "but come back inside."

The only way out is through.

Robby held his gaze. One last, steady look. "See you in five."

Then he turned and strode back inside, heading straight for Room 12.

Whitaker was hunched over, carefully stitching the woman’s hand, her movements tense.

Robby barely spared them a glance before leveling a finger at Miss Halloway, his voice low but charged with barely restrained fury. If he didn’t care about patient satisfaction scores before, he surely didn’t now.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said, each word sharp and deliberate. “It’s called anonymous for a reason.”

He turned on his heel and strode out, his footsteps sharp against the tile. The lingering staff who were still ogling barely had time to react before Robby’s glare snapped to them.

"WHAT?" His voice cut through the air like a whip, daring anyone to say a word.

No one did.

With that, he stalked off, shoulders tense, jaw tight—leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

Naturally, Dr. Santos had heard the patient’s outburst. Everyone had. As soon as Robby was out of range, she found Mel and started stirring the pot.

“Oh my god, you heard that too, right?” Santos began, almost seeping with glee.  “There’s no way they can keep him here now. I mean—patients calling out who he really is? Yikes.”

Mel didn’t look up from the computer at which she was charting. She didn’t want to feed the fire, and she hated confrontation. All she could muster was a quiet, noncommittal, “Mhm.”

But Santos wasn’t done. “Seriously, an ER doc going to NA meetings? And then getting recognized ? That’s not just bad—it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Mel kept typing. Still trying to ignore her. Still trying to stay professional. Another, quieter, “Mhm.”

“And let’s be honest,” Santos added, leaning in, “that patient was right. He’s a junkie. I wouldn’t want him treating me either—”

“Jesus, would you knock it off?” Mel’s voice cut through the ER like the crack of a whip. Heads turned. Even though she was surprised by how loud it came out, she didn’t care anymore.

She kept going, quieter now, but more forceful. “You have no idea what he’s been through. And you shouldn’t judge someone for trying to put their life back together.”

Trinity raised a brow, then smirked. “Wow. You? Defending him ? And here I thought you were Little Miss Goody Two Shoes.”

Mel rolled her eyes as her stomach turned. She hated that she had that reputation.

Trinity then gasped theatrically, hand to chest. “Awwww, wait—is that it? Do you like him or something? Is he your little boyfriend now?”

“Shut the fuck up, Trinity!” Mel never swore. Ever. But the words exploded out of her. “You’re just pissed that he called you out months ago. Everyone else has moved on, but you won’t shut up about it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She didn’t wait for a response. She stood up forcefully, spun around and walked away, leaving Trinity speechless for once.

Mel shoved open the side door, needing to get out. Her heart was racing, hands still shaking. The air hit her like a slap—cool, biting. She welcomed it. She didn’t care where she was going. She just needed to breathe.

She turned the corner toward the ambulance bay—and stopped dead in her tracks.

Langdon was already there, sitting on the curb, sleeves rolled up, cigarette between his fingers. He looked up at the sound of the door. They both froze.

“Oh,” Mel said, startled. “I didn’t know—sorry, I’ll—”

He shook his head. “You’re good.” His voice was quiet, rough. He looked tired. Older, somehow.

She hovered awkwardly, adrenaline still fizzing in her limbs, not sure what to do with herself.

Langdon flicked ash onto the pavement. “You okay?”

Mel exhaled, half-laughed. “Not really.”

He gestured to the space next to him and flipped open the top of his pack. “Want one?”

She hesitated, then sat down on the cold concrete. “I don’t smoke.”

He handed her a cigarette anyway. She didn’t light it—just pinched it between her fingers, staring at it. They sat in silence for a long beat. The ER noise buzzed faintly from inside, muffled by the walls and distance.

“I didn’t plan on coming out here,” Mel said eventually. “I just—felt like I was gonna crawl out of my skin if I stayed inside.”

Langdon nodded slowly. He understood. He knew exactly what that felt like.

She glanced at him, then away. “I kind of… lost it. I yelled. Loud. In front of everyone.”

Langdon looked over, surprised but contained. “What for?”

Mel hesitated. “You.”

That shocked him more than he let on. One eyebrow ticked upward.

“Trinity was calling you a junkie, saying that patient was right.” She shook her head. “I don’t even remember what I said back, I just—I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Langdon looked away, exhaling smoke. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Pause.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “You’re welcome.”

They sat in silence again, the cold creeping in through her scrubs, but she didn’t move. She glanced down at the unlit cigarette in her hand, then up at the empty lot across the way, unsure why her heart was fluttering.

He followed her gaze, staring blankly ahead, rubbing his thumb against the filter of his cigarette. “I almost relapsed,” he said finally, voice low. “Last night. Robby and I got into it after you left on the roof.”

Mel’s breath caught. But she didn’t move. She just waited.

“I was sitting in my car,” he said, “holding the damn pills in my hand. Three months clean and I was ready to throw it away. It would’ve been so easy.” He paused. Then, slightly nudging her knee with his, “And then you texted back.”

Mel blinked, stunned. She hadn’t expected that. Her throat tightened.

“It snapped me out of it. Just enough,” Langdon said. “I went to a meeting instead.”

It should’ve just made her feel relieved—but something else bloomed in her chest, small and inconvenient. The way he said it. The way he looked at her. It caught her off guard. Maybe that was why she’d snapped at Trinity. Maybe that was why her pulse had been racing ever since.

She pushed the thought down, buried it under the fact that he was married. That he was trying to stay clean. That they worked together.

She nodded, her head feeling heavy, desperately trying to remain professional. “I’m glad.”

Langdon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the pavement. “And this morning, I told Robby I don’t think I can do this.”

Mel turned toward him, eyebrows drawing together. “You mean… the job?”

“Yeah,” He answered, shrugging slightly.

She looked at him— really looked—and saw, for the first time, just how hard he was holding himself together. Not because he was weak, because he wanted to be better, even when it hurt.

“You know,” she said, “after that one day we worked together… I decided you were the kind of doctor I wanted to be.”

Langdon glanced at her, a flicker of disbelief passing over his face.

“You didn’t seem to get rattled by anything,” she added, quieter now. “All those intense, difficult cases. You just... kept your head. I remember thinking, ‘I want to be like that.’”

Langdon gave a small, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I was high that entire day.” Then, more softly, almost teasing, “I’m still flattered, though.”

Mel’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure why it hit her so hard—maybe because it meant she hadn’t known, or because it shattered something she hadn’t realized she’d built up in her head.

She swallowed, voice softer. “How long?”

Langdon’s eyes drifted distant. “Too long.”

She paused, but didn’t look away. Then, quietly, “I guess none of us really know what’s going on beneath the surface.”

Langdon met her eyes for a moment, expression unreadable. “No. We don’t.”

They let the silence settle again, more comfortable now. The cold pressed in. The ER hummed faintly behind them, like a whole other world.

“For what it’s worth…” Mel said, “no one really said much when you were gone. I mean, we all had our theories. But anytime Robby heard talk, he’d shut it down immediately.” She smirked faintly. “You know that tone he gets that makes you want to crap yourself a little?”

Langdon huffed a laugh, and this time it was real. “Oh, I am so familiar with that tone.”

“It still scares me,” she admitted, smiling. “But it worked. People stopped talking.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know how many people Trinity told. When she told me, it didn’t feel like she wanted to. Like I said, I kept asking her—I was probably really annoying.”

Mel frowned. That sounded too much like she was defending Trinity, and she didn’t want that.

“I just wanted to know if you were okay,” she said finally.

Langdon nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t blame her if she did tell everyone. I was an asshole that day.” He exhaled. “I wasn’t wrong, but I really lit into her in front of everyone. I was unraveling and I took it out on her. She has every right to be pissed.”

“But that doesn’t mean she gets to be cruel,” Mel said, voice firmer now.

Langdon didn’t respond, but something flickered behind his eyes—grateful, maybe. Or just tired.

“She told me you apologized,” Mel added. “But she said she didn’t buy it, said she’s keeping her guard up, expecting you to snap again.”

Langdon nodded slowly. “Yeah, that tracks.” His voice was calm, resigned. “That’s the thing about screwing up. You don’t get to decide when people start trusting you again, or if they do at all.”

Mel studied him. “Maybe not. But you also don’t have to just sit there and take it when people cross the line.”

Langdon exhaled, rubbing at the side of his face. “I know,” he paused, jaw tightening slightly. He looked up, meeting her eyes. “I don’t need her to like me. I just need her to be able to work with me.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet conviction. A line he was drawing for himself.

“She’s not gonna make that easy,” Mel said.

“I don’t expect her to,” Langdon said, matter of fact. “I’ll just do my job. That’s all I can do.”

Mel stood, smiling as she brushed her hands on her scrub pants. “You should come back inside, then.”

Langdon raised an eyebrow. “Is that an order, Dr. King?”

“Damn right it is,” she responded, cussing confidently this time. “Robby’s probably starting to wonder if we bailed on the rest of the shift.”

Langdon gave a faint smile and pushed himself to his feet. “Well then, let’s go before he actually pages us.”

Walking towards the ambulance bay doors, he held out his hand for the unlit cigarette she was still holding. She gave it back.

“You going up to the roof later?” he asked

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll see you there.” 

He reached the door first and held it open without a word. Mel stepped through, looking up instinctively, and for a second, he was already watching her—eyes tired, but soft. Like he saw her. Not just as a resident, or a coworker, or the girl who texted at the right time, but as her .

He tilted his head, just slightly. “After you, Dr. King.” Playful. Courteous. Completely unaware of how much weight it carried.

And there it was again—that strange, warm flicker in her chest, low and persistent. A little dangerous.

Back to work. Head held high this time.

The ambulance bay doors swung open, and Mel and Langdon stepped back into the chaos of the ER. They walked side by side, their presence almost unnoticed against the frenetic pace of the hospital. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the ever-present background noise of beeping monitors and distant voices filled the air.

Robby looked up from the nurses’ station, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto them. He raised an eyebrow, observing Langdon and Mel as they reentered. His gaze lingered, clearly processing something beneath the surface.

Robby stepped toward them, his voice calm but direct. “You two okay?”

Langdon glanced at Mel, who gave him a small, reassuring nod. He turned back to Robby, his expression relaxed. “Yeah. We’re good,” he said, gruff but steady.

Robby watched him for just a moment, almost like he was waiting for Langdon to say more. When he didn’t, Robby nodded—no further questions, no lectures. There was an understanding between them now, like they were both rebuilding trust in their own way.

Whitaker hurried over, his eyes wide with concern. His voice was a little too eager, like he was trying too hard to make sure everything’s okay. “Dr. Langdon, are you alright?”

Langdon’s lips tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he might snap. But then he exhales, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I’d be even better if everyone stopped asking me that,” he muttered, his tone flat but with a hint of frustration.

Whitaker blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sharpness in Langdon's voice.

Langdon realized then that hiding is pointless—everyone knew. So, he shrugged, brushing the moment off, attempting to regain control of the conversation.

“Sorry. Yeah, I went to an NA meeting. I also went to rehab. And now I’m back. Any questions?” His voice now carried a sense of control, one he was only just beginning to find.

Whitaker looked at him, unsure whether to press further, but after a moment, he nodded quickly, a mix of curiosity and respect in his eyes.

“Got it. No more questions,” Whitaker said with an awkward smile, trying to keep things light.

From the other side of the nurses’ station, the soft clack of a keyboard slowed for just a beat. Santos didn’t look up. Her voice was low—too low to be clearly heard, but not quite a whisper either. Just enough to prick the edge of awareness.

“Guess we’re just announcing our red flags now.”

Langdon didn’t react, not exactly sure what he heard. The comment was vague enough to deny—but the meaning was crystal clear. He rolled his shoulders back adjusting his posture and exhaled. He didn’t look at her.

Robby was a few feet away, eyeing a patient’s chart. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing—not because he’d heard every word, but because he’d heard enough. Or maybe just felt enough. A shift in the room, a tone he didn’t like.

He looked up, slow and deliberate. “Did you say something, Dr. Santos?”

The question hung in the air. Neutral on the surface, but there was a faint warning beneath it—like the stillness before a storm.

Santos glanced up lazily. “Just thinking out loud,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that almost passed for a smile. “Nothing important.”

Robby didn’t respond, just held her gaze a moment longer, then looked away—letting it slide, but clearly not forgetting it.

He turned toward Langdon, watching for a reaction he didn’t give. “Mr. Dorsey’s back to see you in Room 4.”

Langdon raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Of course he is. He must’ve missed me.”

Robby gave him a knowing look, not missing a beat. “Lucky you. He’s all yours.”

Langdon chuckled under his breath as he turned toward the door. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go remind him why it’s always a bad idea to drink like it’s college.”

Robby watched him go, his expression neutral but with a slight lift to his brow. “Good luck with that.”

Whitaker followed quickly, sensing the tension but wisely staying quiet. They moved down the hallway, side by side, not speaking.

Behind them, the nurses’ station buzzed like nothing had happened.

But Robby was still watching.

Langdon opened the curtain to Room 4, where Mr. Dorsey was already propped up in bed, oxygen mask askew, eyes half-lidded but alert enough to notice Langdon's entrance.

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” Mr. Dorsey slurred, trying to sit up, but his body clearly wasn't cooperating.

Langdon pulled up a stool next to the bed. “We gotta stop meeting like this, Mr. Dorsey.” He adjusted the oxygen mask on the patient’s face. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Complicated?” Mr. Dorsey scoffed, still slurring. “I’m fine. Just had a couple of drinks. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Langdon raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Right. Just a couple, huh?” He paused, glancing over at Whitaker, who was stepping up behind him. “What’s on the menu for my good friend here, Whit?”

Whitaker looked like he was put on the spot, but responded effortlessly. “Electrolyte panel, liver function, EKG, then… fluids, magnesium, thiamine?” 

“Good, make it happen.” Langdon responded.

Mr. Dorsey chuckled, causing a fit of coughs. Catching his breath, he quipped, “You know me too well, Doc.”

“You know, Mr. Dorsey,” Langdon said with a dry chuckle, “if I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen you here, I’d be living on a beach somewhere.”

Mr. Dorsey gave him a weak, lopsided grin. “Yeah, well, maybe you’d get some peace and quiet. Me? I just can’t seem to stay away from the good stuff.”

Langdon sighed, placing the tablet on his lap. “That’s the problem, right there. You keep doing this to yourself. We’re not here to babysit you every time you overdo it.”

Mr. Dorsey’s smile faded, and he leaned back against the pillows. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But the booze, Doc… it’s the only thing that shuts my brain up for a while.”

Langdon’s expression softened just a bit. He leaned in slightly with a hint of understanding. “I get that.”

Whitaker was setting the IV now, making quick work of it. Langdon glanced back to him. “How’s the drip looking?”

“Good,” Whitaker replied, adjusting the bag of fluids. “Vitals are stable for now.”

“Good,” Langdon said, turning back to Mr. Dorsey. “Alright, I’m gonna leave you in Whitaker’s capable hands. If anything changes, you let us know, got it?”

Mr. Dorsey gave him a small nod, his eyes already drooping. “Yeah, yeah… I’m not going anywhere.”

Langdon shot him one last look, making sure the oxygen mask was properly secured. “You sure about that? Last time you were out of here so fast you left your dignity behind.”

Mr. Dorsey let out a hefty chuckle as his eyes closed, and Langdon stood, motioning for Whitaker to follow him out of the room.

The shift wound down without another hitch. It hadn’t been a good day—his chest had clenched more than once, and Santos’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind—but Langdon convinced himself it was fine. The last thing he wanted was to give Santos any inkling that she was getting under his skin.

As he finished up at his locker, Langdon heard light footsteps behind him. He turned, surprised to see Dr. McKay standing there, offering him a slight, knowing smile.

“Hey,” she greeted him, her presence somehow a little more understanding than most.

He blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected encounter. “Dr. McKay.”

She gave him a genuine smile and shifted slightly closer, leaning against the wall behind him. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, it being anonymous and all, but I heard what happened earlier.”

Langdon scoffed, his tone a mix of dry humor and self-awareness. “Yeah, pretty sure the whole hospital heard. I’m the talk of the town, apparently.”

“Well,” she said, a small chuckle in her voice, “I’m sure you’ve got a lot of people in your corner. Just wanted to make sure you knew I’m one of them.”

Langdon gave a slight nod, appreciating the gesture more than he expected. “Thanks, Cassie.”

She leaned in a little, her expression softening. “I know NA is full of cliches, I hated it when I first started going. But seriously, it works if you work it.”

“I know,” he said, pulling his keys from his bag. “I’m trying.”

Her smile returned, warmer this time. “I hope I see you there again.”

He met her gaze, holding it for the first time in their conversation. “We’ll see.”

“You have my number,” she added with a light shrug. “If you ever want to go together.”

By the time Mel pushed open the rooftop door, Langdon was already there—perched on the ledge like it was second nature, cigarette in hand, eyes flicking toward her the moment she stepped out. He looked like he'd been waiting, and not just in the casual, maybe-you’ll-show kind of way.

He straightened a little when he saw her. The scrubs she still wore made her feel oddly underdressed compared to his off-duty look, though it was simple—dark jeans, a gray fleece under a black jacket, the kind of effortless combo that made her stomach do backflips.

“Hey,” he said, gesturing beside him.

“Hey,” she echoed, trying not to sound breathless as she sat down, angling her face so the blush wouldn’t give her away.

He took a drag, then exhaled slowly like he was winding down from something bigger. “So this is your thing, huh? Rooftop escapes?”

She tipped her head back, eyes on the sky. “Yeah. Helps me reset before I go home and pretend to be a functioning adult.”

He chuckled, warm and low, looking up at the sky with her. Then paused. “Mind if it becomes our thing?”

Mel glanced sideways, her lips pulling into a smile before she could stop it. “I’d like that.”

They sat there in the easy quiet, the kind that didn’t ask for anything more than presence. The city murmured below them. The air was just cool enough to make her glad he hadn’t asked to go somewhere else. 

Langdon broke the silence first. He held up the cigarette between two fingers, its glow soft in the dark. “I can ditch this, y’know. If it bugs you.”

“No, it’s fine,” she shook her head a little too fast. “I mean, I don’t love it, but you don’t have to stop.”

He nodded, thoughtful, and took one last pull before stubbing it out beneath his heel. He didn’t reach for another.

“So what do you usually do up here when you’re flying solo?” he asked.

Mel shrugged, eyes still on the sky. “Depends. Sometimes I just sit. Sometimes I pace. Sometimes I put on music and pretend I’m not spiraling.”

That earned another soft laugh from him. “What kind of music does a rooftop decomp spiral sound like?”

She hesitated, biting back a grin as she pulled out her phone from one pocket and AirPods from another. “You’ll judge me.”

“Probably,” he said, already taking one from her hand without hesitation.

He peeked over her shoulder as she found the playlist— work wind-down —and hit shuffle. The opening notes of (Somebody) Ease My Troublin’ Mind by Sam Cooke spilled into the quiet.

Langdon gave a slow, appreciative nod. “Oh, okay, Dr. King. That’s a good one.”

He leaned back, letting the music sink in. She stole a glance at him—eyes closed, tension slowly unwinding from his shoulders—and felt that stupid blush creep back again.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, stunned by the striking contrast of his icy blue eyes against the tousled waves of dark brown hair that somehow managed to fall artfully across his forehead without ever looking out of place. His features were sharp but not unkind, sculpted like a statue brought to life, softened only by the warmth in his expression. He carried a kind of quiet magnetism, the kind that made you forget your own name for a second. His wife is so lucky, she found herself thinking—not with bitterness or jealousy, just awe.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. They didn’t need to.

Frank slipped in through the front door as quietly as he could, easing it shut behind him with the kind of care that always made him feel stupid afterward. Like the silence would somehow erase the late hour. Like he hadn’t made a promise to be home earlier. Like Abby didn’t already know.

The soft glow from the kitchen spilled into the hallway, warm and still. That was the worst part—the stillness. It meant she was waiting. She always waited.

He took a slow breath, steeling himself, and stepped into the kitchen.

There she was. Abby sat at the table in her robe, a mug cupped in both hands, the scent of chamomile swirling in the air. She didn’t look surprised to see him—just disappointed in that quiet, familiar way that didn’t need to be loud to land like a punch.

“Did you go to another meeting?” she asked with no preamble, eyes locking onto his like she already knew the answer.

His body moved before his brain did—heading to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap with too much focus. Like hydrating was the real priority here.

“No,” he said finally. “Not today.”

"But you’re late."

Frank kept his back to her, took a drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel the heat of her gaze on him, and it made his skin itch. "I got held up at work," he said.

It was technically true. The shift had run late. Things had piled up. But that wasn’t the whole truth, and they both knew it.

“When are you going to another meeting?” she asked, her voice soft, but steady.

He turned to face her, bracing himself. He hated the way these conversations made him feel—cornered, like a teenager being scolded, like a man who couldn’t be trusted with his own life.

“I don’t know,” he said, too sharply. “Do you expect me to go every day?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. But he didn’t take them back. Couldn’t.

"You promised you’d go," Abby said. "That you’d keep trying."

I am trying, he wanted to say. You think this isn’t me trying?

Instead, what came out was sharper, defensive. “I’m mandated to go at least twice a week. I just went yesterday.”

He could see the way her jaw tensed, the way her fingers curled slightly tighter around the mug.

He hated this part—the way she looked at him like she wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Like she was afraid of what version of him might answer next.

"You’re not doing this for the mandate, Frank," she said. "You said you were doing this for yourself. And for us."

And there it was. That small, devastating truth.

He looked away, eyes drifting to the dark window over the sink. His reflection stared back—hollow-eyed and worn down.

“I am trying,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Too tired to continue the conversation, too aware to brush it off completely.

Abby stood, her chair creaking gently behind her. She crossed the kitchen slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. She reached out and slid her hand up his back, beneath his shirt, her fingers warm against the bare skin.

He flinched. Not from her touch—but from the way it almost undid him.

"I know it’s hard," she said softly. "I know you’re scared. But you don’t have to do this alone."

He looked down, meeting her concerned eyes. She wasn’t accusing him. She wasn’t even angry. She just looked tired, like she’d been holding both of them up for too long.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Okay? I promise.”

She nodded, her hand slipping down to his. She didn’t squeeze, just let it rest there. A quiet offering.

“Okay,” she whispered.

But the calm didn’t come.

Not like it had on the rooftop, under the stars, when someone saw him and didn’t expect him to explain.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, the ER was already brimming with noise by the time Langdon stepped through the double doors. Harsh fluorescent lights crashed down from overhead—too bright, too sterile, like they were daring him to make a mistake. He squinted against them, wishing he could wear sunglasses as he worked.

In the locker room, he slung his stethoscope around his neck and ran a hand through his hair. The mirror didn’t lie—still tired, still worn—but less hollow than before. A few colleagues had commented on it. Robby had even grunted out a reluctant “lookin’ good, Langdon.” Baby steps.

He had gotten through another fourteen days clean, not really considering it a milestone, just another notch on the belt. He wasn’t looking for applause, and no one offered it. The whispers were quieter, though. Not gone. Just buried under the routine.

He’d kept his word to Abby—more or less. Three or four meetings a week. Quiet, anonymous ones, off-campus, where no one knew his name or his past. He diligently turned in his attendance slips like homework. Sometimes Dr. McKay tagged along, but they moved in different patterns. She liked the daytime, the tidy hours around her son’s school schedule. He liked the late-night meetings—when adrenaline still lingered from a shift and the city felt soft around the edges.

Therapy had started too—just one session. Mandatory, courtesy of the medical board. The moment he walked in, he could already see how it would play out: a clipboard, a diploma wall, a therapist who asked too-soft questions with the polished detachment of someone who’d read about rock bottom but never lived it. She was already scribbling notes before he’d said a word, cataloging him like a case file. Somehow, it stung worse than the judgment in the ER hallways.

At home, Abby barely spoke. Conversations were careful, clipped. Like they were both afraid of what might spill out if they went too deep. Frank didn’t blame her. He was doing the same.

Rooftop escapes with Mel had become a ritual. After every shared shift, they climbed to the top of the hospital like it was sacred ground. Sometimes they said nothing and just drowned out the noise with her 'work wind-down' playlist. Most times, they dissected cases with surgical precision or traded gossip. Mel always pretended the gossip was immature, but she always had the best stories. Frank pretended he didn’t care, but he was always entertained.

The conversations drifted into personal territory more often than not. She was collecting the scattered pieces of his story and fitting them together— growing up in North Carolina, playing baseball in high school but hating it, just using it as an excuse to get out of the house. She didn’t ask why. He had joked about having ADHD— at least, at the time it sounded like a joke— but his approach to film and television made her think he was serious. He only watched the same handful of TV shows and movies on loop because trying to focus on anything new made him uneasy. 

Langdon pushed through the doors into the ER and spotted Dana already barking orders across the thick of it. She gave him a nod—stern, but not unfriendly. The closest thing to approval she offered.

"Morning, Langdon," she called, eyes flicking over him like a scanner. "You’re with Mel and Javadi. Robby wants you to warm up before the traumas hit."

Langdon gave her a quick nod. “Not my first rodeo.”

Dana raised a brow. “Just don’t fall off the damn horse.”

Langdon smiled faintly, shaking his head. As Dana disappeared back into the chaos, he moved to the team’s side. There was something about Dana’s terse approval that felt more real than any of Robby’s praise. Her respect was tough to earn, not given lightly.

Mel was already by the board, looking through charts. She looked up when she saw him, and for a beat, she smiled—real, not forced.

“Hey, Dr. Langdon.”

“Hey, Mel.” He gave a small nod, then added, “You know, you can call me Frank if you want. No need to be so formal.”

“Frank, huh? You sure?” She raised an eyebrow. “You just strike me as someone who drinks their coffee black and insists on titles.”

He huffed a laugh. “I mean, I do drink my coffee black. But no, the formal thing feels weird—especially after a dozen rooftop chats and more than a few existential spirals.”

“Fair enough, Frank.” Mel was still grinning. “What’s the story there, anyway? That name's gotta be inherited.”

He gave a crooked smile and hesitated for a second, then added, “It’s a family name. Francis.” A stiff pause. “Not a huge fan of the guys I’m named after, though.”

That last part slipped quicker than he meant it to, like he wasn’t ready for that revelation to come out. He cringed to himself, subtle, almost imperceptible. But Mel noticed.

“Well, at least it’s memorable,” Mel reasoned, but her smile dropped. “You’ve got bed nine. Guy nearly lost his thumb trying to fix a toaster.”

“Of course he did,” Langdon snickered and took the tablet.

As he walked toward the room, he felt the shift slide into place like muscle memory. He wasn’t all the way back—but maybe he was close enough to pretend.

Langdon had just finished with the toaster guy’s thumb—clean wound, dumb story—when the trauma alert came in.

“Male, mid-twenties. Fall from height. Construction site. ETA three minutes,” Dana called out, already moving.

“Here we go,” Langdon muttered, tossing his gloves.

Mel and Javadi were right behind him. Perlah had the trauma bay prepped—suction primed, crash cart unlocked, intubation tray gleaming under the fluorescents. Santos was already there, arms folded, gaze sharp.

“Who’s leading this?” she asked, cool and flat.

“I’ve got it,” Langdon replied, tone unwavering.

Santos raised her eyebrows as though waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, she scoffed and looked away.

EMTs burst in with the stretcher—blood-soaked denim, exposed femur, a jagged rebar spike crusted red. The patient was barely conscious, breath hitching.

“On my count. One, two, three.” Langdon guided the transfer. “Mel, airway. Santos, start a second line. Javadi, cut the jeans—watch the metal. Perlah, page surgery.”

The team moved fast—automatic. Until the blood started to pour.

“Pressure’s tanking,” Perlah called, urgency rising.

“Clamp the bleeder if you see it,” Langdon said, pressing down on the wound.

“I don’t have eyes on it,” Santos shot back, voice hard. “We need to intubate before he codes.”

Langdon didn’t look up. “His sats are fine. No need to paralyze yet.”

Santos’s voice cut through, sharp and low. “Are you sure you’re in any position to be making that call?”

Langdon’s gaze snapped to hers. “Excuse me?”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe Robby should be in here. You can’t even order the right meds.”

Mel stiffened, eyes darting between them, but the rest of the team kept moving.

“I can —if you or Mel sign off,” Langdon said, his voice strained. “Help me stop the bleeding or step aside.”

Santos didn’t budge. “I’m not signing off on shit.”

Her words hung in the air, tension ratcheting up without anyone wincing. The patient’s vitals beeped relentlessly in the background.

“Focus on the patient, Dr. Santos. I’m here to work,” Langdon said, keeping it controlled.

“Oh, yeah?” Santos pressed, her words were a little sharper this time. “I thought you were here to steal benzos.”

That one hit like a lightning bolt. The room went numb and everyone stopped. Perlah’s hands stilled. Mel looked like she’d been slapped across the face. Javadi’s eyes widened, her mouth hung open in shock.

"Dr. Santos," Robby, who had been lingering outside the room, stepped in just in time to hear it. 

She turned, her posture stiff, and Robby stepped forward with calculated control. “Step out. Now.”

Santos hesitated for only a second. “Dr. Robby—”

“Get the fuck out.” He didn’t yell, but the command came out like a force of nature.

Santos flushed red, but she didn’t push back. She yanked off her gloves and threw them into the trash with a snap, her frustration palpable. Without another word, she stormed out, leaving a trail of tension behind her.

Langdon didn’t look at her as she left. He kept his eyes on the patient instead, voice calm and practiced. “Vitals are holding. Let’s get him to surgery.”

Perlah nodded, quick and efficient. “I’ll ride up with him.”

As she and Mel pushed the bed out, Robby gestured for everyone to clear the room. He stepped closer to Langdon, his gaze steady. “You okay?”

Langdon nodded once and pulled a stool up to the charting screen without meeting Robby’s eyes. “Fine.”

“You wanna take five?”

Langdon finally looked up—expression blank. “No. I want to keep working.”

Robby gave a slow nod, then reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. It was meant to be grounding, reassuring—but Langdon didn’t flinch, didn’t lean into it either. He just sat there, stiff.

“You’re doing good, Langdon.”

Langdon stared at him for a little longer than necessary. “You probably should’ve threatened her with HR too.” His voice was low. Even. But it carried weight—like a punch wrapped in velvet.

Robby blinked, caught off guard. His hand dropped to his side. He paused, his voice quieter now. “I wasn’t threatening you. I was trying to keep you from exploding.”

Frank gave a short, clipped laugh—bitter at the edges. “Well, she’s been saying that shit since I got back, Robby. I’m not the one you had to worry about.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck like the gravity of it was finally catching up to him. “I know.” A beat passed. “I let it go on too long.”

Frank didn’t respond, just turned back to the screen like he hadn’t just been publicly humiliated in front of half the team. His jaw was still clenched. His leg bounced once, twice—then went still.

“She doesn’t respect me,” Frank went on, fingers moving over the keyboard now. “Fine. I can deal. But when she stalls care just to take a swing at me?” He shook his head, still not looking up. “That’s dangerous.”

Robby didn’t argue. He just stood there, taking it, because there was nothing left to say in his defense.

“You want me here?” Frank asked, finally glancing up with just his eyes. “Then act like it. Set the tone. If you don’t, she will.”

Robby nodded once. Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just understanding.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

Langdon gave a noncommittal hum and went back to his notes. His walls snapping back up. Composed and professional.

The ER roared back to life outside the trauma bay, but Robby stayed still, facing the empty doorway Santos had stormed through. He let the chaos move around him, untouched. Then he turned and walked with purpose.

He found her near the main bank of exam rooms, mid-chart, her jaw tight. When she saw him coming, her posture tensed.

“Dr. Santos,” he called, his voice controlled but edged with strain. “A word.”

She glanced up, startled, her expression hardening instinctively. Her posture stiffened, but she didn’t argue. Robby led the way to the staff lounge, his pace deliberate, knowing full well the necessity of the conversation. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the noise of the hospital, and the tension between them was immediate.

Robby didn’t waste time. His eyes met hers, and he let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, as though the situation was pressing down on him.

“I’ve been in emergency medicine a long time,” he began. “And I’ve seen a lot of things. But what you said in that trauma bay? That was a line I never thought I’d hear crossed."

Santos crossed her arms, her body language defensive, her gaze dropping briefly before she squared her shoulders. Her silence was an unspoken challenge, but the fire behind her stance was muted, like she was preparing for a clash.

“I just don’t get it," she started. "Why is it like everyone’s forgotten what he did? Why are we all just supposed to let it go?”

Robby’s expression softened marginally, but the disappointment in his eyes remained sharp. He exhaled slowly, as if turning her words over in his mind—carefully, thoughtfully—but they still rang hollow.

“It’s not about forgetting. It’s about recognizing the work someone’s done since," he replied with a hard edge. “Addiction, diversion—they’re unfortunate realities in our field. We see it all the time. What matters is how it’s handled afterward. Langdon’s done everything that’s been asked of him and more.”

He paused, letting the space between them fill with reality. There was no room for doubt in his gaze, only a discreet resolve.

“If you can’t handle that, then maybe this job isn’t for you.”

Her eyes flashed briefly, and her breath hitched, as though the sting of his disapproval was more than she could immediately absorb. But it was fleeting—she quickly regained her composure, her voice tinged with emotion.

“I don’t want to be that person, Robby,” she said softly, almost pleading. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t see how bad it was when he… when everything nearly fell apart.” Her words wavered, but the core of her frustration remained intact. “I can’t just forget that.”

“I was there,” he said, frustration creeping back up. “I’ve seen it all. You don’t have to remind me.”

There was a long beat of silence. Robby held steady, a quiet authority flowing from him. But then his voice grew firmer, and his posture shifted—his disappointment now tangible, as if it could be felt in the very air between them.

“I’ve been watching him closely since he came back. He hasn’t said a word out of line to or about you. But you—" Robby took a step closer, his presence looming. "You’ve made yourself clear.”

Santos didn’t react, just the same guarded stillness, but the flicker of unease in her eyes betrayed the impact of what he said. She opened her mouth to speak, but Robby wasn’t finished.

“I don’t want to take this to HR, but I will,” he said, his voice lowering, carrying the gravity of a man who wasn’t easily swayed. “Do you understand? Anti-retaliation policies won’t protect you if you keep creating a hostile work environment in front of a dozen witnesses.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, as if every word hung in the air longer than it should. Robby didn’t move. He stood, solid and immovable, his eyes never leaving hers. She seemed to shrink under his unyielding presence, the finality of his words drifting between them.

Her voice was careful when it came, barely more than a whisper. “Understood.”

Robby’s expression didn’t let up, no easing of the tension. He didn’t offer her a look of victory—just the cold acknowledgment that the moment had to come, and now it was done.

Santos watched him walk away, her arms still crossed, her gaze distant. She didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. When she finally did, it was slow, like waking from something heavy.

The shift had wound down, the sharp adrenaline of trauma cases giving way to the rhythm of a slower evening. But Robby couldn’t shake the unease. Langdon had kept his cool in the field—focused, professional—but there was something in his eyes, a brief flicker of strain that Robby knew all too well. The last thing Langdon needed was more pressure, but Robby had learned to trust his instincts, and right now, they were telling him to pay attention. He couldn't miss it again.

He found Mel in the break room, absorbed in a chart, her brow furrowed as she balanced her thoughts. Robby paused, watching her, then approached, his usual confidence tempered by his concern.

“Dr. King,” Robby began as he stepped in the room, quiet but commanding. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

Mel looked up, catching his gaze. There was something in the way he said it, a layer beneath the surface, that made her straighten slightly.

“Of course, Dr. Robby,” she replied, trying to keep her tone casual, though a small knot twisted in her stomach. Robby wasn’t the type to ask for favors without good reason.

Robby hesitated, his fingers lightly tapping the counter as if gathering his thoughts before diving in. “Am I right in assuming you’ve gotten… close… with Dr. Langdon?”

Mel’s pulse skipped for just a beat. The way Robby said it made her feel like he was asking more than just about their working relationship. 

“Close?” Mel echoed, trying to keep her composure. “I mean… we talk sometimes. We’ve been working together a lot, so… yeah, I guess you could say we get along. We make a good team.”

“Right…” Robby studied her, sharper than usual, as if he were reading between the lines. He didn’t press her for more, but there was a knowing edge to his next words. “Could you… keep an eye on him for me?”

Mel blinked, surprised by the request. She wasn’t expecting this. She hadn’t known Robby well enough to read his moods until now, but something about him felt more distant—concerned, but holding himself back. “You think he’s hiding something?” she asked, her voice quieter now, not quite casual enough to hide her unease.

“Not hiding, exactly. Just…” Robby exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the ground briefly before lifting his gaze to hers. “He’s good at keeping up appearances, but sometimes that can backfire. I’m not asking you to spy, but just… let me know if you see anything that feels off.”

Mel felt the weight behind his words—concern he didn’t quite know how to voice. It tugged at something in her, but she pushed it down, still trying to focus on what he was really asking.

Her thoughts flicked to the rooftop nights with Langdon—the rare moments he let his guard down, the quiet trust between them. It was complicated. He was married. She knew where the lines were, even if part of her wished they weren’t there.

Robby must have sensed her hesitation. “I just need to know someone I trust is on his side.”

The words caught her off guard. It wasn’t what she expected—not from Robby. For a second, she just stared at him, trying to parse the layers. This wasn’t about suspicion or control. It was about care. Worry. Love, maybe, in the way only old friends or brothers-in-arms could feel and rarely say out loud.

And now he was asking her to protect that—quietly, gently.

Her throat tightened. “I’ve got his back,” she murmured, the promise heavier than it sounded.

Robby’s gaze lingered for just a moment longer, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he nodded. “Thank you, Dr. King. Good work today.”

Mel watched him walk away, but the tension remained. As the door closed behind him, a familiar flutter stirred in her chest. It wasn’t pride from helping Robby—it was the knot that always formed when Langdon was around. The one she couldn’t undo.

Mel wrapped up her charting rather quickly, the hum of the hospital still in her ears as she made her way to the rooftop. The climb felt like a release, a ritual she never skipped. By the time she reached the top, she wasn’t surprised to find Langdon already there. He was always early.

She made her way to the spot where they always ended up—by the far edge of the roof, tucked out of sight but with a view of the distant city lights. She paused, watching him from a distance. He was already lying flat on his back on the concrete, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting lightly on his chest with a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers.

Without a word, Mel joined him, her steps light on the rooftop. She settled down a few feet away, dropping beside him with a soft sigh. The concrete was cold under her back, but it felt grounding, a reminder that an entire world existed outside of the ER. She crossed her legs and rested her arms on top of her, intertwining her fingers just below her ribcage.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The city was muffled from here, the only sounds being the occasional car honk far below and the distant whoosh of wind. Mel closed her eyes briefly, letting herself fall into decompression mode.

Langdon exhaled slowly, the glow of his cigarette pulsing in the dark as he shifted slightly, bringing one knee up while keeping his other leg stretched out, like he was half in motion even in stillness. "I thought you might bail tonight," he said, kind of teasing, as though it were a challenge.

Mel let out a small, breathless laugh. "I know better than to leave you alone with your thoughts," she said.

They were quiet again, the kind of comfortable silence they’ve come to easily nurture. As usual, the vibe between them felt easy, like they both needed this—needed this space to be themselves, to breathe. The world was too heavy down there, in the halls of the hospital, but up here, they were just people. No titles, no expectations.

After a while, Mel tilted her head toward him, brushing a stray hair out of her face. “You wanna talk? About what happened with Santos today… or anything else.”

Langdon flicked ash off the edge with a quick motion of his fingers. "Not about her," he said.

The stars were faint—just barely visible beyond the city haze—but still there. Still trying.

“You never talk about your family,” Frank said after a long pause, voice low like the thrum of traffic below. “I remember you mentioning your sister with special needs. Who else makes up the story of the incredible Dr. Melissa King?”

Mel smiled, but didn’t respond right away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the sky. Then, almost like the words surprised her on the way out, she said, “Yeah. Not much to say really.”

She could feel him turn slightly, not pushing—just present.

“My mom died when we were young. A malignant pheochromocytoma.”

Frank paused mid-drag, cigarette hovering near his lips, the ember pulsing orange.

“My dad did what he could,” Mel went on. “He was great, really. But after she died, it was like… something in him just broke. Not in a dramatic way. He didn’t fall apart, he just got quiet. He worked a lot— maybe because he had to, maybe because it was easier than being home without her. So I didn’t see him much.”

Frank stayed silent, his eyes on the sky, but the way his body stilled made it clear he was listening. Really listening.

“He had a heart attack during my third year of med school. I got the call during rounds.” She swallowed. “You know how surreal that is? Taking care of other people’s families while yours falls apart over voicemail?”

“Shit,” Frank murmured with an exhale. The word was soft, raw. The kind of response that didn’t try to fix anything, just let it land.

“I was basically Becca’s caretaker even before that,” she added. “But it wasn’t a burden. She’s always been my best friend. Taking care of her wasn’t something I had to do—I wanted to.”

Frank turned his head slowly, watching her profile in the dim light. “That’s a hell of a lot to carry,” he said. “Losing both your parents that young, holding it together for your sister… that’s strength, Mel. Not the loud kind. The kind that keeps people from falling apart.”

She let his words settle, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her face. “She’s my world. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Frank smiled faintly. “Still. A lot of people would’ve crumbled. You didn’t.”

A breeze passed through, light but cold, brushing across their arms like the wind didn’t want to interrupt.

She turned slightly toward him. “How about you? You talk about your wife and kids… who else is there?”

He hummed, almost under his breath. “My mom and sister are still in North Carolina.”

She angled her body toward him just enough to prompt without pressing. “What about your dad?”

Frank drew a longer breath this time, eyes fixed upward. “Mean drunk,” he said. “Hands always faster than his mouth. Broke my nose once.”

Mel’s spine straightened just slightly. She didn’t move otherwise, but something in the air around her sharpened.

Frank rubbed the side of his face, thumb brushing over a place that no longer ached. “Anyway.” His voice dropped as he added, “My mom’s still alive. Physically, at least. Dementia took the rest of her.”

Mel turned her head to look at him now, her expression shifting, softening.

“He died right before my intern year,” Frank continued, throwing the remnants of his cigarette across the roof. “Massive stroke. My mom was too far gone to notice. He laid there in the house for two days before my sister found him.”

Mel’s brow knit. “Jesus.”

“I went back, handled the logistics. Got Mom into a facility, made sure my sister was okay,” he said, miming the motions with a tired flick of his hand. “But I didn’t go to the funeral. We hadn’t talked in years. The whole thing felt more like a business transaction.”

“That must’ve been… complicated,” she said, echoing his earlier restraint.

Frank huffed a breath through his nose, humorless. “That’s one word for it.”

Mel didn’t respond right away, just waited with him. Then, gently, “You get along with your sister?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, something lighter in his voice. “We’re close. We’re only a year apart. Irish twins, as they say. I visit her sometimes, but she likes coming up here to get away from all that. I help with Mom in other ways.”

Mel leaned back again, eyes skyward. “You don’t see her much?”

Frank was quiet for a moment. “Not really anymore.”

She glanced over, sensing the shift. She didn’t ask, just waited.

“She’s in a memory care facility. Some days she’s okay. Others…” His voice trailed off. “She screams at the nurses. Last time I went, about a year ago, she looked right at me and said, ‘Don’t let him in.’”

Mel turned toward him sharply. “What?”

“She thought I was my dad,” Frank said, his voice thin. “Started crying. Clawed at the walls, flinched like I was gonna hit her. I haven’t been back since.”

He didn’t look at her. He stared upward, jaw tight.

“I look too much like him.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of pain. Of the kind of grief that doesn’t cry out but sits beside you and waits to be acknowledged.

“That’s not fair,” Mel said softly. “To you. You’re not him.”

Frank gave a bitter twist of a smile. “Try telling her that.”

“I would,” she said, her voice unwavering now. “I’d tell her you broke the cycle. That you became the kind of father she wishes you had.”

Frank turned his head just slightly, looking at her. For a moment, his expression softened—not broken, just... young. Like he hadn’t let anyone see him like this in years.

“You don’t know that,” he whispered.

“I do,” she said. “Because I’ve seen the kind of man you are.”

He didn’t respond. Just blinked up at the sky, breath held like it might shake if he let it go. And behind the man who endured, she could see it—the glint of the little boy who deserved better.

They lay there in the silence, city lights flickering below, stars flickering above. In between, they cultivated peace.

Then Mel gently nudged his arm with hers. “Guess we’re both carrying demons.”

Frank let out a long breath. “Yeah. But they’re quieter up here.”

For a long while, neither of them said anything. Just two people lying flat on a rooftop under a half-lit sky, not trying to fix each other—just existing and being seen.

Two hours passed without either of them noticing. At some point, Frank must’ve dozed off, finally surrendering to a rare pocket of calm that felt almost foreign. Mel didn’t have the heart to wake him—he looked so peaceful, his features relaxed in sleep, almost elegant. But when she glanced at her watch, she gasped softly, her eyes widening.

“Oh, crap,” she said, the words slipping out before she caught herself. “I’m sorry, I need to go pick up Becca.” She started to rise, shifting her weight to stand.

The sudden realization made Frank snap awake and instantly pull out his phone, and his stomach sank as he saw three missed calls from Abby and a text that read: Are you still at work???

“Shit,” Frank muttered, his voice sharp with frustration. “I missed NA. Damn it.”

Mel had already started walking toward the stairs, but she hesitated and turned back towards him. “I’m sorry... I didn’t realize you had somewhere to be.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” he said quickly, waving off the apology as he pulled himself to his feet. “I didn’t really want to go. And I don’t want to go home now, either.” His voice trailed off, almost to himself. “But I guess I can’t put it off any longer.”

She wanted to ask what was going on at home, why he was so reluctant to go back, but she held her silence. Some questions were better left unasked.

Frank let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he turned toward the stairwell, jogging lightly toward the door. She followed, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

When they reached the parking lot, Frank paused. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you next time, Dr. King.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too. Have a good night, Frank,” she replied, her voice soft, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them as he walked away.

When Frank got home, the atmosphere in the house felt off—still, but tense. Abby sat on the couch, arms loosely crossed, posture rigid. She looked up when he entered, but didn’t immediately speak, as if trying to gauge his mood.

He lingered in the doorway, looking at her, unsure of how to approach. The guilt was already settling: the missed meeting, the long evening, the conversation with Mel still echoing in his head. More than anything, it was the widening gap between them that made the silence feel unbearable.

Abby watched him closely, her eyes narrowing slightly as she searched for any sign of what was going on inside his head. "Did you miss the meeting?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Frank dragged a hand through his hair, heavy with exhaustion. "Yeah," he said. "Lost track of time." He tossed his keys on the counter but didn’t move closer.

"You didn’t call," Abby said. Not accusatory—just tired. But the edge was there.

"I know." His voice was flat. Useless.

Abby uncrossed her arms, shifting forward slightly. “You’ve been distant lately.”

“I just had a rough day.”

She gave a small, bitter laugh under her breath. “It’s always a rough day.”

He swallowed the irritation rising in his throat. “I’m trying, Abby.”

“Are you?” Her voice was low now, but steady. “Because it feels like you’re trying everywhere but here.”

The words landed harder than he expected, and the guilt spiked again. He exhaled sharply, the anger he’d been holding back bubbling up. He didn’t want to fight. Not now. Not like this. 

"I just didn’t want to talk about it tonight. I—" He stopped himself. What could he say? That he’d been having honest conversations with another woman? That talking to Mel had felt easier than opening up to his own wife?

He hated himself for that. But he needed it.

With Abby, everything felt precarious. Like even the smallest confession might crack something too fragile to fix. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d talked without both of them holding back. Without feeling like they were carrying different ends of the same invisible burden, too afraid to set it down between them.

His jaw tightened, and he stared at her, the frustration and hurt from all sides seeping through. "I don’t know how to be what you need right now," he admitted.

Abby stood slowly. The fight had gone out of her. “Yeah,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m starting to realize that.”

She walked down the hall towards the bedroom, her steps soft but final.

Frank stayed rooted to the floor, the silence curling around him like a vice. He didn’t follow. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, every part of him folding inward.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said instead.

Abby didn’t protest.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was dim, the early light barely spilling in. Abby moved quietly, barefoot on the tile, careful not to wake their sleeping children. She wasn’t making breakfast—just filling the silence, the way she had more and more lately.

From the living room, the muffled buzz of a phone alarm cut through the stillness.

She turned her head toward the couch. Frank was still asleep, lying awkwardly on his side, one arm dangling off the edge, his phone face down on the coffee table beside him.

Abby sighed, walked over, and reached to silence the alarm. But when she flipped his phone over, the screen lit up.

NEW MESSAGE – MEL

Hey. Sorry if I overstepped tonight. Didn’t mean to derail your evening. Hope you’re okay. See you tomorrow.

Abby froze.

It wasn’t a flirty message. It wasn’t even personal, really. But it was… gentle. Considerate.

Her stomach twisted.

What the hell even happened last night?

She stood there, the phone still in her hand, heart pounding.

Then, quietly, “Frank.”

No response.

Louder this time. Sharper. She nudged him awake. “Frank.”

He stirred on the couch, groggy, blinking up at her in confusion. “What…?”

She held out the phone. “Who’s Mel?”

That woke him up fast.

He sat up, gingerly rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Wait, what?”

Abby kept her voice steady, dropping his phone next to him. “She texted. I turned off your alarm and saw it. You want to explain what she meant by ‘overstepping’? Or ‘derailing your evening’?”

He didn’t respond. She studied him for a long moment.

“You couldn’t even look me in the eye last night,” she said, voice low.

Frank exhaled. “It wasn’t like that.”

She shook her head once. “Then what was it like?”

He didn’t answer.

Abby’s arms stayed crossed, but the edge in her voice softened. “I’m not accusing you, Frank. I’m saying you shut me out. And then I see this—” She gestured at his phone on the couch. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. “We were talking. I lost track of time. That’s it.”

“You missed your meeting,” she said quietly. “And you didn’t call.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you still didn’t,” she interrupted, not angry, just tired. “And now you’re here, sleeping on the couch, like we’re strangers passing in the same house.”

He looked at her then—just for a second—and she could see it: that wall he’d built, the one she hadn’t been able to get around for months.

“I don’t have time for this right now,” he said, getting up and pulling on yesterday’s shirt, still rumpled from where he’d dropped it the night before.

“You don’t have time to talk to your wife?” Her voice was thin. “But you have time for late-night therapy with another woman?”

He moved past her without meeting her eyes, heading to the kitchen to grab his keys and bag.

“Your car reeks, by the way,” she added quietly. “I asked you not to smoke in there. The lease is ending s—”

The front door slammed before she could finish.

Langdon moved stiffly, shoulders locked up like he’d slept on a couch—which he had. He peeled off his wrinkled shirt, changed into fresh scrubs with the sluggish precision of someone running on fumes. The mirror above the sink caught him mid-sigh, stubble creeping up his jaw, eyes red-rimmed from either exhaustion or the argument still bouncing around in his brain.

The door opened behind him. Robby stepped in, sipping from a battered thermos.

“Morning,” Robby said, his voice low, a touch of casualness that didn’t quite mask the underlying concern.

Langdon gave him a curt nod, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

Robby lingered for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the disheveled figure in front of him. “You look like shit.”

Langdon snorted, tossing his crumpled clothing into his locker, the fabric slapping against the metal. “That’s kinda my baseline now.”

“You sleep in those jeans?” Robby asked, a flicker of something sharp in his tone.

“Didn’t plan on it,” Langdon muttered, eyes still trained on the clutter of his locker. He pulled things out methodically, hands moving as if he were trying to anchor himself to the routine, to the familiar.

Robby didn’t move. He just leaned against the wall, arms crossed like a man holding something in.

“Does Jake talk to you at all?”

Langdon didn’t stop moving. “Yeah. He texts sometimes.” He turned, brows drawn together and voice hardened. “Is that a problem?”

Robby hesitated, like he’d expected a different answer. “No. I just—” He paused, swallowing the rest. “He’s still not talking to me.”

Langdon’s mouth tugged downward. He gave a small shake of his head, part exasperation, part yeah, no kidding.

“You can’t push him,” he said. “Just give him time.”

“Yeah.” Robby lingered on the word, then added, almost like an afterthought, “If he’s talking to you, though… maybe you guys could hang out. Grab dinner or something. Janey says he comes home from school and just disappears into his room. Might be good for both of you to get out.”

Langdon’s look sharpened. His jaw set before he could stop it. “Maybe you don’t know what’s good for either of us.”

Robby blinked, caught off guard by the snap, but didn’t bristle. He dropped his gaze, shaking his head as disappointment softened his features—not at Langdon, just at the mess of it all. “Okay. Forget it.” He exhaled slowly. “I’m just glad he’s talking to someone.”

Langdon watched him for a second, then sighed, dragging a hand down his face like he could scrape off the guilt. “Look,” he said, quieter now, eyes dodging again. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough morning. Not your fault.”

Robby raised a brow but said nothing, arms still crossed.

“Maybe you’re right. But I don’t wanna push him either.” Langdon cracked the faintest smirk. “And I’m not exactly a beacon of positivity these days.”

Robby huffed a laugh that didn’t quite make it to his mouth. “Yeah, well… neither am I.”

They stood in that moment together, for once not as mentor and mentee or boss and addict, but just two men who had let people down in their own ways.

Langdon leaned back against his locker, some of the tension melting from his spine. His voice dropped. “I’ll think about it. We used to hit that greasy burger place near the school. Maybe I’ll text him.”

Robby didn’t smile exactly, but something eased in his face. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“He probably won’t go.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Robby said. “Ask anyway.”

They stood there for a beat longer, neither quite ready to move. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable this time, just tired. Familiar. Like an old coat they both knew how to shrug into.

Robby finally nodded toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s go before someone sends a search party.”

Langdon snorted under his breath. “Let ‘em, I could use a nap.”

They walked down the corridor in step, coffee in hand, the soundtrack of the hospital growing louder around them.

Langdon glanced sideways. “You ever regret it?”

Robby looked over. “What?”

“Taking this job. All of it.”

“Every day,” Robby said, no pause, no doubt. Then, softer, “And not for a second.”

Langdon gave a slow nod, the kind that meant he didn’t just hear it—he felt it.

Hours later, Langdon was just finishing up securing a splint to a middle-aged woman’s broken ankle when he felt that familiar pull of distraction again. The usual noise of the ER seemed muted to him, as though he were underwater.

The woman winced as Langdon tightened the splint a little too harshly. He barely noticed the reaction, his focus half on his hands and half somewhere else. He mumbled an apology, but his tone was flat.

“Hey,” a voice broke through his fog. Mel was standing next to him now, wringing her hands anxiously, looking at him with that careful, assessing gaze of hers.

Langdon’s response was quick, more out of habit than anything. “What’s up?”

“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost tentative.

He glanced up for a second, meeting her gaze briefly, but his eyes quickly flicked away, settling back on the patient in front of him. He didn’t answer right away.

“I’m fine,” he said, too practiced.

Mel didn’t buy it. She watched him longer than he was comfortable with, then sighed quietly, her gaze softening, though still searching.

She leaned in a little, lowering her voice. “You’ve been off all morning. I’m not trying to intrude, but—”

He cut her off with a sharp, dismissive gesture, trying to keep it casual but failing to mask the tension in his shoulders. “I said I’m fine.”

The words hung in the air, too curt for the moment, and Mel’s brow furrowed. She took a step back, but the silence between them felt heavier than before. Frank was always quick with a joke, always ready with something to distract, but now he seemed distant.

She didn’t push it, but the concern in her eyes lingered.

Langdon leaned against the nurses' station, steadying himself with a slow breath as he scanned the board. The shift had been a grind, and he was trying to carve out ten quiet seconds before diving back in.

Dana caught his eye from across the station, already moving toward him with a tablet in hand.

“Room nine’s yours,” she said, offering the screen like a peace offering.

Langdon raised a brow without reaching for it. “What’s the catch?”

She gave him a look—flat, tired, and not entirely unsympathetic. “Possible drug seeker,” she said, like she was reciting the weather.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Why me?”

“Because you’re available,” Dana said, tapping the tablet against his chest before letting it go. 

Langdon caught it instinctively, frowning as he glanced at the name. He already knew what kind of conversation was waiting for him behind that door.

Still, he pushed off the counter and started walking.

Room Nine was dim, the blinds drawn halfway, casting slanted shadows across the linoleum. The man on the bed—early forties, unshaven, a weathered hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders—looked up as Langdon walked in.

Langdon gave the door a soft knock even as he entered. “Mr. Phelps? I’m Dr. Langdon.”

“Yeah,” the man muttered, not sitting up. “That makes four of you today.”

Langdon didn’t respond to the jab. He moved with quiet efficiency, scanning the vitals, checking the chart again as he pulled up a stool.

“Says you’re here for back pain. Can you tell me what’s different today?”

Phelps shifted, a wince tugging at his face. “Same spot. Same pain. Worse than last time.”

Langdon nodded slowly. “Okay. Any new trauma? Falls, accidents, lifting something wrong?”

“No.”

“Radiation down your legs? Numbness? Tingling? Loss of bowel or bladder control?”

“No. None of that.”

Langdon kept his voice even. “All right. I’m going to check your back, okay?”

Phelps didn’t argue. He sat forward stiffly while Langdon palpated the lower lumbar area—gently, precisely. No swelling. No spasm. No heat. No guarding, except the kind that came from being handled too many times.

Langdon ran through the reflexes. Straight leg raise. Range of motion. All unremarkable. All too familiar.

He finished the exam and sat back. “Your vitals are stable. No fever. No signs of infection, no neurologic deficit. This doesn’t look like something surgical or emergent.”

“So I’m fine,” Phelps said bitterly, slumping against the pillows. “Guess I imagined the pain.”

Langdon’s eyes flicked up. “I didn’t say that.”

“What are you giving me, then?” Phelps glanced at him—suspicious, wary. “Dilaudid worked… last time.”

Langdon sighed, met his eyes, and leaned back slightly. “Suboxone.”

Phelps scoffed, looking away. “What are you trying to say, doc?”

“Maybe it’s time to try something different,” Langdon said, no smile in his voice.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded brochure, softened at the edges from being opened too many times. He held it out without fanfare. “This place is top-tier. It’s not just group therapy and yoga mats”

Phelps didn’t take it. “What, are you on their payroll?”

“No. I was a patient.”

That landed differently. Phelps didn’t speak—just stared at the pamphlet like it had started glowing.

“I’m not saying this is what you need,” Langdon added, setting it on the bedside tray. “But it’s an option.”

He stood, rubbing sanitizer on his hands. “Think about it. I can write the order for Suboxone and call the facility for you. Just say the word.”

As he reached the door, Phelps spoke, quieter now. “You really went there?”

Langdon paused, one hand on the frame.

“I did,” he said.

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Santos had been leaning against the wall across from Room Nine, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—okay, maybe she had—but it wasn’t like Langdon had closed the door.

She watched him move through the exam, heard the soft cadence of his voice. Calm. Patient. No edge. No sarcasm. He wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t brushing the guy off. He was building a case, not dismissing one.

She saw him check reflexes, posture, gait. Saw the tension in his shoulders—not irritation, but focus. The kind of attention given when you were really trying.

Her brows lifted when he pulled out something from his pocket—a pamphlet, worn soft—and handed it over. Whatever he said, she couldn’t quite hear. But the look on his face wasn’t smug. Wasn’t defensive. Just… real.

She straightened when he stepped out, quiet as ever.

Langdon startled when he saw her. “You need something?”

Santos shook her head slowly. “Nope.”

The rest of the shift blurred. Nothing critical, no traumas—just the usual grind. Langdon couldn’t tell if it was an unusually slow day, or if Robby was subtly steering him away from the cases that required more thought and precision. He moved on autopilot, muscle memory doing most of the work. His eyes burned from staring at the board too long. More than once, he caught himself reading the same few charts over and over. He kept checking his phone, unsure if he was hoping for a message from Abby—or dreading one. Nothing came.

He stitched up a teenager with music blasting from her earbuds. She didn’t look at him once. He didn’t take it personally. Just kept his voice even, calm, explaining things she wouldn’t hear. He double-checked the discharge instructions anyway.

The kid with the fever finally settled after Tylenol and apple juice. The mom kept thanking him even after he said he wasn’t the one who brought the juice.

He blinked harder than usual during a lull, catching his reflection in the trauma bay doors. Pale. Jaw shadowed. He rolled his neck and felt something crack.

The coffee he’d abandoned hours ago was cold now, sitting next to a half-eaten protein bar in a paper tray someone else had thrown out.

In the back of his mind, though, Room Nine lingered. Not the pain complaints or the skepticism, but the way Phelps had looked at that pamphlet—like it wasn’t a trap, for once. Like maybe it was a way out.

Langdon slouched over the breakroom table, his cheek pressed against his folded arms, the soft rattle of the vending machine the only thing breaking the silence. His breath was slow and shallow, like he’d drifted into a nap that had stolen more time than he’d intended.

The door creaked open, the sound sharp against the quiet.

Langdon jolted awake, straightening with a sharp inhale. “Oh—shit,” he muttered, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the unforgiving fluorescents. Then, his gaze landed on the person entering, and he froze. “Uh. Sorry.”

Santos raised an eyebrow, stepping fully into the room as the door clicked shut behind her. “Rough night?”

Langdon rubbed a hand through his disheveled hair, glancing at his watch with a slow, tired exhale. It had only been ten minutes. His voice came out dry, raspy. “Something like that.”

He tried to push off the table, but his body felt stiff. Before he could move towards the door, she stepped closer.

“Hold on.”

He looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly, unsure of what she wanted now.

“I’ve been thinking about yesterday,” she began, her voice quieter than usual, like she was treading carefully. “I wanted to apologize.”

Her words caught him off guard. He blinked at her, confused.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that crap,” she said, voice dipping with genuine regret. “Even before yesterday.” She shifted her weight, gaze flicking away. “It was shitty of me.”

Langdon let out a tired, humorless smirk, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Did Robby get to you?”

“No,” she sighed, dragging the breath out. “I mean—yeah. But he didn’t tell me to say this. He just reminded me I’ve been an asshole.”

Langdon leaned back against the wall, arms loosely crossed. Not defensive—just keeping himself together. “Generous way to put it.”

“I was mad,” she said, voice fraying at the edges. “First day on the job, and I had to choose between reporting a superior or pretending I didn’t see it.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Maybe no one thought much of it, but I felt it. Like people looked at me different. Like I’d torched the golden boy of the ER and no one wanted to work with me. And I didn’t know if I had the right intentions... like maybe I wouldn’t have said anything if you weren’t such a hardass.”

Langdon didn’t move. Just watched her.

“And then you came back,” she continued, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Everyone acted like nothing happened. And I…” She trailed off. “I felt like the bad guy again.”

Langdon exhaled, gaze dropping to the floor.

“I thought you hated me,” she added. “For... you know. Maybe ruining your life. I guess I’ve just been waiting for you to rip me a new one again.”

He looked up, posture still, voice calm. “You didn’t do the wrong thing, Santos.”

She glanced at him, a hint of guardedness returning.

“I’m sorry you were in that position,” he said, quieter now. “I needed help. And everyone else either looked the other way or didn’t care. So maybe I owe you.”

She blinked, surprised. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

“But I didn’t get off easy,” he added. “Every day’s a climb. First day back, Robby watched me piss in a cup. Now I’ve got weekly bathroom meetings with some dude upstairs named Hector.”

“Jesus,” she muttered, voice softer.

He gave a small nod. “So if it looked like I came back and everything was fine—trust me. It wasn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just tired.

“I didn’t hate you,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “Even if I wanted to.”

Santos leaned back against the opposite wall, voice tinged with reluctant amusement. “You’re still kind of a pain in the ass.”

Langdon cracked a smile. “So are you.”

They shared a quiet, almost-smile. Nothing big—just honesty and understanding between them.

Santos straightened, pushing off the wall. “Well... I said my piece.”

“Thanks for that.”

She reached for the door, then paused, glancing over her shoulder with a raised brow.

“Don’t fuck it up again.”

Langdon gave a lazy salute, wry grin in place. “Trying not to.”

The door clicked softly behind her.

As the shift wound down and assignments were handed off to the oncoming shift, Mel made the ritualistic trek up the stairwell to the roof. As expected, Frank was already there, but not smoking this time—just leaning on the railing, looking out at the skyline with that distant expression he wore when something was eating at him.

“Hey,” he said, without turning. “I can’t stay long tonight.”

“That’s okay,” Mel replied, stepping up beside him. She hesitated. “I’m sorry… if I pushed too much last night.”

He glanced over, brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“When you told me about your family, your dad…” She looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. “I thought maybe you felt weird about it afterward. I should’ve backed off.”

His shoulders sagged a little as he shifted his weight, then offered her a small, almost sheepish smile. “No. It wasn’t that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She looked up at him, waiting.

Frank paused, eyes flicking toward the horizon. “I’ve just been dealing with some stuff at home.”

Mel stayed quiet.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Abby and I… we’re not exactly seeing eye to eye right now.”

Still, Mel said nothing—just gave him space. He took his time finding the right words.

Frank exhaled, slow and tight. “She doesn’t get it. Recovery. It’s like… she thinks it’s supposed to be this straight line up. And any time I have a bad day or just need some space, she spirals.”

Mel shifted slightly, her voice quiet. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “It is.”

There was another long pause.

“This morning…” he began, then stopped, jaw tightening. “I just kinda ran from it. I’m tired of feeling like I have to perform and pretend to make her feel better. So I didn’t even try to fix it, I just left.”

Mel glanced over at him. “And now?”

He shrugged. “Now I don’t know if I even want it fixed.”

She blinked, surprised by the honesty in that. He wasn’t looking at her—still staring out over the city like the answer might be buried in the skyline.

“I feel like I’m walking on eggshells everywhere I go,” he added. “At home, at work, even with you sometimes. And it’s not about you. I just… I don’t know how to breathe anymore without feeling like I’m letting someone down.”

Mel let the silence settle again, but only for a moment. “You’re allowed to have bad days, Frank.”

He didn’t answer right away, but his posture eased just a little at that.

“I don’t think she gets that,” he said eventually. “And I don’t know how to explain it in a way she’ll hear.”

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” Mel said gently. “But I’m glad you didn’t just run from me, too.”

Frank huffed a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

Chapter Text

Another two weeks had passed, during which Frank buried himself in back-to-back shifts, volunteering for every overnight, every code-heavy slot no one else wanted. He told himself it was just to help the team, but really, the mayhem of the ER was the only place he could breathe. The gossip had mostly faded, and even Santos had cooled her barbs into disinterested silence.

At work, things were functional. He moved through cases with a steadiness that felt almost like progress—leading the junior residents and med students, daily check-ins with Robby, even catching the odd moment of thoughtful eye contact with Dr. McKay. The hospital no longer felt like a minefield. Just a job again. Maybe even one he could keep.

The rooftop meetings with Mel continued, though they were often cut short by the guilt of not being present for his children. With Mel, there was no need to pretend. No forced optimism, no careful sidestepping around the mess he’d made of his life. She listened the way only someone who’s been through the fire could—without flinching, without fixing, just being present.

He started learning more about her, too—collecting snapshots of Dr. King in his mind, one candid detail at a time. She often spoke fondly of her late parents: her love of music came from her mother, a devoted piano teacher, and her knack for quick thinking came from her father, a man who treated most of life’s problems like they were minor puzzles he could solve before breakfast.

She’d grown up in a small town nestled close to the New York border, where everyone knew your name, your business, and who you were supposed to be. It was the kind of place that clung to familiarity, where change was met with raised eyebrows and whispered conversations. Pittsburgh was different. In the city, she could breathe. She could be quiet or loud, invisible or seen—whoever she wanted, without anyone watching too closely.

Sometimes, she’d talk about her life in those dry, self-deprecating bursts—jokes that sounded like punchlines until they weren’t. Existential spirals disguised as commentary on the job, the world, or whatever weird cosmic joke had landed them both in this profession.

And in those moments, Frank felt less alone. Like maybe he wasn’t uniquely broken—just another person trying to hold it together. Another human being doing the best they could in a system that asked too much and gave too little.

But at home, things hadn’t thawed. The conversations with Abby remained curt and withdrawn—like they were bitter roommates circling the end of a lease, neither ready to admit who would pack first. After many sleepless nights on the couch, which prompted near-daily comments like, “You look like you got hit by a bus” from Robby, Frank moved himself into the guest bedroom.

The kids still clung to him when he came through the door, but even they had started to sense the static beneath the surface—how their dad would freeze in the doorway like he wasn’t sure where he belonged, how their mom would force a smile just a second too late.

And so, on the rare day off, he didn’t know what to do with himself.

It was a bright, cloudless Saturday, the kind that would usually mean sticky fingers on the windows and cereal crushed into the rug. But Frank woke to an unsettling silence—no cartoons blaring from the living room, no cereal bowls clinking, no Abby calling for backup with one kid tangled around her leg. Just the rattling drone of a distant lawnmower and a sharp awareness of his own heartbeat.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, stomach already in knots with that off-kilter kind of quiet. The kind that made you feel like you’d forgotten something important, like waking up late for a shift you didn’t have.

The house looked untouched. No mess. No movement. Just a single mug on the counter, next to a folded note in Abby’s handwriting.

Took the kids to my parents’. Just for the day. Thought you could use the rest.

He stood there a while, reading and rereading it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something warmer if he blinked enough times.

She hadn’t said you’re not welcome . She didn’t need to.

The coffee in the pot was already cooling. He poured half a mug, took one sip, and left it abandoned on the kitchen table. Wandered into the living room. Sat down. Turned on the TV. Some game show rerun from a decade ago blasted out of the speakers. Too bright. Too loud. He shut it off.

Then he cleaned. Not because anything needed it, but because indolence felt worse. Junk drawer, coat closet, even the baseboards near the bathroom—any excuse to keep his hands moving. He found a rogue screw under the couch and spent twenty minutes trying to figure out what it belonged to, like solving that mystery might fix something else. It didn’t.

Eventually he drifted outside. Smoked half a cigarette. Snubbed it out. Paced a lap through the house. Back outside. Lit another. He stood on the porch with one hand on the railing, jaw clenched, watching nothing. Still not enough.

His keys hung by the door, too easy to grab. He was halfway down the steps barefoot before he realized what he was doing, but didn’t stop. The car door groaned open like it disapproved.

He dropped into the driver’s seat and reached for the glove box. Hesitated. Then opened it. Empty.

Of course it was. He’d given the stash to Robby. Handed it over like a live wire, told him to get rid of it—burn it, bury it, whatever. Anything but give it back. For a second, he’d let himself believe it had all been a dream.

He slammed the glove box shut, the sound too loud in the hollow quiet of the car. Leaned back. Closed his eyes. The plastic still held the faint, chemical ghost of what used to be there.

The day had blurred past in fast-forward, but Frank felt stuck in place. At some point, he’d landed back on the porch. He glanced at his watch. 2:15pm. He looked over to his left at the twelve cigarette butts stubbed out in the ashtray like tally marks. Is that all I’ve done all day?

His stomach twisted—hunger, nerves, something between. He hadn’t eaten. Robby’s voice floated up from memory: You should hang out with Jake sometime.

Frank sighed, pulled out his phone, and opened his thread with Jake.

Hey man. You busy? I’m hungry.

Simple. No fluff. Jake answered almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for something to do.

Same. Meet you at that burger place in 10?

Frank couldn’t help the smile. He knew the spot. He sent back a thumbs-up emoji, knowing it would annoy Jake. If he was lucky, he’d get called a “cringe millennial” over sloppy fries.

Before heading out, he thumbed over to Abby’s messages. An olive branch. Or a lifeline.

Grabbing lunch with Jake, then hitting a meeting. See you for dinner?

He didn’t wait for a reply—wasn’t expecting one. Coat on, keys in hand, halfway to the car again when his phone buzzed.

Abby: K.

He stared at it for a long second, jaw tightening.

Why even bother responding?

The burger joint was half-full, the kind of place with cracked red vinyl booths and laminated menus that hadn’t changed since the early aughts. The scent of fry grease clung to the walls and your clothes, warm and a little overwhelming—nostalgic in a way Frank didn’t want to admit, like it had seeped into his childhood and never quite left.

Jake was already there, hunched in a corner booth with his hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, sipping a Coke through a straw like it owed him money. He looked up when Frank walked in, raised his eyebrows but didn’t stand.

“You’re late,” he said, deadpan.

Frank slid into the booth across from him. “It’s been ten minutes,” he said with a slight smile.

Jake shrugged, also smiling. “Yeah. Late.”

The waitress came by and dropped off two waters without asking, sliding laminated menus onto the table with a practiced hand. Neither of them opened one.

“Still getting the usual?” Jake asked, nodding at the menu like it was just set dressing.

Frank leaned back in the booth, settling in like he’d done this a hundred times before. “Hell yeah.”

Jake smirked. “Predictable.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. Just… comforting. Like, if you ever order a salad, I’ll know you’ve been replaced by an alien.”

Frank chuckled. “If I start eating kale on purpose, just take me out back and put me down.”

Jake snorted, took a sip of his Coke, and leaned an elbow on the table. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just familiar. The kind that came from years of knowing when not to fill the air.

The waitress came back, pen already in hand. They rattled off their usuals without looking—bacon double cheeseburgers, fries, no tomato for Jake—and she scribbled it down and disappeared.

Jake toyed with the edge of his napkin, folding and unfolding it with idle fingers.

“So,” he said quietly. “You still doing those meetings and all that?”

Frank nodded. “Yeah. Trying to keep it regular. Helps keep the noise down.”

“Must be nice,” Jake said, barely above a mumble.

Frank glanced up. “You still seeing that therapist your mom found?”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Yeah. School shrink. Apparently he used to do grief counseling before he got stuck babysitting juniors with test anxiety.”

Before Jake could say more, the waitress returned with their food—too fast to be fresh, too familiar to care.

“And?” Frank asked, already reaching for a fry.

Jake shrugged. “I dunno. He means well, I guess. But he talks like he read everything out of a brochure. Like, ‘grief is a journey,’ and ‘you just have to feel it to heal it,’ all that crap. Makes me want to punch a wall.”

Frank chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

“Seriously,” Jake went on, more animated now. “I don’t know what makes someone a ‘grief counselor,’ but I feel like the bar’s on the floor. It’s easier to talk to someone who actually gets it, you know?”

Frank chewed thoughtfully, then said around a mouthful of fries, “Totally get that. I started seeing this ‘addiction expert’ recently. Real clinical type. She talks about rock bottom like it’s an actual address. Like, ‘once you hit it, you can start climbing up.’”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s dumb.”

“Right? It’s not like I woke up one day at the bottom of a well and went, ‘Oh cool, time to turn my life around.’” Frank huffed. “Half the time it just felt like I was still digging.”

Jake finally picked up his burger. “It kinda caught me off guard when you told me about your girlfriend back then. I didn’t know you’d been through something like that.”

“It never seemed relevant,” Frank said. “Until it was.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood that in a way he couldn’t have a few months ago. “It was weirdly helpful. Even if the whole ‘I did drugs to cope’ part kinda killed the vibe.”

Frank chuckled under his breath. “Not my proudest footnote.”

Jake didn’t answer for a few seconds, deep in thought, his smiling fading. “I talk to her sometimes. Not, like, out loud. Just in my head. Stupid stuff. What I think she’d say about a movie, or how she’d probably make fun of my hoodie collection.”

“That’s not stupid.”

“I just keep thinking—what if I forget how she laughed? Or the way she used to talk with her hands, like she was conducting a damn orchestra or something. That shit fades, you know?”

“It does,” Frank said quietly. “But not all of it. Some of it sticks.”

Jake was quiet for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I hope so.”

Frank didn’t press. Just picked up his burger and took another bite, still chewing thoughtfully.

“Do you ever think about what you’d say if you could see her again?”

“Sometimes,” Frank admitted, adjusting his posture like the memories were pressing on his shoulders. “It changes. Depends on the day.”

Jake leaned back, arms crossed. “I keep coming back to the same thing. I’d probably just say I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not knowing it was the last time. For every stupid argument. For wasting time on dumb stuff that doesn’t matter now.”

Frank nodded, quiet. “Yeah. You never know you’re in ‘the good old days’ until they’re already gone.”

Jake paused mid-fry, then squinted at him. “Ugh. That’s the corniest thing you’ve ever said. Did your rock-bottom therapist feed you that one?”

Frank laughed. “Nope. The Office.”

“The what?”

Frank stared at him like he’d just admitted he didn’t know what pizza was. “The Office. The show?”

“I don’t know, man,” Jake shrugged. “Sounds like something about taxes.”

Frank just shook his head, still smiling. “It’s an old show. Kind of a fake documentary thing. It’s about people working in this boring-ass paper company.”

“That’s it? Paper?”

“Yeah. But it’s funny. Honest in a weird way.”

Jake leaned back, giving him a look. “You watch shows about paper now? Rehab really changed you.”

“It was way before rehab. I’m not that far gone,” Frank said, half-laughing.

“Debatable.”

Frank huffed a quiet laugh and let the moment settle. The lightness helped. Gave the heaviness room to breathe without dragging them under.

“You ever think about doing something with it?” Frank asked eventually.

Jake frowned. “With what?”

“The way you talk about her. The memories. The stuff you don’t want to forget.”

“Like what, write a sad boy poem and post it on Reddit?”

“I don’t know.” Frank gave a lazy shrug. “A journal. A voice memo. Something. Doesn’t have to be good. Doesn’t even have to be shared.” He made a gesture like putting something in a box. “Just… putting the memories somewhere tangible.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. His hand was still on his Coke glass, tapping idly at the condensation. “I used to record her playing guitar on my phone. Just dumb stuff. Covers, half-finished songs. Haven’t listened to them in a while.”

Frank raised his eyebrows and nodded, softly. “That’s something.”

“I’m scared it won’t sound right anymore,” Jake said. “Like it’s not her voice, it’s just… static with a memory attached.”

“It’s still hers. Still yours.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but for once, he didn’t roll his eyes or deflect. He just sat with it.

Then he broke the silence, flicking his eyes back up. “If I watch this paper show and it sucks, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” Frank smirked. “But when you love it, I expect an apology in all caps.”

Jake raised his Coke in mock salute. “Deal.”

The check came without them asking. Jake pulled out his wallet, but Frank was already sliding a card into the little leather folder. “I got it,” he said.

“You sure?” Jake asked. “I can—”

“It’s a burger, not a mortgage. Don’t make it weird.”

Jake rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Outside, the air had cooled, tinged with late afternoon haze and the smell of someone grilling two blocks away. The sun was hanging lower, casting long shadows over the cracked sidewalk.

Jake shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked toward Frank’s car. “You going to a meeting now?”

“Yeah,” Frank said, lighting a cigarette as he unlocked the door. “You want a ride home?”

“Nah,” Jake replied, shaking his head. “I’m gonna take the long way. Clear my head.” He paused, glancing at the cigarette. “Can I try one?”

Frank raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Are you fucking serious?” He chuckled, offering the lit cigarette. “Yeah, sure. Take a hit.”

Jake took a drag, but the moment the smoke hit his lungs, he doubled over, coughing uncontrollably. Between gasps, he managed to croak out, “Oh god, that’s awful.”

“Yeah, it is,” Frank laughed, taking it back. “Don’t start. It’s stupid. I don’t know why I still do it.”

Jake wiped his mouth, trying to regain his composure as he nudged a crack in the pavement with his toe. He gave Frank a genuine smile. “Thanks for lunch. And the… not weird talk.”

Frank returned the smile, smaller but just as sincere. “Anytime.”

They split off without needing to say goodbye. Jake turned down the block, hoodie pulled up, shoulders hunched against something more internal than the breeze. Frank watched him for a second, then got in the car.

The meeting room, tucked away in the basement of an old stone church, carried a mix of aromas—stale coffee mingled with faint traces of frankincense, a reminder of long-ago rituals. A circle of worn plastic chairs was already half-filled when Frank arrived, their faded colors telling stories of countless evenings like this. As he stepped in, he exchanged nods with a few familiar faces. Cassie wasn’t there tonight, but the routine—the chairs, the quiet greetings, the ever-present coffee—was oddly comforting.

Frank leaned back, letting the voices fill the spaces in his mind he usually tried to keep locked up. The meeting was already underway. A guy named Marcus was talking—late forties, dressed like he’d come straight from a shift in construction, palms still streaked with drywall dust.

“…was sitting in my car outside my dealer’s place,” Marcus was saying, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Had the cash in my hand, telling myself I was just gonna say hi. Like that ever happens, right?”

A few chuckles around the room. The kind that said no, not dumb. Familiar.

“I didn’t knock. Just sat there ‘til the sun came up and went home.”

Frank nodded to himself, fingers tapping against his knee. He’d had those moments too. Sitting in a parking lot, holding the pills from his glove box like a test he already knew he’d fail.

Someone passed him the tin of chips—one marked “Newcomer,” another “30 days,” others marked by months and years. He didn’t take one. Just passed it along.

Next, a woman spoke—maybe mid-thirties, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just wearing this mask,” she said. “I go to work, I smile at people, I do everything I’m supposed to do. But inside it’s still loud. Still messy.”

She paused, fiddling with a paper cup. “And sometimes I think… if people knew how close I still am to fucking everything up, they wouldn’t look at me the same way.”

Frank looked down, jaw flexing.

The circle shifted. No one rushed to speak. The silence stretched—comfortable to some, unbearable to others.

He cleared his throat, hands tight in his lap, feeling the room’s attention on him. His mouth went dry. “I… I’ve never shared before.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, but the words hung in the air, a small crack in the armor.

“I had lunch with someone today,” he continued. “Kid I know. He lost his girlfriend in that PittFest shooting a few months back.” A few heads turned. “We talked about grief. About forgetting the small things. And I realized… I don’t think I ever really let myself grieve.”

He rubbed a thumb over his palm. “I just numbed it. Buried it under pills, and school, more school, and then long shifts and more pills. Thought if I just kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel anything.”

His voice caught for a second, the lump in his throat pressing against words he couldn’t push past. He didn’t apologize for it. “I thought sobriety was just about not using. But lately, it feels more like… not trying to run away.” He gave a small shrug. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all that,” he said quietly. “But I think that’s the first step, right?”

Time slowed in the silence, and Frank wondered, just for a second, if he’d shared too much. If they’d see him as weak, or still broken in ways they couldn’t understand. His fingers wrapped tightly together in his lap, heart racing.

And then, someone nodded—just a slight dip of the head, but it was enough. A man on the other side of the circle, dressed in a suit with tattoos creeping up his neck, leaned forward. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s the first step.”

Frank let out a slow, relieved breath. Maybe it wasn’t about getting everything right. Maybe it was just about showing up—sharing the pieces he hadn’t let anyone see.

The next person started talking, and the circle kept turning, steady as a tide.

Frank drove home with the windows cracked, letting the night air cool the sweat on his neck. The city rolled by in a swirl of red lights and fading sunlight, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel empty behind the wheel. There was still a knot in his core—but not the choking, desperate kind. It felt more like a bruise: sore, but no longer raw.

He parked in the driveway, hands lingering on the wheel. He hadn’t texted Abby to say he was on his way—thought maybe he’d just walk in, surprise her. Tell her about the diner. The meeting. Maybe even about Jake laughing. Just once, he wanted to walk through the door with something good. Something worth sharing.

He stepped inside, the quiet of the house familiar and warm—until he heard the shift of movement in the bedroom.

“Abby?” Frank called, casual, already picturing her curled up with a book or some true crime doc playing on her laptop.

But when he rounded the corner into their bedroom, he stopped.

She was standing by the bed, the contents of his work bag sprawled out in front of her—spiral notebooks, medical journals, empty lighters, protein bar wrappers. She was gripping the bag tight, her brow furrowed, fingers trembling just slightly.

She didn’t hear him come in. Or maybe she had—and just didn’t care.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice came out sharp, slicing through the silence.

Abby startled, eyes wide, guilt flashing across her face before something harder took its place. “I was just checking.”

“Checking for what?” He asked through gritted teeth. “You think I’m using again?”

“I was worried,” she said, defensive now, trying to stay steady.

“That’s not worried, Abby. That’s spying.” His voice cracked, rage boiling over. “You could’ve just fucking asked me.”

“Would you have told me the truth?” she shot back, voice rising. “You lie about everything else! You’re skipping meetings, staying late at work to talk to another woman, and you don’t even talk to me anymore. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

“I haven’t done anything,” he pleaded.

“How would I even know ?” Her voice cracked, frustration pouring out. “You look like you’re falling apart, Frank. You’re pale, you’re shaking, you drift off mid-sentence. Do you think I’m blind?”

He stepped forward, jaw tight. “So you decided to go through my shit?”

“I decided ,” she said, voice trembling with fury, “that I’m not going to wait for a phone call saying you overdosed somewhere. That’s what I decided.”

That one landed hard. Frank opened his mouth, but no words came.

Abby let out a shaky breath. “I’ve been here, Frank. Holding everything together. Taking care of the kids. Explaining to a four-year-old why Daddy’s always ‘working’ or ‘sleeping’ or hiding in the bathroom so they don’t hear him crying.”

“Stop,” Frank muttered.

“No, I did stop,” Abby snapped back, still shouting. “I stopped asking. I stopped pushing. I gave you space. But this?” She gestured to the mess of his belongings on the bed. “This is what it’s like to not trust the person you love.”

“You know,” Frank’s jaw clenched. “I had a good fucking day today,” he said, louder now. “For the first time in months, I felt okay—and you were the first person I wanted to tell. And this is what I come home to?”

He yanked the bag from her grip and dumped it onto the floor—gum wrappers, pens, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen. His stethoscope clattered to the ground.

“See?” he roared, raw with anger. “I’m not fucking hiding anything!”

“Watch it, Frank,” she said, low but sharp. “You’re starting to sound like your father.”

The accusation slammed into him like a truck, like it could physically throw him back. But he froze, his body going rigid, as though it had paralyzed him. Her voice reverberated in his ears, each word a jagged edge slicing deep inside. His chest constricted, and his breath hitched, as if he couldn’t catch enough air to process the blow.

For a moment, all the fight drained out of him, leaving behind emptiness. The anger he had felt moments ago felt distant, useless now.

Without a word, Frank turned. His feet moved before his mind caught up. He slammed the door behind him, the sound of it echoing in his ears like the final nail in a coffin. 

Abby stood frozen, her hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide in stunned disbelief.

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Frank gripped the steering wheel so tight his fingers ached, palms slick with sweat as he sped through the empty streets. His foot pressed harder on the gas, as if he could outrun the voices in his head. The city blurred past in streaks of red and gold, every light flashing like a warning he hadn’t heeded. His phone buzzed again—another call from Abby, sixteen now—but he didn’t even look at it. Not when he knew she wasn’t calling to apologize. Not when his father’s voice still drowned out everything else.

It wouldn’t be hard to find a dealer, the thought came to him like it belonged to someone else. One more time. Even if it was laced, even if it killed him — so what? A quick death felt like a mercy. He was already hollowed out, already gone. It was easier to disappear than to keep fighting his way back.

Then, as quickly as the thought came, it was replaced by Mel’s face.

He pulled over to the side of the street, his hands shaking as he quickly typed a message, the words tumbling out faster than he could stop them.

You on the roof yet?

It felt absurd, the lifeline he was reaching for. He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

He sat there in silence, his grip still tight on the wheel, his breath coming quick and shallow. His phone sat there, still. He willed it to buzz, desperate for any distraction that might pull him from the tight coil of panic wrapping around him.

It didn’t take long. The response came almost immediately.

You know it!

Frank's thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he typed back.

Good. Stay there.

Without thinking, he tossed his phone back onto the passenger seat. The engine roared to life, and Frank slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The car jerked forward, the sound of tires screeching against the asphalt as the world outside spun around him.

By the time he reached the hospital, the storm inside him threatened to drown him, the noise in his head growing louder with each step, and the night air tasted bitter in his lungs. He couldn't even remember parking the car, just the urge to get to the roof— now .

He took the stairs two at a time, pushing himself harder with every step. His chest was tight, breaths coming in quick bursts. He could feel the anger, the frustration building, and he knew that if he didn’t get this out, it would consume him.

When he reached the roof, he found Mel leaning against the railing, the city lights stretching out behind her. She didn’t look up right away, but that didn’t matter. The sight of her there was enough to anchor him, even if it didn’t calm the turmoil.

Frank took a shaky breath, forcing himself to slow down, to not burst out with everything that had been boiling up. He stopped a few feet away from her, the cool night air pressing in. For a moment, neither of them spoke—Frank just stood there, trying to catch his breath, his limbs buzzing like he’d run eight miles uphill.

“Aren’t you off today?”

“I couldn’t stay home. I couldn’t—” he cut himself off, breath catching.

He ran a hand through his hair and dropped onto the cold concrete of the rooftop like his legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. He pulled out a cigarette but fumbled, fingers slick and uncooperative. The lighter almost slipped from his grip.

Mel knelt beside him without a word and took it gently from his hand. She flicked it to life and held the flame steady, against her better judgment—but knowing he needed something .

“I actually had a good fucking day today, Mel,” he said, his voice still off-balance. “I mean—shit—I think I spent the morning chain smoking and dissociating, but I went out to lunch with Jake. We talked. I think I got through to him. Then I went to a meeting. I shared for the first time.”

His voice caught again, teetering between awe and disbelief.

“It felt so fucking good. Like I could breathe again.”

He took a shaky drag—uneven, desperate—but it gave him something to hold onto.

“And I was so fucking excited to go home and tell her. Like maybe she’d finally see that I’m trying.”

He paused. Tried to breathe. Shallow.

“And I come home... and she’s going through my work bag like I’m hiding something.”

His voice sharpened, frustration rising like heat under his skin.

“We got into it. Yeah, I yelled. But she—” He broke off. The next words snagged in his throat. “She said I sounded like my dad.”

That line knocked the air out of him all over again. A tear slipped down before he could stop it. He wiped it away fast, ashamed, turning his face from her.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Barely audible.

Mel was quiet. Then, without saying anything, she unfolded her legs from beneath her and settled herself at his side, facing him. Her expression softened—not pity, something closer to recognition. 

“You’re not your dad, Frank,” she said, quiet but sure. “And you never have to apologize for feeling.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment, the space between them charged and full. He could feel her gaze, even if he couldn’t meet it.

Then, finally, he said it. Low. Barely a breath. “You know... if I relapse, I’ll probably end up killing myself.”

The words hit the air like a bomb, and for a split second, Frank could see the shock flash across Mel’s face in his periphery—her expression frozen, her eyes wide with a fear that she didn’t try to hide. Her mouth parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but no words came out.

He blinked slowly, heavily, like his whole body was sinking.

“I was just driving around, I don’t even know how long. Just thinking how easy it would be. Find a dealer. One time. Probably laced with fent or something. We’ve both seen it.”

His voice broke, tears falling freely now.

“But I didn’t care. I don’t care if it kills me.”

Mel’s eyes never left him. Her own face streaked now too, quiet tears falling in silence.

“Okay,” she responded. It was all she could say. “Okay.”

She shifted, took a breath, then reached for his hand—slow and careful, giving him the option to pull away. He didn’t.

After a long pause, she whispered, “I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at their joined hands, jaw clenched like speaking might break something inside him.

Mel gave his hand a gentle squeeze, anchoring them both. “You can crash at my place,” she said, her voice still unsteady. “I’ll make up the couch. Or not. Whatever you need.” She paused, swallowing hard. “Just don’t go… don’t go anywhere alone.”

Frank closed his eyes and gave a small nod, then exhaled—a long, ragged sigh, like something had finally loosened its grip.

“I just, um…” she glanced toward the stairwell, remembering the shift she hadn’t technically finished. “I have a few things to wrap up downstairs. Will you come with me? Just for a bit?”

Frank pulled his hand away—not abrupt, just to wipe his face. “Everyone’s down there, Mel,” he said, voice strained. “I can’t do that right now.”

She nodded. “Promise me you’ll stay here?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached a shaky hand into his pocket, pulled out his car keys, and pressed them into her palm like they burned. His eyes were glassy, far off, still standing in the wreckage of whatever had just torn through him.

Then—wordlessly—he held up his pinky.

Mel’s breath caught. The keys felt heavier than they should’ve, like he’d just handed her something far more fragile than metal. Surrendering the last bit of control he had.

She hooked her pinky around his, her hand trembling too. “Okay,” she whispered. Then stronger: “Fifteen minutes. Don’t disappear on me.”

Frank gave a small nod. Barely more than a breath. But it was enough.

She didn’t let go right away. Neither did he.

Mel paced in front of the nurse’s station, eyes red and face streaked with tears, her mind a tangled mess. She’d tried to push it all down, but everywhere she looked, she saw Frank’s face—broken and lost—and heard his words blaring in her head. If I relapse, I’ll probably end up killing myself. That wasn’t something she could carry alone. 

With a deep breath, she wove her way across the ER, trying to steady the shock still rattling in her chest. Robby was with a patient in one of the curtained trauma rooms, and Mel lingered just outside, hoping to catch his eye without drawing too much attention.

When he finally looked up and saw her face, concern crossed his features instantly.

“Mel,” he said, stepping out. “You okay?”

“We need to talk,” she said quietly—more confidently than she felt.

Something in her voice or face must’ve tipped him off, because without hesitation, he gestured to the empty trauma bay across the hall.

Inside, Mel hesitated, words jammed behind the lump in her throat. But they tumbled out before she could stop them.

“You really put me in a tough spot, Dr. Robby.” Her arms folded tight across her chest like it was the only thing holding her together. “You asked me to keep an eye on Frank—I mean, Dr. Langdon—but I don’t know how to do that without betraying him.”

Robby didn’t flinch. He didn’t rush to speak or defend himself. He just watched her, eyes steady, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he said, calm but firm, “I don’t need the details, Mel. I just need to know if you’re worried.”

That quiet clarity knocked some of the breath back into her lungs. She hadn’t known what she needed from him—but maybe it was simple.

“I’m really worried,” she said, her voice small.

Robby’s expression darkened slightly, his jaw tightening with concern. Hands in his pockets, he looked down, then back up. “How bad?”

Mel broke eye contact, glancing through the trauma bay doors at the organized chaos of the ER. For a moment, she just stared—and then the tears welled again. “It’s bad.”

Robby didn’t speak for a beat, just nodded slowly, like he was cataloging this into something heavier. “Okay,” he said quietly. “What can I do?”

“I actually have to go,” Mel hesitated, her voice cracking as she spoke. “I’m sorry, he’s… he’s staying with me tonight. Not like that,” she rushed, flustered, “he just—he needs somewhere to crash, and I have a couch, and…”

Robby tilted his head slightly, shoulders lowering with quiet understanding.

“Okay,” he said, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You can go. He’ll be safe with you.”

Mel nodded, her breath catching. “Thank you,” she whispered, barely audible, and turned toward the stairwell—praying Frank was still where she left him.

The rooftop door creaked open on its hinges, and Mel stepped back out onto the roof. Her heart thudded in her chest, too loud for the silence around her. For a moment, she thought he might be gone. The spot where he’d been sitting was empty.

Then, she heard the soft scrape of a shoe against concrete.

Frank was still there—just further down the rooftop now, standing near the edge, focused intently on nudging a pebble with his shoe. The wind tugged gently at the hem of his jacket.

Mel’s breath caught, but she made herself move forward.

“Hey,” she said gently, just loud enough to carry.

He turned slowly, like it took effort, and when he saw her, something in his shoulders eased. His eyes were still red, but he looked… quieter. Like the shouting had stopped, but the echo hadn’t yet faded.

“You came back,” he said softly, a little hoarse.

“I told you I would,” she said, stepping closer. “Didn’t we pinky swear?”

That almost got a smile. Not quite. But something close.

He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, then said, “I almost left anyway.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I gave you my keys. I don’t know why I did that.” He let out a shaky breath, then shrugged. “I don’t trust myself.”

Mel nodded, her eyes glossy again, but her voice stayed steady. “I’m glad you didn’t go.”

They stood there for a moment—quiet, the wind threading between them.

“Come on,” she finally said, holding out a hand. “Let’s go home.”

He looked at it like it was something fragile. Then he took it.

They took Mel’s car to her apartment—Frank had sheepishly admitted that his reeked of cigarettes, even worse than his clothes. On the drive, Mel called Becca’s day center. She had an arrangement with them: in case of emergencies, Becca could stay overnight. This definitely counted. The staff agreed without hesitation, assuring her that Becca already had an overnight bag packed and ready for such situations.

In the passenger seat, Frank finally checked his phone. He hadn’t looked in hours. The missed calls from Abby had stopped after twenty. Then came the texts—short, controlled. Not frantic. Not sorry.

Where are you?

Let me know if you’re alive.

You don’t get to disappear every time things get hard.

Tanner is asking for you.

Each one hit a little harder than the last, not because of what they said—because of what they didn’t.

He stared at the screen for a beat before typing out a quick reply: I’m fine. Crashing with a friend.

He turned the phone off and muttered, “Great timing,” to no one in particular. Then he let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

Mel unlocked the door and pushed it open gently, like she didn’t want to wake the walls. The building was old—Frank could tell just by the way the hinges sighed—but the apartment inside surprised him. It wasn’t falling apart. It wasn’t sterile either. It was cozy.

A soft golden light spilled from a lamp in the corner, casting a quiet glow across the room like it had been waiting for someone to come home. The space was small and a little cluttered in a lived-in way—books stacked beside the couch, a knitted blanket draped over the armrest, a pair of fuzzy socks abandoned near the coffee table. It smelled like lavender dryer sheets and something sweet baked recently.

Frank stepped in slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid he’d leave a mark. His hands were still in his jacket pockets. He didn’t say anything, just looked around with that distant kind of gaze—the one people wear when they’re not used to being somewhere safe.

Mel watched him for a second before quietly closing the door behind them. She didn’t ask if he was okay. She just moved through the space like she knew what he needed before he did—flicking on another lamp, grabbing him a glass of water, pulling the blanket off the couch and shaking it out like it was a welcome mat for his emotions.

She hesitated for a moment, then glanced toward the hallway. “Hey, um… do you want to take a shower? I’ve got extra towels.”

Frank rubbed the back of his neck, movements slow, like he was dragging himself through molasses. “Uh… I didn’t bring anything.”

“That’s okay,” she said, a small, teasing smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, only if you’re okay smelling vaguely like lavender and coconut. My shampoo game is strong.”

She paused, then added with a sheepish wince, “And, uh—this might be weird, but… I still have some of my ex-boyfriend’s clothes. Just old t-shirts and sweatpants. He was kind of a big guy, so they’ll be loose, but they’re clean. Unless you’d prefer to squeeze into one of my hoodies.”

Frank blinked slowly, as if it took him an extra second to register the joke. A soft breath of a laugh escaped him—barely there, but real. “I don’t want to impose…”

“You’re not,” Mel said gently, shaking her head. “It’s hardly an imposition if I’m offering. I just… want you to be comfortable.”

For a moment, Frank didn’t answer. He looked past her, eyes unfocused, like he was somewhere else entirely. Then he nodded once, slow and mechanical. “Yeah. Okay.”

“And I can put on some music,” she added softly. “In case you want to… I don’t know. Fall apart a little.”

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like a muscle memory. “Music’s good,” he murmured. “But I think I’m empty.”

She didn’t push. Just handed him the spare clothes and towel, her touch gentle, grounding. Then she sent him off to the shower with a promise: hot water now, fresh DiGiorno waiting when he got out.

Mel suddenly remembered—too late—that the bathroom door doesn't latch properly unless you give it a firm push. As a result, it hung just slightly ajar. She didn’t dare get up to fix it now; the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to it. If Frank had noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

As the water shut off, she stared at her glass, trying not to think too much about him on the other side—quiet, vulnerable, seeking some moment of peace. It wasn't a desire she felt, but a deep, warm ache in her chest. She liked him, and had for a while. There was something about his rawness, his stubbornness, that made her want to protect him.

She heard soft, wet slaps—his hands against his face, probably—and the rustling of a towel. She imagined him standing there, bare, trying to shake off whatever was weighing him down. The image lingered, her heart aching. She hadn’t meant to think of him like that, but her body betrayed her before her brain could catch up.

Moments later Frank stepped out with steam still clinging to his skin, his hair damp and curling ever so slightly at the ends. The clothes were indeed about two sizes too large, hanging loosely off his thin frame, which made it difficult but not impossible to notice that he may have ditched his underwear.

The whole apartment smelled like pizza now—comforting and nostalgic. The lights were low, just the warm glow from the kitchen over the counter, and the soft hum of a fan somewhere in the apartment.

Mel was still sitting at the kitchen table, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass. The room was quiet, except for the soft sound of Frank’s footsteps approaching. She looked up as he entered, her gaze softening immediately.

“Feel better?” she asked, her voice gentle but not prying.

“Yeah,” Frank stopped just short of the table, his eyes lingering on her for a moment. His lips quirked into a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I didn’t realize how badly I needed that.”

She nodded, giving him space to say more if he wanted to. He glanced down at himself, tugging at the oversized t-shirt.

“You look like you’re wearing a tent,” Mel teased, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah, your ex was a big guy. I feel like I could disappear in this thing.” Frank snorted, and for the first time in hours, something resembling humor flickered in his eyes. “Great taste in sweatpants, though.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” she shot back, her voice teasing but warm. “But... I guess you’re stuck with them now.”

Frank chuckled, the sound a little lighter than before, then took a step closer, sitting at the chair opposite her. His shoulders were visibly less tense, though there was still something lingering in his posture, a quiet unease he hadn’t quite shaken off.

They sat at the kitchen table, the slightly greasy comfort of the pizza between them. Frank took a bite, chewing slowly, as if he were trying to ground himself in the mundane after everything that had happened. Mel watched him quietly, her gaze not heavy but focused, waiting for him to settle.

“Your apartment’s nice, good water pressure,” Frank said, his voice casual, but a beat off. “Maybe if I get divorced, we can be neighbors.”

The word slipped out so easily, even he looked a little surprised to have said it out loud.

Mel blinked, trying to mask the flicker of shock across her face. “Is that… really on the table? Divorce?”

Frank set his slice down and leaned back slightly, exhaling. His expression was tired, the kind of tired that came from deep inside. “I don’t think either of us have seriously considered it. Even after everything. And I don’t know if that’s because we’re too afraid to or because… it’s still not what we want.”

He paused, eyes drifting downward. “It’s always been my biggest fear—turning into my dad. She knows that. She knows how bad it got. And she still threw it in my face like it meant nothing.”

Mel didn’t speak right away. She watched him with a quiet intensity, her own expression softening under the weight of his honesty.

She leaned back in her chair, arms folding loosely, like she was grounding herself. “That sounds more like fear than truth. People say cruel things when they’re scared. But that doesn’t mean they’re right about you.”

Frank took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, like he was trying to clear out the weight pressing on his chest. He fiddled with the edge of his pizza slice but didn’t eat anymore, his mind still miles away.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now, Frank,” she offered. “You’re both feeling a lot of heavy emotions. It’s probably best to let them settle before anything else.”

Frank gave a small, tired nod but didn’t say anything at first. He was still processing her words, the weight of them settling in his chest, though it didn’t make everything easier to carry.

His eyes darted to her balcony on the other side of the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” he started, “can I smoke out there?”

“Sure,” Mel gave a soft smile, resigned, like she should’ve expected the urge and even offered sooner. “I don’t have an ashtray though…”

He raised his glass slightly as if toasting. “You’ve got a glass of water. That’ll work.”

As he stood with a soft grunt, the waistband of the sweatpants dipped just slightly. Enough to confirm he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Mel’s breath caught. Her gaze flicked away fast, a flush creeping up her neck as her brain scrambled to pretend she hadn’t seen anything at all.

She grabbed her glass and took a sip—too fast, like she was trying to cool off from the inside.

Frank stepped back inside, the scent of smoke still clinging to him, though faint now, softened by the cool night air. Mel was rinsing their plates, quiet but not stiff, her movements unhurried.

“Need anything?” she asked as he passed through the kitchen.

“No,” he said, his voice lower than before. “Thanks for letting me crash.”

She gave a small nod. “Sheets are clean. Couch isn’t fancy, but it’s better than…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished, like she wasn’t ready to draw attention to the situation.

“Oh, I’ve done a lot more with a lot less,” Frank hesitated for a beat. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” she said simply.

A pause, and then Mel stepped into the hallway to grab a spare blanket from the closet. When she returned, she held it out to him. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and neither of them mentioned it.

“You work tomorrow?” he asked.

“No. McKay had to switch a day—she took tomorrow for me,” Mel said, leaning lightly against the doorframe. “You?”

He shook his head. “Not until Tuesday. I lucked out with a three-day weekend.” A tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Great start, huh?”

Mel huffed a quiet laugh. “Hey, at least you're not spending it alone.”

“Yeah,” Frank nodded, gaze drifting for a moment. The softness in his expression flickered beneath the exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make my marital issues your problem.”

“You didn’t.” Her voice was quiet but steady. She looked at him a moment longer, something unreadable passing through her expression, then gave a small nod. “Get some sleep.”

Frank eased down on the couch, cushions creaking under his weight. “Thanks, Mel.”

She turned off the hallway light. “Night, Frank.”

The apartment fell into silence, broken only by the faint tick of the wall clock. Frank lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, his mind looping through regrets and things left unsaid. But eventually, the quiet settled in around him like the blanket, and sleep pulled him under.

Chapter Text

Mel padded out of her room barefoot, her hair tousled and her oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. The living room was quiet, bathed in the soft light of early morning. On her way to the kitchen, she spotted Frank’s clothes from the night before—neatly bundled in a tied-up trash bag in her bathroom. After tossing them into the washing machine, she let out a dry little chuckle. Commando. Calvin Klein. Of course.

Frank was still asleep on the couch, one arm over his face, the blanket pooled on the floor beside him. His shirt had ridden up, exposing the faint line of a happy trail leading down his stomach—disappearing beneath the waistband of sweatpants that had wandered just a little too low.

Mel froze.

She should’ve looked away. Should’ve kept walking. But her gaze lingered, unwanted and sharp, and something inside her twisted.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly desire, either. Just something—low in her gut, a flicker of heat she couldn’t name. Like her body had betrayed her with a language she didn’t speak. She turned quickly toward the kitchen, blinking hard, heat crawling up her neck. Her fingers trembled as she flipped on the coffeemaker.

It was just a body. Just a man. A tired, messy, frustratingly attractive man who’d fallen asleep on her couch like he lived there.

She banged the cabinets open, avoiding the reflection in the microwave door—flushed cheeks, tight jaw, eyes she didn’t quite recognize. Her stomach fluttered like she was seventeen again, sideswiped by something she hadn’t planned for.

She didn’t want him like that. Right? That had never been part of the equation. She’d liked him, sure. Respected him. Cared for him. But this was… something else. Something that made her feel out of her depth.

Behind her, the couch creaked. She didn’t turn around.

His sleepy voice, deep and gravelly like he’d smoked through a whole pack the day before—hell, he probably had—cut through the silence.

“…Is that coffee?” he asked, almost sounding drunk.

Mel froze, mug in hand, her face carefully neutral—even though her pulse had started to race. She forced herself to turn toward him, movements slow, controlled.

Frank sat up, one hand raking through his hair, still half-asleep and rumpled—offering just enough skin to keep her brain from functioning properly.

“Yeah,” she heard the edge in her voice and hated it. "Black, right?"

Frank nodded, still groggy, then glanced down and adjusted, suddenly self-conscious now that he was fully awake. “Yeah,” he said softly, offering a quick, appreciative smile.

Mel handed him the mug, keeping her tone casual. “Here you go.”

He settled back on the couch with a barely audible “thanks,” trying to shake off the sleepiness that still clung to him. He stretched, muscles aching from the previous day’s tension, and rubbed a hand over his face.

Mel moved around the kitchen, pulling out a few simple things for breakfast—nothing fancy, just enough to ease into the day without rush. Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel chansons hummed softly from the speaker. She didn’t speak French, but the songs had become so ingrained in her routine that she knew the lyrics by heart. She kept the volume low, not wanting Frank to catch on.

Frank watched her from the couch, his gaze a little more focused but still distant. He wasn’t sure what to say. It felt strange, being there like that. He didn’t want to overstep—he was still married, after all—but there was something about the comfort and simplicity of her space that made it easier to let go for a moment.

Mel set the table with a modest spread: scrambled eggs, toast with an assortment of jams, and a bowl of fresh fruit. It wasn’t much, but it was warm and inviting—the kind of breakfast that asked for nothing more than quiet company.

“You should eat something,” she said, looking up. “You barely touched the pizza last night.”

Frank finally stood, stretching stiffly before making his way into the kitchen. He carried his coffee mug in one hand and held the waistband of the too-big sweatpants in the other, a subtle gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. Moving with the kind of slow care that came from a bad night’s sleep on a couch, he settled across from Mel—same arrangement as the night before.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep. “I’ve never really been a breakfast person. I might be sleepwalking.”

Mel smiled faintly and began spreading raspberry preserves and a swipe of lemon curd across her toast, calm and quiet in the stillness. It was domestic in a way neither of them acknowledged.

She took a bite, her elbow resting on the table and her mug cradled in the other hand. She glanced at Frank, who was quietly picking at the fruit, shifting a few slices around before finally choosing a piece of cantaloupe. 

“You don’t snore,” she said casually, trying to break the silence.

Frank raised an eyebrow, then smirked faintly. “Did you think I would?”

“I don’t know what I thought.” She gave a little shrug, chewing slowly. “You seem like a snorer.”

Frank leaned back slightly in the chair, still bleary, fingers absently tracing the edge of the plate. “I had very enlarged adenoids when I was a kid. Also terrible allergies. And I got strep all the time—think my record was nine times in a year.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he said, half-laughing at the memory. “I had an adenoidectomy when I was ten. Haven’t snored since. The allergies and strep went with them.”

Mel tucked that away in her mental filing cabinet under Endearing Facts About Dr. Langdon. She wasn’t sure why she considered childhood illness endearing—but somehow, with him, it was. She sipped her coffee, eyes drifting over to where he sat, sleep-mussed and gently amused. “You’re just full of surprises.”

“I told you that, remember?” Frank grinned, but his eyes still looked empty. He nudged a piece of melon across his plate with his fork. “My first day back. Our first meeting on the roof.”

Mel smiled—really smiled. She remembered that moment clearly, but she hadn’t expected him to. It was strange, how recent it was and yet how far away it felt, like everything had shifted since then.

“So,” she said, popping a halved strawberry into her mouth, still smiling as she chewed. “What other surprises are there?”

“Oh no,” he said, raising an eyebrow, his grin widening. “They have to come out naturally. And I’ve said enough anyway. What about you?”

She leaned back, eyeing him with playful suspicion. “Are you deflecting?”

“Absolutely,” Frank said without missing a beat, reaching for a piece of toast. He didn’t look at her, just buttered the toast with practiced ease, almost too casual.

“So… what do you want to know?” she prompted, taking another sip of her coffee.

He paused, then looked up at her with a quiet steadiness that caught her off guard.

“Who do you call when everything goes to shit?”

The question landed with more weight than she expected. Mel’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. She looked down for a second, gathering her thoughts. And then she understood.

He had called her . Last night. Out of everyone, it had been her.

Her throat tightened just a little.

“Well, um…” she started, voice gentler now. “My sister and I are really close. Just talking to her about anything makes me feel better. But she doesn’t have the same… frame of reference. So I can’t always go to her for advice. Or… you know. Falling apart.”

She hesitated, then looked back up at him. “I’d probably call you.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of something warm passing across his face. “Really?”

She met his eyes, then looked away nervously. “I mean… my parents are gone. I haven’t exactly had time to make friends since I moved here. It’s always been just me and Becca. But lately…” Her voice trailed off. “I guess you just kind of got under my skin.”

His smile softened, but he didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded slowly and picked at the toast in front of him.

“Well,” he said eventually, voice low and sincere, “you can call me. Anytime.”

Mel gave a small, lopsided smile, then looked down and fiddled with her jam-covered crust.

There was a beat of silence, calm and still, before she looked back up at him again, her expression softening. “Okay, your turn.”

He smirked, already anticipating the question. “Yeah?” He leaned in, intrigued.

“What made you reach out last night? Why me?”

Frank took a slow sip of his coffee, setting the mug down carefully before meeting her eyes.

“You get it,” he responded. “You don’t ask if I’m okay every five minutes, like everyone else does. You don’t try to fix it. You just listen. And that’s what I needed.”

“You’d probably lie if I asked,” Mel said, her grin widening. And I’d listen to you explain the latest ACLS guidelines if you wanted me to , she thought. But she’d never admit that to him.

“Yeah,” Frank agreed, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “I would.”

There was a beat of silence. Frank looked down at his coffee, stirring it absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. Mel’s gaze flickered over him, watching him for a moment, sensing the shift in the air.

It was subtle, but it was there—this understanding between them, something deeper than their usual exchanges. She didn’t press for more. Didn’t try to fill the silence. They didn’t need words to know what was unspoken.

They were each other’s person.

Mel let out a quiet breath, her eyes landing on the mug in her hands, and she didn’t look up right away. She just let the moment stretch, knowing Frank was doing the same. She noticed, though, that throughout their conversation, he kept flipping his phone over, the screen dark, as if he kept forgetting it was turned off—only to realize each time that maybe he wasn’t quite ready to face whatever was waiting for him.

Eventually, Frank broke the silence with a quiet exhale. “I should probably get dressed.”

“Oh, I washed your clothes. I’ll get them in the dryer. I don’t really have to pick up Becca until noon, so… you can stick around, if you want.”

Frank hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod, his voice quieter now. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Mel gave him a quiet smile and turned toward the laundry room, not quite ready to admit how much she hoped he’d stay. The sound of the dryer door closing echoed in the quiet apartment. When she returned, Frank had taken the opportunity to excuse himself to the balcony, cigarette already lit between his fingers, waiting for his phone to wake up.

She began cleaning up the breakfast spread, noticing that he had already rinsed his own plate and placed it in the dishwasher. She watched him through the window as he had the phone pressed up to his ear.

“Yeah. I’m fine, I’m at Mel’s.”

Mel wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but he wasn’t exactly trying to be quiet. His words drifted through the sliding glass door, giving her just enough to piece together his side of the conversation.

“She’s just a friend, Abby. We work together.”

Oh, he’s talking to his wife. Naturally.

“No… it’s not like that. I slept on her couch.”

A tiny knot formed in her stomach. Not because she felt guilty—nothing had happened—but because of the way he had to defend it. Like this, whatever this was, needed defending.

“No, I swear to God, it’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

Just friends. Okay. I nearly saw his dick this morning. As friends. It was a sleepy accident.

“After that shit you said last night? You really think you’re in a position to criticize me?”

Yikes. That sounds rough.

“Fine. Yeah. We’ll talk later. I’ll be home for dinner.”

Mel’s heart skipped a beat, the finality in his voice hitting her hard. She swallowed, not sure how to feel about the coldness that lingered in his tone.

He hung up without another word. No goodbye. No "I love you." Just a quiet end to the call. She stood frozen for a moment.

He came back inside, still staring at his phone screen, not acknowledging Abby whatsoever. “Robby called me like six times already this morning, and a text that says ‘call me when you can.’ Did I have to work today?”

Fuck . Mel’s chest tightened. She’d completely forgotten that she told Robby she was worried about Frank—and that he was spending the night with her. It hadn’t felt like a betrayal at the time, but now, with his conversation with Abby lingering in the air, she wasn’t sure how it would land.

She swallowed hard. “Um, no,” she said carefully. “I didn’t see you on the schedule when I left last night. Maybe he needs you to fill in?”

Frank ran a hand through his hair, still not looking up. “Or maybe he heard something and he’s pissed,” he muttered. “Jesus. He probably thinks I went off the rails.”

Mel opened her mouth, then shut it again. She didn’t want to lie. And she didn’t want to downplay it either. She’d made that call because she was genuinely scared for him. But now it felt messier. More fragile.

“Um…” she started, watching his thumbs fly across his phone screen, typing out a reply. “I told him last night…”

He paused, glancing up.

“I mean—he saw me crying when I went back inside. I didn’t give him details, I swear. Just said I was worried about you. That you were here, and… I was keeping an eye on you. He let me leave a little early…”

She trailed off, unsure if it was helping or making things worse.

He held her gaze for a long moment. She couldn’t quite read the expression behind his eyes—somewhere between tired and exasperated—and looked away, bracing herself for a reaction.

But the blow-up never came. Not really.

He just let out a quiet breath and said, “He’s our boss, Mel.”

“I know,” she said, gently. “But you were talking about killing yourself.”

He looked away then, jaw working as he stared down at his phone.

“He cares about you,” she added. “Just… call him back.”

Frank nodded slowly, running a hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

He hesitated, then finally tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear, stepping back out onto the balcony to make the call.

Mel leaned against the counter, letting herself breathe again, relieved that he wasn’t angry with her. She didn’t regret telling Robby. Not for a second. But it didn’t make this part feel any easier.

This time, she didn’t try to listen.

Frank came back inside, quieter than when he left. Mel was at the far end of the kitchen, slowly sweeping crumbs into a little pile near the trash can. She didn’t look up right away, giving him space.

He leaned against the counter, phone still in his hand.

“He was worried,” Frank said, after a moment. “Didn’t say it, obviously. But y’know. In his Robby way.”

Mel looked over, her expression soft. “Yeah. I could tell when I talked to him last night.”

Frank nodded, unsurprised. “He said he thought about driving over.”

“What?” Mel’s eyes widened slightly. “He knows where I live?”

That earned a low chuckle from him. “I mean, it’s in your employee file. He probably shouldn’t look… but you know Robby.”

Mel shook her head, half-laughing. “What did you tell him?”

“That I almost killed myself and called a second-year resident to talk me off the ledge.”

“Seriously?”

“Fuck no.”

She gave him a flat look. “I don’t think you should be joking about that yet.”

Frank softened. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But you told him…”

Mel cut in, her voice quiet but steady. “No, I’m sorry.”

He looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I have to be honest,” she continued, her words slow and careful. “Robby asked me to look out for you. He said to let him know if I got worried because he knows you won’t tell him if things get bad. I didn’t want to tell you because you’re my friend, and I didn’t want you to think I was… I don’t know, some kind of double agent. But Robby’s not the enemy, Frank. You were talking about killing yourself. You really scared me.”

Her voice cracked slightly, and she blinked hard, trying to hold it together.

Frank’s jaw tensed. “He asked you to look out for me?” There was a flicker of something sharp in his voice. “Was this before or after I poured my guts out to you on that roof?”

“Does it matter?” she said, defensive, startled by the edge in his voice. “I haven’t told him anything—I swear. I didn’t even think about it until you were suicidal.”

He stared at her for a long moment—hurt, maybe, or just trying to process it. Then something shifted, softened. He exhaled, stepping in closer.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly, the anger already gone.

“I know,” she whispered, wiping quickly at the corner of one eye with the heel of her hand. “But you did.”

Silence settled over the room, the weight of her words thick in the stillness.

“I’m sorry.” Frank stepped forward, gently taking the broom and setting it aside. His eyes held hers, earnest and steady. “I shouldn’t have put all that on you…”

“No, you’re not getting it.” She drew in a breath, her chest tight. “You scared me. Because I care about you. But I don’t want you to think you can’t come to me—especially not in those moments.”

Frank looked at her for a long beat, something soft unfolding in his expression.

“I don’t think you’re a double agent,” he said quietly. “I think you might be the only reason I’m still here.”

Mel’s heart squeezed, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She just nodded, her eyes a little glassy now, but still steady.

“So, uh…” Frank cleared his throat, shifting the tone. “Do you think my clothes are dry yet? These sweatpants are getting kinda…”

Mel laughed, the sound light and warm in the heavy silence. “Probably. I can check—”

“Oh no,” he smiled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You’ve handled my underwear at least twice already.”

She watched him make a break for the dryer, sweatpants still hiked awkwardly, grinning so hard her face hurt.

Mel was already dressed by the time Frank emerged from the bathroom, her hair dry and pulled back, her skin fresh and glowing from a morning routine he suspected had started long before he woke up. Jeans, a hoodie over a fitted tee, sneakers that had clearly seen better days—but somehow, she still looked effortlessly beautiful. Comfortable in her skin. Grounded.

Frank looked rougher by comparison. Back in his own clothes—clean, thanks to her washer—but still gaunt and tired, stubble shadowing his jaw and hair sticking up. Messy, but lighter. His shoulders weren’t so tight. His eyes weren’t as dark. He looked like someone coming up for air.

Mel slung a tote bag over one shoulder. “I’ve gotta run an errand before I pick up Becca. You up for some light manual labor and emotional support?”

Frank smirked faintly. “Depends. Are we talking IKEA or Trader Joe’s?”

“Neither,” she said, grabbing her keys. “Giant Eagle. The holy land.”

He followed her to the door, pausing only to shove his wallet and phone into his back pocket. “As long as I can push the cart.”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “You just want the illusion of control.”

“Exactly.”

Frank was steering the cart like it was a gurney with a jammed wheel, listing to the left as he narrowly missed an endcap stacked with family-sized cereal boxes.

“Thank god you drive trauma better than you drive this thing,” Mel muttered, nudging the cart straight with her hip.

“Yeah, well,” Frank replied, peering at a box of cookies as they passed, “the gurneys don’t come stocked with Oreos.”

Mel laughed, reaching up to grab a box of Becca’s favorite sea salt crackers from a higher shelf. Frank caught the movement and nodded toward the box.

“For her?”

“Yeah,” Mel said, tossing them into the cart. “She’s loyal to this one brand. Last time I brought home the low-sodium kind by accident, she wouldn’t look at me for an hour.”

“I respect her taste. Low-sodium is bullshit.”

The store was in that strange, post-breakfast lull where everything felt too quiet, except the music, which was a little too loud for how empty the aisles were. Mel sipped from her travel mug, walking beside Frank as he scanned the overhead signs like they might impart wisdom.

“So,” he said, squinting toward the back of the store, “what exactly are we hunting?”

“Laundry detergent. Becca’s vitamins. Maybe a new shower curtain.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “That’s a very specific maybe.”

“Well,” she said, dragging out the word, “the one in the bathroom has a… situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Suspicious mold.”

Frank recoiled slightly. “That sounds concerning.”

“You showered there.”

He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “If I drop dead, tell Robby it wasn’t the pills. It was mildew.”

“Pretty sure mold doesn’t cause that level of sarcasm,” Mel replied, half-laughing. “And we agreed we’re not joking about that yet.”

Frank winced, a little guilty. “Right. Sorry. Still rewiring the default settings.”

They turned down the cleaning supplies aisle. Mel scanned the shelves with purpose, her eyes darting across rows of bottles, while Frank leaned his forearms against the cart handle, watching her more than the products.

“You always this domestic on your days off?” he asked.

“Only when I have emotionally exhausting houseguests,” she deadpanned, then softened a bit when she glanced over and caught the small smile tugging at his mouth. “Seriously, though… you’re doing okay?”

He paused. “I’m vertical. I’m dressed. We’re talking about mold. That’s... better than yesterday.”

“True,” she said, reaching for a bottle of detergent. “Progress measured in shower curtains and breakfast crackers.”

“Not a bad metric,” Frank said, then hesitated as they moved into the home section, slowing down near the soft lighting and seasonal displays. “We’re picking her up after this?”

Mel nodded. “At noon. You’re still good to come?”

“Yeah.” He looked at her. “You’re sure she’ll be okay with me?”

“Oh yeah, she loves meeting people,” Mel said, then added a little too fast, “And you’re pretty lovable.”

She said it too fast, then seemed to regret the speed. Frank, to his credit, didn’t call it out.

“Should we warn her that I’m emotionally unstable and possibly radioactive?”

“She lives with me,” Mel replied, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s not exactly a deterrent.”

That got him—a short, surprised laugh that sounded like it came from a real place. He exhaled, more grounded than he’d looked all morning, and nudged the cart forward again with a crooked smile.

Frank sat in the car, fingers tapping lightly on his knees as he eyed the squat brick building across the lot — faded murals on the walls, a few scattered bikes out front. He leaned back in the seat, trying not to feel too out of place.

Mel, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease as she checked the time, then met his gaze. 

“You’re sure it’s okay that I’m here?” he asked, his voice soft with a touch of concern.

She smiled back, though it was gentle. “I wouldn’t have invited you if it wasn’t. She’ll love meeting you.”

“Okay,” Frank exhaled a breath of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. “So what do I need to know?”

“She’s going to hug you. That’s not optional.” Mel gave him a look as she unbuckled her seatbelt. 

“I can handle a hug,” Frank replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

She opened the car door. “Good. Because she’s going to do it whether you’re ready or not.”

He got out of the car after her, pulling out a cigarette. “I’ll just be over here if you need me,” he muttered, watching her disappear inside. The door clicked shut behind her, and he lit the cigarette, taking a slow drag. It wasn’t that he wasn’t looking forward to meeting Becca; it was more that he didn’t quite know what to expect. He flicked the ash onto the pavement and leaned against the car, unoccupied hand stuffed in his jacket pocket.

A few minutes later, the door to the facility opened, and Mel stepped out with Becca bouncing happily at her side. Becca’s eyes locked onto Frank the moment she saw him, and without a second of hesitation, she broke into a run, her sneakers slapping the pavement. Frank barely had time to stamp out his cigarette before Becca reached him, a whirlwind of energy and excitement.

“You’re Frank?” she called out, her voice high-pitched and giddy.

Frank blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. He stood upright and put out his cigarette completely. “Guilty as charged,” he said, offering a small, bemused smile.

Becca wrapped her arms around him in a hug so fast and forceful that Frank almost stumbled. He laughed, unsure whether to pat her back or just stand still.

She pulled back, still beaming. “Mel said there was an emergency. Was there another shooting?”

Frank’s smile faltered for a split second. His eyes flicked over to Mel, who had stopped a few feet away, watching the exchange with an affectionate grin. He felt a knot form in his stomach. Guilt, maybe? 

“No, I was the emergency,” he said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “But I’m okay.”

Becca nodded seriously, like she understood something he hadn’t said. “Good,” she said, eyes bright.

Mel stayed silent, her arms crossed, but there was a softness in her gaze. Frank could tell she was letting Becca take the lead, just letting things happen naturally, so he did the same.

Becca took a step back and tilted her head as she studied him. “You’re very handsome,” she said, like it was just an observable fact.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “And you’re very pretty,” he responded, his tone playful but genuine.

Becca’s face lit up like it was the best compliment she’d ever received. She giggled, an infectious sound that made Frank’s chest feel lighter.

When she finally took a step back, Frank moved to open the passenger-side door for her. Becca stopped, looking up at him in awe. “And a gentleman?” she asked gleefully, eyes wide with innocent admiration.

Frank chuckled softly and gave a small bow. “At your service,” he said, gesturing to the passenger seat, making her laugh again.

Mel finally stepped forward, her smile a mix of pride and amusement as she watched Becca climb into the car, still giggling. Frank closed the door carefully, then met Mel’s gaze.

“Okay, I can handle this,” Frank said, his grin widening as he watched Becca settle into the car. “I mean, who doesn’t love a little ego boost now and then?”

“Told you she’d like you,” Mel said with a smirk, then turned to get in the car like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

As the car eased into the apartment parking lot, Frank felt a shift in his chest — not quite panic, but something close. His shoulders were tight, his stomach clenched with the weight of the last twenty-four hours. Mel was up front with Becca, their voices light and familiar, filling the car with the kind of warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t part of it—but it reminded him of what it felt like to belong somewhere.

When they parked, Becca scrambled out of the car, already halfway to the door before Mel had even unbuckled. Frank stayed seated. He told himself he was just giving them space, but really, he just couldn’t move yet. Not with that conversation with Abby still echoing. Not after waking up on Mel’s couch, unsure if he’d even wanted to wake up at all.

Mel looked back at him from the driver’s side, her expression softening when she saw him still sitting there.

“I’ll get her settled,” she said, voice low, like she knew he needed the quiet. “Take your time.”

Frank gave a faint nod. He watched her go, the door shutting with a soft thud behind her. Then he exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that hurt a little on the way out.

For a minute, he just sat there, letting the world pass him by — a car pulling in a few spaces down, birds bickering in a nearby tree, a dog barking somewhere across the lot. It all felt far away. Like he was caught in some strange limbo where everything was just a little beyond his reach. Too normal. Too damn right for how wrong he felt.

Eventually, he forced himself to get out. He walked slowly to the building, then sat down on the curb just outside the door. His elbows pressed into his knees, hands pressed against his face as he tried to breathe, to focus on anything other than the rising tide of apprehension that he couldn’t push back anymore. He could still hear Becca’s laughter floating down from the apartment window.

When he finally dragged himself upstairs, his body felt heavier than it had that morning. Mel had left the door unlocked. He stepped inside, almost reluctantly, and found her in the kitchen, her back to him, pulling snacks from a cabinet, setting them in neat rows on the counter, like it was just a normal afternoon. Her movements were unhurried, routine—like she’d done it a thousand times—which made his chest ache. The normalcy of it—the way she moved, the way the kitchen smelled, the way the space felt right—was like a slap to the face. He was here—in her space, in her life—and it shouldn’t have felt like such a jarring contrast to the wreck he was inside.

“Mel,” he said quietly, not wanting to startle her, but needing to speak. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears. “Do you mind if I… stay a little longer?”

She turned around, her eyes soft but unreadable. She knew the look in his eyes, the exhaustion in his posture. She didn’t push.

“You can stay as long as you need to,” she said gently. “I’m sure Becca would love to have you hang out for a bit.”

He wandered into the living room, where Becca was already curled up with a book. She looked up when he walked in, her face lighting up at the sight of him.

“Frank! Are you going to watch TV with me?” she asked, her voice full of excitement.

Frank’s heart gave a small tug. Her energy was infectious, and for a moment, he forgot about everything else.

“Yeah,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can do that.”

He sank down on the couch next to her, and Becca immediately scooted closer, flipping through the channels with a sense of purpose. It was such a simple thing, yet it felt like the first real break Frank had gotten in days.

Mel appeared a moment later, setting down a glass of water for Frank on the coffee table. She didn’t say anything, just gave him a look, a slight nod as if to say it’s okay .

Frank smiled at her, grateful for the quiet support. He took a deep breath, feeling a little lighter than before.

Becca perched on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat, a blanket draped over her shoulders. The TV played an old animated movie at low volume—something with talking animals and bright colors—but she wasn’t really watching. Her fingers traced shapes on the fabric as she glanced over at Frank now and then.

He sat nearby, on the other end of the couch, thumbing through his phone without really reading anything.

Becca tilted her head, studying him. “I live here with Mel,” she said suddenly, her voice clear and direct. “Who do you live with?”

Frank smiled, his expression softening the tension in his face. “My wife and two kids,” he replied, a quiet pride sneaking into his voice.

“You have kids?” Becca’s eyes lit up. “I love kids! Do you have pictures?”

“Of course I do.” His grin widened as he pulled out his phone, unlocking it with a practiced flick.

She scooted closer, practically bouncing with interest. Frank leaned in so she could see better, his shoulder brushing lightly against hers. He opened an album titled with a single red heart emoji, revealing hundreds of photos—moments frozen in time, chaotic and sweet.

The screen lit up with an image of a little girl beaming wearing a glittery cape made from a dish towel. Next, his son with the same floppy dark hair and icy blue eyes sat on his shoulders, both of them laughing, wind whipping through their hair. A family selfie followed, taken somewhere on a beach, maybe in his hometown in North Carolina. Frank stood with his arm around a woman with olive skin and bright blue eyes, her long blonde hair tangled by the breeze. Their children, sand-dusted and grinning, were nestled between them.

Each photo was a small window into a life that felt far away from the quiet corner of Mel’s apartment, yet Frank seemed to have an elaborate story behind each one, making Becca giggle relentlessly.

Mel walked over, drawn by the sound of Becca’s delight, and peeked between their heads from behind the couch. She hadn’t seen much of this side of Frank—only the fragments he had offered. She knew about Abby, had heard the tension in his voice whenever her name came up. But Frank hadn’t said much about his kids before. Maybe guilt kept him quiet. Maybe the distance was more than just physical.

“That’s your wife?” Becca gasped, pointing at one of the photos. “She’s very pretty.”

Frank’s smile softened into something fonder, more complicated. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She is.”

Mel squinted at the screen. Abby was exactly how she’d imagined her—and not at all. A photo at golden hour caught her mid-laugh, hair half braided, freckles catching the light like constellations. A little messy, but not the kind Mel could relate to. Messy like motherhood, like a life fully lived. Even in a blurry kitchen photo, Abby looked like someone who belonged everywhere she stood. The kind of woman who could burn a sheet of cookies and still make it charming, who remembered everyone’s birthdays, who sent thank-you cards and had a favorite casserole dish. 

But Mel saw the tension too. In the more recent photos, Abby’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her body leaned away from Frank, not toward him. The kids still clung to her, orbiting her like she was the sun—but something in her posture had shifted. A weariness behind the brightness.

And Frank had loved that woman. Still did, probably. She could see it now, in how gently he scrolled, the almost reverent way he spoke. Like every photo was proof that the life he’d built meant something, even if it was slipping.

And yet, he was here. In her apartment. Running errands, showering in her bathroom, chatting with her sister like they’d known each other for years.

Mel blinked, a twist of something sharp pulled low in her gut for reasons she didn’t want to name. She didn’t want him—not like that. Not in a way that needed defending. But he mattered, maybe too much. And seeing this—his life, his history, this woman who used to look at him like he hung the moon—made her feel like an intruder in something too intimate, too precious to touch. 

She stepped away before she had to look any longer, as if backing out of a room that wasn’t meant for her. Went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it again.

She looked down at her chipped nail polish, a small detail that seemed to underline how she felt in that moment—faded, incomplete, something that wasn’t quite finished. And for a second, she felt like someone had sketched her in pencil, a pale outline beside Abby’s full-color print. She wasn’t jealous, not of Abby or what she’d had with Frank. But sometimes, when Frank smiled at her across the ER or brought her coffee without asking how she liked it—she felt the quiet ache of wanting something she wasn’t sure she had a right to want.

She poured herself a glass of water just to have something to hold. Something to do with her hands. But the cold glass felt hollow in her grip, offering no comfort. She lifted it to her lips, the taste of nothing lingering longer than it should have.

They wrapped up lunch—Mel’s humble offering of grilled cheese and tomato soup—and Becca floated off to her bedroom, declaring she was working on a collage moodboard of her plans for next summer.

“I’d love to see it when you’re done,” Frank called after her, and Becca turned back just long enough to flash him a grin before disappearing down the hall.

Frank stood, stretching, and offered to help with the dishes. Mel waved him off like always.

“I’ve got a system,” she said. “And your system is chaos.”

He smiled, didn’t argue, and excused himself to the balcony. She assumed he was going out for a smoke.

She stared at the plates for a moment, then followed him, grabbing a sweatshirt on her way out. The scent of smoke didn’t bother her as much anymore.

Frank was already leaning against the railing, the cigarette between his fingers smoldering. He didn’t look at her when she stepped out. His eyes were somewhere far off—down the street, across the skyline, maybe even years back. Like the cigarette was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

She lingered by the door at first, arms crossed against the chill. She didn’t want to talk about what she was feeling—wasn’t even sure she could articulate it—but she also couldn’t go back inside and pretend nothing had changed.

“Are you ready to go back?” she asked, her voice quieter than she meant. “Not that I want you to. I just… figured going through those photos must’ve made you miss them.”

He didn’t look at her. Just said, “No.”

Mel cringed, surprised by the certainty in his voice.

“I mean, I do miss them. My kids.” He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling upward. “But looking at those pictures just made it real—that I miss something that isn’t there anymore. It’s already over.”

Mel blinked, her heart a little too heavy. He wasn’t crying, but something in his expression had gone so still, it scared her more than tears would have. She focused on a chipped spot in the railing, her fingers tracing the edge, needing something to ground her.

“Oh,” she said finally, her voice a little smaller than she wanted. Just that. Quiet. Like she wasn’t sure what else to say. Because what do you say to it’s already over ?

She wasn’t even sure if she believed him. Not fully. There was a way he’d looked at those pictures, like he was still holding something delicate in his hands, something that hadn’t quite slipped through his fingers yet.

But she didn’t press him. Not yet. It wasn’t her place, was it?

“I guess I thought maybe I should’ve asked about them before,” she murmured. “Your wife. Your kids. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

She paused, half expecting him to interrupt, but he didn’t. She looked down at her shoes for a moment before continuing.

“It’s just—sometimes I don’t know what to do with things like that. People who have these whole lives and families. Like it’s this club I missed the deadline to sign up for.” She let out a breath, her fingers tightening slightly on the railing. “And I didn’t ask because... maybe I liked not knowing. Like if I didn’t know the details, it wouldn’t feel like I was borrowing something that doesn’t belong to me.”

Her throat felt tight suddenly, and she hated that. She shook her head, forcing a small, crooked smile. “Anyway. That’s not your problem.”

Frank stayed silent long enough to make Mel wonder if she’d said the wrong thing, or revealed too much. He shifted his weight, and she half-expected him to retreat behind that invisible wall he built around himself. But when he spoke, his voice was softer, quieter.

“I never expected you to ask,” he started, “I think I’ve been avoiding it for a long time.”

He shifted again, his cigarette still burning between his fingers, the ember glowing softly in the dimming light. “And yeah… it wasn’t fair to bring all that into your space. But you didn’t take anything.”

He glanced at her, meeting her eyes now, the quiet a little less uncomfortable. “I came to you because I didn’t know where else to go. And being here... with you and Becca, it didn’t feel like I was escaping. It felt like breathing for the first time in months.”

A pause. “If there’s guilt in that, I’ll carry it. But don’t think for a second that it’s yours.”

Mel didn’t say anything, just let his words settle. She stared out at the city, watching the sky shift color, clouds smeared like ash across the fading light.

She hadn’t realized how easy it had been to slip into this rhythm with him—the quiet morning, the stupid jokes, how he folded the throw blanket even after she told him not to bother. It wasn’t a fantasy. It was just a pocket of calm she hadn’t realized she’d needed.

But now, she understood why she hadn’t asked about Abby, about the kids. Because naming what he had meant acknowledging what he’d lost—and what she could never offer.

“I think I should go back,” he said finally, his voice low but certain.

“Oh,” Mel said, her voice smaller than she intended. “Yeah. Of course.”

They stood there for a while longer, the silence not awkward but not quite comfortable either. They shared it, neither in a rush to move.

Frank glanced toward the side table, his lips twitching into a soft smile. “I’ll replace that glass, by the way.”

Mel followed his gaze. The water glass, half-full and now serving as an ashtray, sat like a strange little monument to the day.

An unexpected giggle slipped from her. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, shaking her head. “It can stay. You're… welcome back. Anytime.”

Frank looked down at his hands, then back at her. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding dramatic, but… thank you. For letting me fall apart a little.”

Mel smiled faintly, eyes soft. “I don’t think you fell apart. I think you just let someone see it.”

He let out a quiet breath, like her words reached a part of him he didn’t know needed touching. “Well,” he said, voice rough, “you definitely put me back together.”

Color bloomed across her cheeks, quick and uninvited.

“I feel like this kind of moment calls for a hug,” he said, after a beat. Then, quieter, almost sheepish, “Can I?”

Mel didn’t answer with words. She just stepped in and wrapped her arms around him. He held her like he meant it—gentle, steady, grateful. He smelled like her laundry detergent, and something about that undid her a little. Like he’d been there long enough to carry pieces of her with him.

Neither of them moved for a long moment. The city noise faded behind them, and all that was left was warmth.

Frank let out a soft laugh. “I just remembered something.”

Mel pulled back enough to glance up at him. “What?”

“My car’s still at the hospital. And… you still have my keys.”

She blinked, then snorted. “Oh my god. Right.” A laugh slipped out as she stepped back just enough, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “I can drive you back.”

Frank smiled, soft and crooked. “Guess that means we’ll have to hug again.”

Mel tucked herself into bed that night, the apartment settling around her with an unfamiliar quiet. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the shape of it. Like something had been moved without warning, and now the space didn’t fit right. Frank had only been there for a day, but the absence felt like something she was trying not to notice too hard.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the room shift as the faint light from the streetlamp flickered through the blinds. Her mind wandered, slow and meandering, replaying the moments with Frank—the way he’d laughed about the mold in her shower, how effortlessly he’d bonded with Becca, when they’d hugged for the second time. It had been simple, almost casual, but there was something unspoken between them, something that felt different from anything she’d expected.

The thought of him, somewhere out there with his wife, trying to piece things together, left her feeling oddly disconnected. She’d always kept a safe distance from relationships like his—ones that came with so much baggage and so much history. It was easier to pretend she wasn’t curious, easier to keep her heart out of it. But now, she couldn’t ignore the pull. It lingered in her chest, a faint ache that grew stronger every time she thought of him—not as a colleague or a mentor, but as a person still trying to figure out what came next in his life.

Mel shifted in bed, pulling the covers tighter around her shoulders, trying to settle her thoughts. Her phone buzzed from the nightstand, the sharp vibration breaking the stillness of the room. For a moment, she just stared at it, her heart inexplicably picking up speed. It was probably nothing—maybe a message from a friend or a random email—but the curiosity gnawed at her.

Finally, she picked up the phone. A text from Frank. Her stomach dropped as she read the message.

Can I have your landlord’s number?

Chapter Text

Dr. Frank Langdon walked into the ER like he’d never left it.

He was glaringly early, with a coffee in hand and the quiet intensity of a man who definitely wasn't trying too hard to act normal. His steps were brisk, purposeful. He nodded to the security guard at the door, fist-bumped one of the transporters, and strolled toward the nurse’s station like he had a running list of things to do and nowhere else to be.

"Look at this," he said as he passed Dana, who was clicking away at her monitor. "No screaming, no blood, no one paging me five times in a row about a rash they Googled. I should clock out now while I’m ahead."

Dana didn’t even look up. "Don’t jinx it."

Langdon flashed a grin, eyes darting over the board. A couple of holds, a potential appy, nothing on fire yet. His shoulders relaxed slightly—not tense, not visibly, but there was a brief moment when he stood still, just for a second. It was a shift, almost imperceptible, like a tightrope walker pausing mid-step.

Robby spotted him from across the ER and tracked his movements for a beat before heading over. By the time he reached him, Langdon was standing alone at the board, pen tucked behind his ear, gaze fixed firmly ahead.

Robby leaned against the counter beside him—close enough to make it clear he wasn’t just passing through, but not close enough to corner him.

"You stayed at Mel’s the other night?" Robby asked, his voice low and even, but there was an edge of curiosity.

Langdon tensed. He knew this was coming but hadn’t decided yet how to play it. "Yeah."

"Something going on at home?"

There was a pause. Langdon kept his eyes trained on the board, his mouth tightening, but the words barely caught in his throat. "Sort of."

Robby nodded slowly, as if weighing his next words. "You want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

The silence stretched for a few beats—light, casual, but it still hung there, heavy with unspoken words. Robby tilted his head slightly, watching Frank’s profile with a careful glance. "You okay?"

Langdon took a deliberate sip of his coffee, not meeting Robby’s eyes. "Yup."

"Mel seemed really worried."

"Yeah?" Langdon exhaled through his nose, the sound barely more than a dismissive breath. "I had a moment. No biggie. I’m fine now. I just wanna get to work."

Robby scratched at his beard, eyes flicking over Langdon’s face, searching for something deeper than the smooth exterior. But Langdon wasn’t offering any more.

"Alright," Robby said finally, with a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Try not to scare the students today."

"No promises, but I’ll keep it charming," Langdon responded with a wink, already moving toward the first room.

Robby watched him go, his gaze lingering longer than usual, as though he were waiting for something to crack.

Across the station, Mel looked up from her notes. Her eyes briefly met Robby’s—his inquisitive, hers sharp and searching. There was a flicker of recognition in the brief exchange. Something was off. They both knew it. But no one said a word.

Robby hadn’t moved from the corner of the nurses’ station. He didn’t need to. From there, he could see everything.

Langdon was everywhere.

He cut through the department like a man on a mission—room to room, curtain to curtain, voice rising and falling like a conductor’s baton. Cracking jokes, narrating exams, tossing out teaching questions without breaking stride.

It looked effortless. Too effortless.

He usually moved with control—measured energy, calm even in chaos. Today, it was all velocity. Voice too high, steps too quick, movements edged with something just shy of frantic.

Robby first noticed it mid-morning. Langdon had just wrapped up with a frequent flyer and dropped a pack of graham crackers on the guy’s bed like it was a party favor.

“Official hospital currency,” he quipped. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

The patient laughed. Robby didn’t.

Langdon brushed past with Whitaker on his heels, struggling to keep up. Robby turned slightly, catching him mid-stride.

“Langdon,” he said, low and deliberate.

Langdon stopped like he’d been waiting to be stopped. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

That weird, off-kilter smile. Flash. Hold. Release.

“Better now,” Langdon said. “You seen the board? We’re cruisin’.”

He tapped his pen on the tablet twice, then spun away before Robby could reply.

Robby watched him disappear behind the next curtain, his laugh trailing after him like a radio turned up too loud.

He’s trying way too hard.

By early afternoon, the pattern was set.

Robby caught Langdon scrubbing down his own ultrasound probe, sleeves rolled up, hands moving like they couldn’t sit still. He wasn’t delegating. Wasn’t letting the techs help. Just staying in motion.

A little later, he handed off his protein bar to a float nurse with a grin. “Lunch is a state of mind.”

Then he spun a routine consult into a full-blown teaching show, like he was on a TED Talk tour.

“You’re killing it today,” he told Whitaker, clapping him on the back like they were old friends.

Robby watched the student light up. Langdon could still do that—turn on the charisma, lift the room.

And then he was gone again, already halfway through the next case.

It wasn’t just energy. It was avoidance. He was always one beat ahead—speaking before anyone could ask how he was doing, walking away before they could look too close.

But Robby saw it anyway. The flickers. The too-long pauses in the staff lounge. The moment his smile vanished once he turned away. Little disappearances behind closed doors, thirty seconds at a time.

Around three o'clock, Robby caught him leaving a room with his jaw clenched, tablet in hand like a shield.

Langdon spotted him watching and threw the smile back on—fast, bright, too practiced.

“You doing okay?” Robby asked.

Langdon held up the tablet. “Still cruisin’.”

“Not tired yet?”

He laughed, all surface. “Tired is for interns.”

And he pivoted again, already chasing the next thing.

Robby stayed put, one eye on the board, the other on Langdon’s retreating back.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t nothing.

Just then, Robby spotted Mel near the nurses’ station, conferring with Dr. Mohan. Her usual poise was there, but there was something else in her posture that made Robby pause. The second Mohan walked away, Robby approached.

“Dr. King,” he called.

She looked up, offering him a polite smile. “Dr. Robby. Everything okay?”

“You tell me,” he said as he settled against the counter. “I’ve noticed Langdon’s been a little off today. He okay?”

Mel didn’t hesitate, but her expression shifted slightly—more guarded now, but still professional. She kept her voice even, polite. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Robby raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift. “I did. You know how that goes.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready.” Her smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Robby’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. He could tell she was holding back, but it wasn’t from a place of malice. “You think he’s alright to work? I’ve seen him handling patients, but—”

“With all due respect, Dr. Robby,” Mel interjected. “This is what I meant when I said you put me in a tough position. I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

There was no denying the firmness in her voice, no room for doubt. She’d drawn a clear line.

“But you don’t think it’s… something that’ll affect patient care?” Robby pressed, still concerned.

Mel glanced at him briefly, a sigh escaping her before she straightened up, her professionalism cemented once more. 

“I trust him.” She looked like she was about to leave it there, but then added, softer this time, “Just don’t push him.”

Robby exhaled, maybe frustrated, realizing there wasn’t more to be gained from the conversation. “Alright,” he said after a beat, trying to read her demeanor. “Thanks, Mel.”

“Of course,” she replied, turning back to the board with a slight nod, signaling the end of their conversation.

It was four o’clock when Robby caught it again.

Langdon had just finished with a combative psych patient—charm on full blast, coaxing cooperation like it was nothing—and now he was laughing at something Whitaker said, one hand braced on the counter, the other still gloved, gesturing like the whole day was some casual joyride.

Too loose. Too animated.

Robby sipped his lukewarm coffee, watching from the charting station. Langdon’s smile was big and easy, but his eyes didn’t match. They were too sharp, scanning constantly, like he was trying to stay two steps ahead of something. The way he moved reminded Robby of how he’d acted before. Back then.

Langdon laughed again and turned away, heading down the hall toward the next patient without missing a beat. Whitaker trailed behind him, grinning, clearly buying the act.

Robby didn’t. He’d seen this before. The hyperfocus. The relentless forward motion.

The worst part was, it wasn’t even sloppy. He was good. Too good. The kind of good you could only be when you were covering something up.

Robby set his coffee down and rubbed his hand over his mouth.

Something is wrong, he thought.

The trauma bay doors slammed open and the room erupted into motion—paramedics shouting, wheels squealing, a streak of blood trailing behind the gurney. A teenager. Gunshot wound. The kind of case that didn’t leave space for thinking, only instinct.

Langdon was already at the head of the bed, gloves on, jaw set, barking orders as the patient was transferred over. He moved with precision, but there was a tightness to him—shoulders locked, eyes too focused. Like he wasn’t just controlling the room. Like he was holding himself together by force.

Robby stepped in behind him. Close enough to read it.

“You okay?” he asked, low enough for just the two of them.

Langdon didn’t answer.

Robby tried again. “Frank.”

Still no response. Just the sound of suction, the beep of monitors, the rise and fall of voices.

“You good?” Robby pressed, louder now, firm. “I can take this, if—”

Langdon turned, deliberate and fast, and pressed the laryngoscope against Robby’s chest—not aggressive, but with a finality that left no room for argument. His voice was low, cold.

“Go ahead. Knock yourself out. God’s gift to the ER, right?”

The words cut through the room like a dropped tool.

Everything stalled—not the hands working, not the patient care, but the energy. A ripple of stillness. Heads lifted. Eyes darted. People pretended to keep moving, but no one was really focused anymore. Everyone had heard it.

Langdon peeled off his gloves in one swift motion, threw them into the trash, and walked out without another word.

Robby stood there for a beat, staring at the spot Langdon had just vacated. The laryngoscope was still in his hand. His jaw was tight.

Then he inhaled once, sharply, shoved the moment down, and turned back to the team.

“Let’s move,” he said.

But the air in the room had shifted. No one could quite shake the feeling that something had just broken.

Langdon was finishing up suturing his last patient when Robby found him. He didn’t turn around—just kept his head down, hands steady, eyes on the neat line he was stitching into someone’s skin like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

“Langdon,” Robby said, voice firm. Not angry yet, but tight. Concern wrapped in control.

Langdon didn’t look up. “I’m literally mid-suture,” he muttered, quiet but sharp, hoping that’d be enough to make Robby back off.

It wasn’t.

“When you’re done,” Robby said, just as calm, just as relentless.

Langdon could feel the pressure of his gaze like heat on the back of his neck. He tied off the last stitch, cut the suture, and handed off the tablet without saying a word. His chest felt tight. Like his skin didn’t quite fit.

He didn’t wait for Robby to say anything else—just walked out and headed for the staff lounge, moving like someone who wasn’t storming off but definitely was. Robby followed a step behind, close enough to make it clear this wasn’t optional.

Langdon pushed open the door and stepped inside, pretending he had all the time in the world. Pretending everything was fine.

He grabbed a coffee cup, moving slowly, deliberately, like pretending to be calm might make it true. “Patient make it?”

“Yeah,” Robby said flatly. “You walked out in the middle of a GSW, Frank.”

Langdon finally glanced up, like he was surprised this was still a conversation. “You had it. You didn’t need me.”

“That’s not the point.” Robby stepped in closer, lowering his voice but not softening it. “You snapped at me, handed me a laryngoscope, and walked out. In front of the whole team.”

Langdon’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter, his stare locked on the coffee cup like it might offer an escape. His jaw tensed. The adrenaline still hadn’t worn off. Everything felt too loud and too close.

Robby didn’t let up. “Is this what I think it is?”

Langdon exhaled sharply and turned, frustration flashing in his eyes. “What do you think it is?”

“Don’t make me say it,” Robby said.

Langdon stepped closer, his voice suddenly sharp and cold. “I want you to fucking say it, Robby. What do you think it is?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just looked at him—searching, hoping to find any indication that he was wrong.

“I think you’re high.”

Langdon paused, eyelids fluttering briefly, then laughed once, dry and bitter. “Oh good. Glad you’re all on the same page.”

Robby’s brow pulled tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know—maybe you and Abby can start a little club. Weekly meetings about how I’m such a fuck-up.”

His shoulder knocked into Robby's as he walked towards the door. Robby tried to catch him.

“Frank—”

“No, really. Go ahead. Run the tox screen. Call the board. Whatever makes you feel better.” He turned away, voice low and vicious. “I’m not high, Robby. But I fucking wish I was.”

The door swung shut behind him with a dull thud that seemed to echo anyway. Robby didn’t move. 

He dragged a hand down his face, jaw tight as he stared at the empty doorway. Goddammit, Frank. He hadn’t meant to accuse—not really. But something had been off from the jump. The way he came in buzzing, too bright, too keyed up. Then that outburst in the trauma room—sudden, jarring, like the pressure finally cracked through. Robby had seen that kind of unraveling before. The crash that always followed the high.

He turned to the counter, bracing both hands against it, eyes locked on the coffee pot. His reflection stared back at him in the glass: drawn, tired, uncertain. He hated this part—the doubt, the second-guessing. Wondering if he’d just blindsided someone who was staying clean, or if he’d stood there and watched a relapse happen in real time. Either way, it felt like failure.

And still, that gut feeling hadn’t gone away. The one that said he needed to ask. To know. Because missing it once had already cost too much.

He closed his eyes for a beat. Then straightened. Checked the clock.

The door creaked open.

Dana stepped into the lounge with the confidence of someone who’d been doing this job too long to bother knocking—clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, and one eyebrow already halfway raised.

She took a sip and gave him a once-over. “Let me guess—Langdon.”

Robby glanced up, not even trying to play it cool. “What gave it away?”

She shrugged, amused. “You look like you’re one bad mood from flipping a gurney. He stormed past the desk like he lost a bet.” A beat. “Lovers’ quarrel again?”

Robby let out a dry huff. “Something like that.”

“Should I be worried?”

His eyes flicked to the door. “You’ve seen him today. What do you think?”

She looked away briefly and tilted her head. “He definitely had some extra pep in his step.”

“Yeah, and then he snapped at me in the middle of intubating a GSW and walked out.”

Her brow furrowed. “Langdon doesn’t walk out. Not even when he’s half-dead on his feet.”

“I know.” Robby scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That’s why I asked if he’s high.”

Dana didn’t flinch—but her lips pressed together. A small shift. Enough.

“And how’d he take that?” she asked.

“How do you think?”

She shook her head. “You’re not subtle, Robby.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. I was trying to figure out if I should be pulling him off the floor.”

Dana was quiet for a long moment. Then: “So? Do you think he’s using again?”

Robby opened his mouth. Closed it again. Finally: “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I’m not sure anymore.”

She turned to leave—but paused in the doorway.

“You might’ve meant well,” she said. “But you didn’t help. If he’s spiraling, you just gave him a push.”

And then she was gone, leaving Robby alone again. More rattled than before.

Langdon didn’t go far after Robby’s confrontation. Just slipped into the empty supply room off the hallway and leaned back against a shelf, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. A quiet place. Out of the noise. Out of the way.

He stayed there, still and tense, the thrum of adrenaline dulling into something heavier. He didn’t hear footsteps, but the door creaked open a few inches. McKay stepped inside without a word.

She didn’t ask if he was okay. Didn’t offer comfort. Just gave him a long look, then shut the door behind her and leaned against it like she’d done it a hundred times before—maybe with someone else, maybe just with herself.

Langdon’s eyes flicked up, his voice low. “You need something?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence. Just waited, calm and steady, like she knew the value of leaving space alone.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes drifting to a box of gauze on the shelf in front of him. “Robby thinks I’m high.”

There was a pause.

“Are you?” she asked.

He looked at her. No offense in his face. Just exhaustion. “No.”

She nodded, once. Believed him—or maybe just decided it didn’t matter. Not in this moment.

“You been to a meeting?”

Langdon shook his head. “Been a rough couple days.”

“Planning to go again?”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“You do,” she said, her voice even. “And you're smart enough to know what the wrong one leads to.”

That almost got a smile out of him. It didn’t last long, but it was real.

She pushed off the door, arms still crossed. “If you need someone to sit next to, let me know.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She was already opening the door. “See you out there, Frank.”

And then she was gone.

Langdon stayed a moment longer, collecting himself. Then he pushed off the shelf and stepped back into the buzz and brightness of the ER.

With the shift wrapped, Frank lay on his back on the roof, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily holding a cigarette aloft as it burned down. The gravel dug into his shoulder blades, grounding him in a way that almost felt like relief. The night above was a blur of soft clouds and city haze, a world removed from the one buzzing just a few stories below.

Mel was next to him, stretched out with her arms crossed loosely over her chest, one knee bent, her boot tapping a quiet rhythm against the roof. She didn’t say anything for a while, just let the silence hang between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like something useful.

Finally, she spoke. “Did you get a hold of my landlord?”

Frank’s jaw flexed slightly. He took one last drag, then leaned over to crush the cigarette out on the gravel. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low.

Mel waited. Her eyes stayed on the sky.

After a long moment, she nudged him lightly with her elbow. “What’s going on, Frank?”

He didn’t answer right away. The truth sat too heavy in his chest to just let it out clean. But Mel wasn’t pushing, just waiting—and that made it feel okay to let the edges of it show.

“Abby and I are separating,” he said finally, voice barely above a breath. “A trial run, I guess.”

“Oh,” Mel said, quietly. “That’s why you’ve been weird today.”

“That obvious?” He said with a slight smirk.

She hesitated, then said gently, “You’ve just seemed… a little far away.”

He nodded, the smirk fading.

“She says we need space to figure things out.” He paused, exhaled slowly. “I think it’s just slow-walking the inevitable.”

Mel turned her head just slightly, eyes flicking to him, waiting.

“I wish I wanted to fight it more,” Frank said. “We’ve been married for ten years. That’s a lot to throw away. But all I can think about is what she said the other night.”

He was still staring upward, his hands folded on his chest now like he was bracing for something.

“I told her everything, Mel. All the fucked up shit my dad did to me. Shit I’ve never told anyone else.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“And she just—threw it at me. Like it was a weapon.”

He shook his head. “Wasn’t even sorry. When I called her on it, she said, ‘If that’s what it takes to get through to you, so be it.’”

Mel didn’t flinch. Just breathed with him.

“I don’t think I can stay in something where my past is a bargaining chip.”

Mel was quiet, then said gently, “No. You shouldn’t.”

He turned his head, surprised by the steadiness in her voice.

“I mean,” she added, shrugging just a little, “if someone shows you they’ll use the worst part of your life to win an argument? That’s not a partnership. That’s a hostage situation.”

Frank huffed a dry, joyless laugh.

“I don’t know anything about being married,” Mel said, “but I do know what it feels like to keep trying just because you think you’re supposed to. And I know what it feels like to be the one who gives up first and then hates yourself for it.”

Frank looked back at the sky, quiet again.

“You think I’m giving up?” he asked.

“I think,” Mel said, after a moment, “sometimes staying is brave. And sometimes leaving is braver. Depends on the fight.”

He let that sit. Then nodded, more to himself than to her.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Anytime,” Mel bumped her shoulder against his. “You know you can come to me. When it hits.”

Frank let the silence settle again, his eyes drifting up to the stars—or maybe just the idea of them, washed out in the city glow.

Mel shifted beside him, propping herself up on one elbow. “Hey,” she said, nudging him lightly. “Gimme your phone.”

He turned his head lazily. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, drawing out the word, “we always listen to my ‘work wind-down’ playlist, and I’m tired of being the DJ.”

“It’s a good playlist.”

“Yeah, yeah, lo-fi beats to cry to, I know,” she teased. “But I want to hear your version of a come-down.”

He groaned but reached into his pocket and handed over his phone. “Don’t judge me.”

“No promises,” Mel synced the AirPods and started scrolling through his playlists. “Okay… what’s with these playlist called ‘existential brunch ’ and ‘bad bitch soundtrack ’?”

Frank sighed. “Abby and I share an account.”

“Ah,” Mel raised an eyebrow. “Mystery solved.”

He nodded. “All hers. Except one.”

She kept scrolling, then stopped. “‘Whiplash.’ That’s you?”

“Yeah,” he said, already bracing himself for judgment. “It’s just… everything I listen to all in one. No rhyme or reason. You hit shuffle and never know what you’re gonna get next.”

Mel stared at it for a beat, then grinned. “That is exactly what I’d expect from you.”

Frank smirked, eyes closed now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She was already scrolling through the playlist. “Means I’m not surprised your brain goes from dad rock to 90’s rap to stoner anthems in four minutes flat.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, well, that’s actually where the name came from. We were on this road trip, and Abby goes, ‘Oh my god, straight from Stevie Ray Vaughan to Kendrick Lamar? I’m getting whiplash.’”

Mel’s smile faltered just slightly. The way he said it landed heavier than he probably meant it to. So many little pieces of his life had her fingerprints on them.

She didn’t say anything, just continued scrolling through the playlist, silently assessing.

“A lot of old classic rock?” She said it mostly to herself. “I’m kind of a lost cause when it comes to that.”

“Okay,” Frank looked over at her, smiled, and held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Mel handed her phone to him before even asking, “Why?”

“You’re not a lost cause. You’re a blank slate. I’m making you a playlist.”

They lay there for a long while, Frank’s Whiplash playlist changing the mood every few minutes—sometimes jarring, sometimes weirdly perfect. Just like him. And in the stillness between the beats, she realized she was starting to understand just how much of his life, even now, still felt tangled up in the past. He lay quietly beside her, deep in thought as he crafted the perfect Classic Rock Essentials playlist.

The door creaked open behind them, but neither of them moved. Frank didn’t even flinch—just exhaled, like he already knew who it was.

Robby stepped out onto the roof, pausing when he saw them lying there. He didn’t say anything. Just stood for a moment, hands in the pockets of his coat, assessing what was unfolding in front of him.

Mel glanced over, but Frank stayed still.

Finally, Robby walked forward and, without a word, lowered himself down beside Frank. No lecture. No tension. Just silence, and the soft shuffle of fabric as he settled back.

The three of them lay there in quiet stillness for what felt like hours. Robby and Mel gazed up at the sky, while Frank remained absorbed in curating the playlist. Below them, the city hummed with life, continuing on as if nothing had changed.

Mel glanced at her watch, a slight frown pulling at her lips when she saw the time. “Oh,” she muttered under her breath. “I should go. Becca’s waiting for me.”

Frank didn’t answer, just sighed and handed back her phone and AirPod with a silent reluctance before saying, “I’m not done with that.”

She stood up, shifting her weight awkwardly as she glanced between Frank and Robby. She paused for a moment, a soft, almost hesitant expression crossing her face, before she finally said, “You’ll call if you need anything, right?”

“Yeah.” Frank let out a deep breath. “Who knows, maybe I’ll just crash up here.”

Robby, still lying on his back, turned his head slightly, confused by the comment but choosing not to ask.

Mel hesitated, looking down at Frank once more. "I’ll see you tomorrow," she said, her gaze flicking to Robby. "Goodnight, Dr. Robby."

Robby gave a nod, his face softening into something unspoken.

Mel turned and started to head toward the door, pausing briefly before she stepped inside.

The silence between Frank and Robby was heavy, almost suffocating, but not unpleasant. Frank stared at the sky, his thoughts a jumble of emotions, of what was said and unsaid. His body ached with exhaustion, but there was a quiet relief in the cool air.

Robby shifted beside him, his voice breaking through the quiet. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone low and sincere.

Frank exhaled slowly, but he didn’t move his gaze from the stars above. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice rough, “me too.”

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” Robby responded quietly, his voice not accusatory, just weary. “I... I pushed you too hard.”

Frank closed his eyes for a second, letting Robby’s words sink in. He shifted slightly, his neck stiff from the position he’d been in for too long. 

“Abby and I are getting divorced,” he said finally.

Robby turned his head toward him, startled. “What?”

“Well. Separated.” Frank’s voice was dry. “But we know how that ends. Figured I should get used to saying it.”

Robby let out a low breath. “Shit, Frank. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Frank shrugged, eyes still on the sky.

Robby hesitated before speaking again. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“It wasn’t.” Frank’s mouth tugged slightly at the corner, not quite a smile. “Until it was.”

Another quiet beat passed.

“You want to talk about it?” Robby asked gently.

Frank shook his head once. “Not really.”

“Okay.” Robby didn’t push this time. Just laid still.

The two of them stared upward, the sky above them wide and gray with city glow. For a long moment, it felt like neither of them wanted to be the first to move.

“You’re not actually planning to sleep up here, are you?” Robby asked, glancing over.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Sounds like Mel’s couch is available.”

Frank smiled faintly but didn’t answer.

Robby let out a soft groan. “And I’m probably gonna need help getting up.”

That got a laugh out of Frank. He stood up, stretched his back, then reached down with a hand. “Alright, old man. Let’s go.”

Robby gripped his hand, and with a little effort, they got to their feet.

They stood there for a moment, brushing off the chill.

“Seriously,” Robby said, quieter now. “Do you need a place to stay? I have a spare bedroom.”

Frank rolled his eyes and huffed, “Yeah, right. You don’t want a roommate.”

“Wouldn’t be permanent,” Robby said. “Just till you’re back on your feet.”

Frank hesitated, eyes on the horizon. “Nah. I already prepaid a motel room for the week. Got something else in the works.” He paused, then added, “Thanks, though.”

Robby gave a small shrug. “Suit yourself.”

He opened the stairwell door, letting Frank step in first.

Chapter Text

In the few weeks since Frank moved into Mel’s building, things had settled into an easy rhythm. He was just two floors up and down the hall, but still spent most of his time at her’s anyway —mostly because it felt like a place that someone actually cared about, while his felt like somewhere he was just passing through. What started as the occasional post-shift hangout turned into a routine: he’d knock, and she’d already be unlocking the door before he said a word. He never talked about it, and he didn’t have to. She could tell he wasn’t used to the quiet, the emptiness of being alone. She didn’t mind. She was glad to have him around.

He was still adjusting, of course. Signing the lease had made the separation feel final in a way the silence and arguments hadn’t. Mel noticed the small signs; the wedding band he still hadn’t taken off, the way he sometimes forgot he didn’t have to drive back to the suburbs, how he never brought up the old house unless she asked.

He saw his kids every other weekend, and sometimes during the week. His son was all energy and cracker crumbs; his daughter babbled through FaceTime, blowing kisses like it was magic. Frank swore those calls could fix anything. Mel hadn’t met them yet, but she could picture it. She could hear it in his voice.

Work had evened out. Therapy, NA, and random drug testing continued, but the tension that used to cling to him had started to lift. People had stopped watching him like he might crack. He’d started talking more with Dr. McKay—though they didn’t say much at meetings, the hushed conversations they shared mid-shift meant a lot.

And with Mel, things were easy. The banter. The shared silences. The way neither of them needed to explain much. It wasn’t romantic. But it was something.

He still hadn’t unpacked most of his own place. Mel had only visited once, and after opening his fridge to find only Red Bull and yogurt, recoiled like she’d been personally wronged.

“Oh my god, Frank. Seriously?”

He leaned against the counter, grinning. “What?”

She stared into the near-empty fridge. “What do you even eat? How are you alive?”

“It’s minimalist,” he said with a shrug. “Red Bull for energy, yogurt for... probiotics?”

Mel snorted. “Oh yeah, whatever that yogurt is doing for your gut health is immediately ravaged by the Red Bull.”

“I like to think they cancel each other out. It’s balanced.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You are a disaster.”

She’d warned him not to let her find any 3-in-1s in the bathroom. He swore he had real conditioner. She wasn’t convinced.

Somewhere along the way, she’d joked that their lives were turning into a sitcom. “A pair of sisters and their emotional support divorced junkie,” she’d said. Frank had laughed harder than he probably should’ve, but she didn’t backpedal. If anything, she smirked like she was proud of it. She was getting used to his dark humor, and he was learning to read the subtle lines between her sarcasm and sincerity.

She’d made him download Co–Star just to tease him, but Frank got way too into it. Now, every morning came with a horoscope update like it was breaking news.

“Today says I should lean into transformation,” he announced, waving his phone like it was a divine prophecy. “Very Scorpio of me.”

Mel didn’t look up from her toast. "You’d lean into a volcano if it made you feel mysterious.”

“You’re just mad because yours told you to relinquish control,” Frank grinned.

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m a Capricorn. I don’t relinquish anything.”

She had looked up their romantic compatibility once, just out of curiosity. Apparently, they were a power match—high intensity, deep trust, potential for obsession. She never mentioned it.

But he kept sending those daily horoscopes. And she kept reading them.

The shift had barely started, but already the pulse of the ER was in full swing. A woman in her late 70s had been brought in after a fall. She was frail, confused, bruises already blooming along her left arm and hip. The paramedics had given the basics: history of dementia, no witnesses, likely tripped in the kitchen.

Mel glanced at the clock. First case of the day, and it was already shaping up to be a busy one. She approached the bedside like she always did—voice soft, hands steady, posture relaxed but alert. Her presence was her tool. With patients like this, gentleness mattered.

“Hi there,” she said, crouching slightly to meet the woman’s gaze. “You’re in the emergency room. My name’s Dr. King. You had a fall, but we’re going to help you feel better, okay?”

The woman’s eyes flicked toward her but didn’t quite land. She mumbled something incoherent—half a sentence, maybe a question. Then her gaze darted around the room, panic beginning to rise.

Mel reached for the woman’s hand, and to her surprise, the woman gripped it—tightly, like a lifeline. Her fingers were cold and paper-thin, her nails neatly trimmed. She blinked up at Mel, and for the first time, her gaze locked on like she was seeing someone.

"Sweetheart... where have you been?" The woman whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of confusion and longing. "I’ve been so lonely. Please come home. Your dad's waiting."

Mel's throat tightened. She didn't pull away. Just smiled—her professional instincts kicking in, masking the rush of emotions that hit her all at once.

"It’s okay, ma'am," she said softly, her voice steady. "I'm here now."

But the woman didn’t seem to hear her. Her grip tightened, shaking slightly. Her voice cracked as she leaned forward, her whole face crumpling into desperation. “Don’t go. I need you.”

Mel’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She didn’t know why this moment, why this patient was slicing through her defenses—but it was. Maybe it was the pleading. Maybe it was the way this wasn’t her mother, but in the moment, she wished it could be.

The woman looked at her like she meant the world. And for a second, Mel felt like a child again—like a daughter, frozen in time, standing by a hospital bed that would never speak to her again.

She drew in a breath and pushed through it. She had to. She kept her voice calm, kept her hand steady. "You're okay. You're safe. We'll call someone for you."

The woman sagged back slightly, the panic easing under Mel’s soothing cadence. Her grip loosened, eyes fluttering closed.

Mel signaled a nurse to monitor vitals, gave quick, clinical orders in a voice that didn’t match the way her chest felt like it was caving in. As soon as the woman was stable, she stepped away—slow, methodical, careful not to let the emotion spill into her body language.

Only when she made it out into the ambulance bay did she let herself fall apart.

She pressed her palms against the wall, her breath catching, her shoulders tight. The air was cool and sharp against her skin. She stood there, head bowed, hands trembling slightly, trying to remember how to just breathe again.

She forced herself to inhale through her nose, slow and deep, then exhale. Again. And again. But the grief wasn’t gone. It hadn’t been gone for years. She’d just gotten better at ignoring it.

And sometimes, all it took was a stranger’s voice—a fragile echo from the past, calling out for a daughter who wasn’t there—to remind her of the things she’d buried deep inside.

Meanwhile, Langdon was crouched beside a teenager with a dog bite on his forearm, intently watching Whitaker suture the wound. It wasn’t too deep, but jagged enough to be annoying, and Whitaker handled it with calm focus. Nothing complicated. Langdon didn’t say much—just nodded once, satisfied. 

When Whitaker tied off the final stitch, he nodded to the nurse and stripped off his gloves. “Keep it clean. If it gets red or swollen, come on back.”

The kid gave a sheepish nod. Langdon offered a tight smile and stepped into the hallway, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. He looked up just in time to see Mel slipping out the ambulance bay doors, her expression indecipherable—but her pace too quick for it to be casual.

He hesitated.

She was good at putting on a face. Always had been. But he’d seen that walk before. He knew that walk. It was the same one he’d done a hundred times when he needed air but didn’t want to admit he was falling apart.

He looked over his shoulder. There were no traumas coming in. Robby was handling a consult in the back. Whitaker was already joking around with another med student by the monitors. He had a minute.

Without really thinking, he pushed the door open and followed.

Mel was sitting on the brick ledge just past the drop-off zone, elbows braced against her knees, her face buried in her hands. Her scrub top was wrinkled, shoulders hunched inward, as though she were trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable.

Langdon paused just outside the doors, watching her for a moment before slowly making his way over. He didn’t call out. Didn’t ask if she was okay. Instead, he walked past the gurneys and cigarette butts to where she sat and lowered himself beside her—carefully, like approaching something fragile.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat, arms resting loosely on his knees. Mel didn’t look up. But she felt him there. The warmth of his presence beside her, steady and unspoken. Her hands stayed over her face, but her shoulders trembled slightly.

He glanced sideways, then out toward the parking lot, where the orange glow of brake lights blinked rhythmically. His voice, when it came, was low and gentle. “Bad one?”

Mel nodded, barely, her fingers digging tighter into her scalp. “She thought I was her daughter.” Her voice cracked, hoarse. “Said her husband was waiting at home. Said… she’d been so lonely.”

Langdon didn’t flinch, but something in his chest cracked.

“She wasn’t talking to me,” Mel added quietly, her voice distant now, like she was speaking to herself. “But it felt like she was.”

Langdon swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat. “Yeah.” He didn’t need to say more. The images bloomed in his mind—his own mother’s face twisted in anger the last time he visited her, the way she screamed at him to leave because she didn’t recognize him as someone separate from his father. The woman who raised him was still alive—but she was already gone.

Mel finally lowered her hands, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “You ever have that moment where someone says something completely random, and it still manages to hit you harder than anything real ever could?”

“All the time,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Happens more often than I care to admit.”

She leaned forward, hands clasped tight, eyes fixed on the ground like she could steady herself through the soles of her shoes. “I was pretty young when my mom died,” she said quietly. “But I remember her. I remember everything.” Her voice caught, just a little. “And for a second… when that patient looked at me like that, it felt like she was right there. Just for a second. And then it felt like she was gone all over again.”

Langdon didn’t move for a while. He just let that ache settle between them, like the smoke from a long-burned-out fire.

And then—without thinking—he slipped an arm around her, pulling her in just a fraction closer, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. A quiet motion, offering solace without asking for anything in return. He didn’t say anything—just held her there, steady, like he was reminding her she wasn’t alone.

Mel leaned into him easily, her shoulder settling against his side, warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt. After a beat, she let her head rest lightly on his shoulder, a soft surrender that was both casual and intimate, like it had always been easy for her to find this kind of comfort with him.

He didn’t move. He just let her breathe, let her be. They stayed like that for a long moment, the steady rhythm of her breath syncing with his.

She inhaled slowly, then whispered, “I just really miss my mom.”

Langdon’s reply was soft, but it hit deeper than the words. “Yeah. Me too.” He turned his head slightly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She’d be so proud of you.”

And with that, he pressed a soft, almost weightless kiss to the crown of her head. It didn’t startle her. Didn’t need explanation. It fit into the silence between them like it had always belonged there. A gesture that spoke in the same language they did: nothing loud, nothing showy. Just presence. Just care.

It lasted only a second. She didn’t pull away.

A rustle came from the ambulance bay doors as they swung open—someone stepping outside to make a call or sneak a quick vape. Neither of them noticed the figure. Just a flash of movement, a sideways glance.

The person paused. Watched. Then slowly turned and walked back inside.

The door hissed shut again.

Langdon didn’t see it. Mel didn’t see it. But the shadow of misunderstanding had just begun to stretch.

By 8:30, the comments had started slipping between tasks like static.

“I heard they were kissing outside,” an MA leaned over to another, voice lowered like he was passing on classified intel. “They’ve always had that vibe. You know what I mean?”

His friend raised a brow. “Yeah, well. He’s married. She’s an R2. Even if nothing’s happening, it looks bad.”

Mel sat at the edge of the nurse’s station in front of a computer, pretending to focus on a chart. Her eyes didn’t move across the screen. Her heart was loud in her ears.

By 10:30, someone near trauma two upped the ante.

“You think Robby would even do anything if Langdon was hooking up with her?” one of the transporters asked, restocking a cart. “He treats her like she walks on water.”

“Only because she’s Langdon’s little shadow,” came the reply. “Probably thinks she’s some rehab redemption story.”

Langdon breezed past them, joking with Whitaker about some ridiculous thing that had happened earlier in the shift. He didn’t notice. Mel did. She quietly switched bays.

By noon, someone dropped the phrase “sleeping her way to the top.”

Mel was at the med cart, trying to find a damn flush, when two nurses walked in behind her mid-conversation.

“Honestly? She’s smarter than I thought. Latch onto a senior resident, let him play the tragic tortured genius role—easy street.”

“Guess she’s got a thing for bad boys,” the other one muttered. “He relapses, she’ll probably get a whole attending spot carved out for her just for sticking around.”

Mel turned too fast, knocking a box of saline onto the floor. The nurses shut up instantly. One of them mumbled an apology, but not to her. Mel didn’t say a word.

By 2:00, it had gotten meaner.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long,” the first voice added. “Guess she figured out who she needs to suck up to.”

“And what’s he thinking?” a different voice chimed in. “She’s a second-year. A student , basically. He’s supposed to be the responsible one.”

“She probably cried about a bad eval, and he took that as an invitation.”

Mel was one bed over, trying to suture a kid’s forehead while their mom asked about scarring. Her hands shook. She almost asked for Langdon to follow up, then changed her mind and paged Collins instead.

By 3:30, someone brought up Robby again.

“Robby only goes easy on her because she’s Langdon’s project. If she were anyone else, he’d have chewed her out weeks ago.”

“Or maybe he knows,” another voice muttered, “and just doesn’t care. Gotta protect the golden boy and his new toy.”

Mel ducked into the staff bathroom and sat on the closed toilet, clutching her ID badge like a worry stone.

By 5:00, she couldn’t even look at him. Every time Langdon came near, she found somewhere else to be. He noticed she was avoiding him but misread it—assumed she was still emotional about that morning, giving her space. He didn’t push.

By 6:00, she heard the final version.

“They’re definitely sleeping together. Night shift saw them leave together a few weeks ago, in her car. Then she brought him back the next day.”

“Typical. Langdon’s got everyone in this place fooled into thinking they’re the only one.”

Mel sat in the staff lounge pretending to chart. Her screen hadn’t changed in ten minutes. The weight in her chest was suffocating.

Langdon walked in, dropped into the chair across from her with a sigh, and gave her a small smile. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer. Just gathered her stuff and left the room before he could say anything else.

Mel rushed outside for another breather in the ambulance bay, praying he wouldn’t follow her this time. She leaned against the brick wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on nothing, pulse racing.

The door slid open behind her. Footsteps. Not his.

“So it’s true, huh?” Santos' voice cut through the air—sharp, unsparing.

Mel didn’t answer. Just sighed and kept her gaze forward.

Santos stepped up beside her, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick. She exhaled smoke and shook her head. “You know there’s a list, right?”

Mel turned slightly, frowning. “What?”

“A list,” Santos said flatly, “of women who’ve circled that guy like vultures. Waiting for his marriage to finally die so they can get their turn.” She glanced sideways. “Didn’t think you’d be right at the top.”

Mel flinched but didn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself to.

“You think you’re the first one to fall for it?” Santos went on, voice cool and cynical. “He’s a hot doctor with a tragic backstory—classic bait, and he knows it. He’ll take any woman who throws herself at him, and from what I’ve heard, plenty have.”

Mel finally turned toward her. “You don’t know him.”

Santos raised an eyebrow. “Neither do you, apparently.”

There was a beat of silence, just the distant wail of a siren in the background.

Mel looked away, jaw locked. She didn’t want to believe it—didn’t even know if she did believe it—but the seed of doubt had already been planted, and Santos was watering it by the gallon.

“I’m not stupid,” she muttered.

“Then don't act stupid.” Santos ground her cigarette under her boot. “You’ve busted your ass to be taken seriously. You think the boys’ club is gonna give you a fair shake once they’ve decided you’re just another girl Langdon messed around with?”

Mel said nothing.

“Think about it,” Santos said, walking back toward the door. “I’m not gonna babysit you. But I’m not gonna pretend like you’re immune just ‘cause you want to be.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. The door closed behind her, leaving Mel in silence again—only now it felt colder than before.

Their shift was over, and Mel had almost talked herself out of going to the rooftop. But there she was, standing at the door. After a long pause, she pushed it open and stepped out into the night. Frank immediately looked up, surprised, like he hadn’t expected her to show. The moment their eyes met, the tension was there.

“I thought you were gonna bail tonight,” he started. “You’ve been avoiding me?”

She looks at him, arms crossed. “Everyone is talking about us.”

He stares back. “What?”

“Someone saw us outside this morning. They saw you kiss me.”

“Okay?” Frank squinted at her and shook his head. “It was just a peck on the head, Mel.”

“I know what it was,” she said. “But they saw what they wanted to see. Now I’m a homewrecker sleeping my way to the top.”

“That’s insane,” he said, stunned. “You know that’s not true.” 

“But that’s what everyone is thinking.”

“So now you’re mad at me?” His voice rose slightly, a hint of hurt creeping in.

“I’m not mad at you for being there,” she said, her words sharper than she meant them to be. “I’m mad that it means something now.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. “What does that even mean? You don’t want to be seen with me anymore?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Mel let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s just... different for you. You’re a man, and you’re my superior. You don’t have to think about how every little thing you do is going to be perceived.”

“Oh, come on—” Frank started, but she cut him off.

“I’ve worked so hard to get here,” she snapped. “And everything I’ve built is being overshadowed by my proximity to you.”

He looked away, nodding slowly. “Great. So being seen with me—what, damages your brand?”

“Jesus, Frank, that’s not what I meant—”

“Sure sounds like it,” he cut in. “God forbid anyone connects you to the junkie with a failing marriage, right?”

“That is not what I said. That’s not fair.”

“No,” he said, stepping slightly closer, eyes cold now. “What’s not fair is being treated like a liability by the one damn person I thought had my back.”

Mel looked like she’d been slapped. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It won’t happen again.”

Frank turned and walked to the door.

The rooftop was silent as it slammed shut behind him.

Mel lingered on the rooftop, her eyes tracing the skyline, but her mind was miles away. The cool evening air did little to settle the storm brewing inside her. She gripped the railing, trying to ground herself, but her thoughts spun faster than she could grasp them.

A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with frustration, before she finally turned and walked back inside. Her footsteps were quieter now, more deliberate, as if she were hoping the weight of everything would lighten as soon as she reached the staff lounge. She pushed the door open, the familiar scent of coffee and microwaved lunches offering no comfort.

Once inside, the door clicked shut behind her. She didn’t hesitate. Dropping down to the floor, she pressed her hands against her face, desperate to hide the mess of emotions that had been simmering just below the surface. Anger. Fear. Hurt. The weight of it all poured out in shaky breaths as she struggled to make sense of everything she’d been hearing.

She barely registered the door opening again until she heard Dr. Mohan’s voice, low and concerned.

“Mel?”

Mel turned away quickly, swiping at her face. “I’m fine. I’m just really tired.”

Samira didn’t buy it. Her shoulders softened as she stepped inside, closing the door gently. “I’ve heard the rumors,” she said, her voice careful. “It’s okay to be upset. Talk to me.”

Mel didn’t answer right away. Her throat was tight, her eyes stinging. Samira crossed the room, grabbed a box of tissues off the counter, and set them down before sitting beside her.

“I just—” Mel choked out, grabbing a tissue. “I worked too hard to be seen that way. And I tried to explain that to him, but it came out wrong, and now I think I just lost my best friend.”

Samira didn’t hesitate. She slid an arm around Mel’s shoulders and pulled her in. “So… it’s not true?”

Mel stiffened slightly and pulled back to look at her. “Did you think it was?”

“Of course not. I know you’re not like that, Mel. And Langdon’s—okay, he can be a pain in the ass sometimes—but he’s a good guy.”

Mel exhaled hard, eyes red. She leaned back against the wall, wiping at her face again. “It was nothing,” she said finally. “I was upset earlier—about a patient—and I went outside for some air. He found me there. I leaned on him, and he kissed me on the head. I didn’t even think about it, like, that’s just how we are. But someone saw it and decided it meant something else.”

She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Now people are saying I’m sleeping my way to the top. That the only reason Robby likes me is because Frank ‘took me under his wing.’ And I tried to tell him that I was scared—about how people see me—but he got mad. He thought I was saying being around him is bad for my reputation. And I couldn’t explain it right. I just—I think I pushed him away.”

Samira’s eyes darkened with sympathy. “My god. People are awful.”

Mel blinked fast, trying to hold it together. Samira reached for her hand.

“Mel. That’s not who you are. And anyone who’s worked a single shift with you knows it. You’re an incredible doctor. You held this place together while he was gone. That was you. Not him, not anyone else.”

Mel looked at her, something raw behind her eyes. “It just hurts that all it took was one innocent moment for people to rewrite my whole story.”

Samira squeezed her hand. “Then screw their story. You’ve got your own. And I know it doesn’t fix what happened with him, but he’ll come around. He knows who you are.”

Mel didn’t answer, but she nodded slowly, staring at the floor like she was still trying to find her footing.

Samira was quiet for a moment. Then: “You know… when I was an intern, there was a rumor going around about me, too.”

Mel looked over, surprised.

“Yeah,” Samira said, offering a half-smile. “Different context. The senior resident at the time didn’t like me and said I was too flirty with attendings to get ahead. Completely false, but it got around fast. And Langdon—he was only an R2 back then, but he overheard it, and he shut it down in front of everyone. Said I was the hardest-working intern he’d seen all year. Told them if they had time to gossip, they weren’t moving fast enough.”

“He did that?”

Samira nodded. “He did. He was the only man who stood up for me.”

Mel looked away, her lips pressed together, fighting the sting behind her eyes. “Santos said he’s hooked up with a lot of women here before. That he uses them and moves on, and everyone thinks I’m just the flavor of the day or something.”

“Santos talks like she’s got a personal vendetta. You know that.”

She paused, her voice softening. “Look, I don’t know him the way you do, but I’ve been working with him for three years. He’s a lot of things, Mel. Irritating. Intense. Maybe even a bit of a himbo. But he’s not a creep, and he doesn’t turn on the people he cares about. I don’t think you lost him. I think you just scared each other.”

She gave Mel’s hand another grounding squeeze. “You’re not alone. And you don’t have to carry how people see you on your own shoulders. You’ve already proven yourself a hundred times over, don’t let them make you forget that.”

Mel gave a small, grateful nod, her throat too full to speak.

“You gonna be okay?” Samira asked gently.

Mel sniffled, managing a crooked smile. “Eventually.”

Samira gave her one last squeeze, then stood. “Alright. You head out. I’ll cover if anyone comes looking.”

Mel blinked at her. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Mel. Seriously.”

Frank came down from the rooftop and almost immediately ran into Dr. McKay in the stairwell.

“Hey,” he said, reaching gently for her arm. “Got a sec?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—just steered her into the empty viewing room and shut the door behind them.

“What the hell, Frank?” Cassie blinked at him, half-stunned, half-amused. “You planning to confess a murder or something?”

“Have you heard anything about me today?” He asked, dead serious.

“Like what? That you’ve been going balls deep in Dr. King?”

His eyes widened in horror.

She cracked a grin. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

“Jesus, Cass.”

“I mean—yeah, I’ve heard it. Everyone’s heard it. But come on. I didn’t think it was true.” She tilted her head. “What the fuck happened?”

He exhaled and sat down, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Nothing happened, that’s what’s so stupid. She was upset. I was trying to comfort her. I kissed her on the head. That’s it. No secret rendezvous. No weird power play.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “You kissed her?”

Frank lifted his hands, palms out, with a helpless half-shrug, like What else was I supposed to do?

“You’re her superior,” Cassie said, not accusatory, just stating it. “That kind of thing hits different.”

“She said that,” he muttered, looking down. “I thought… she didn’t wanna be seen with me because I’m this junkie fuck-up and my reputation’s bad for her.”

Cassie studied him for a beat. “Frank… it’s not about your reputation. It’s about hers .”

He blinked, still not getting it.

“She doesn’t get the same benefit of the doubt. You screw up — hell, you did, in a huge way — and people still respect you. She leans on someone too much, and suddenly it’s whispers and rumors and assumptions.”

He shook his head, frustrated. “I thought I was helping. That’s just how we are, outside of this place. We’re close. It was an instinct.”

“I believe you,” Cassie said. “But at work? That instinct could cost her more than it ever would you. You’ve never had to walk into a room and wonder if someone’s already decided who you blew to get there.”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said, without blame. “You haven’t had to.”

He leaned back, eyes unfocused. “So I fucked up.”

Cassie sat beside him, voice gentler now. “You didn’t fuck up by caring. You fucked up by not listening when she was trying to tell you what it felt like for her.”

Frank winced.

“So go fix it,” she said, nudging his arm. “Say you’re sorry. Not for the rumor—screw that. But for making her feel like she was overreacting, because she wasn’t.”

“You think she’ll even want to talk to me?” he asked quietly.

“Only one way to find out,” Cassie said. “Just don’t go in swinging. She doesn’t need a defense. She needs an apology.”

He nodded slowly.

Cassie stood and stretched. “You’re not a creep, Frank. But sometimes you are kind of dumb.”

He looked up at her. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

She grinned. “Take it or leave it.”

At the door, she paused. “You hitting a meeting tomorrow? We can rehash this in front of our fellow junkie fuck-ups.”

Frank gave a soft laugh. “I’ll go. But I’m not talking.”

“Good. Chad’s given me enough material to keep the room entertained for hours.” She smiled, and lingered another beat. “Give her some space. Then reach out. The bullshit will blow over, and you’ll both be fine.”

Cassie shot him a half-smile and disappeared down the hall, leaving Frank alone with the silence.

He stayed there for a moment longer, staring at the floor, the weight of her words pressing in—hopeful, but heavy.

He didn’t go home right away.

Home, now, was a shared hallway, a shared mailbox. A stairwell where she might look up and see him, maybe think he was waiting. The thought gnawed at him more than he expected. So instead, he drove.

The house he used to call home was only a short drive away. When he arrived, the porch light was on. Inside, the noise of his kids’ laughter filtered through the windows. He parked in the driveway, taking a moment to just sit there, the engine still running, letting the sounds of their playful chaos wash over him.

He hadn’t been there in a while. The house felt smaller now, the air somehow heavier. Abby was in the kitchen, but she didn’t look up when he stepped inside. He didn’t need to say much; the silence between them had become a quiet language of its own.

The kids were wild as ever—running around, shouting, playing with toys, completely oblivious to the tension in the air. He joined in, letting them drag him into their world of dinosaurs and dragons. For a while, it felt like nothing had changed. He laughed along with them, letting their laughter drown out everything else. They climbed all over him, smearing pizza grease in his hair, and he let them, letting himself feel something solid for just a moment.

But eventually, bedtime came. The house quieted. Abby gave him a look when she passed him in the hallway, but she didn’t say anything. He knew the boundaries now.

He didn’t stay much longer. It was late, and he didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

Back in the car, he drove in silence. When he parked outside his apartment, he sat for a while, the engine idling. His phone felt heavier in his hand than usual. He looked at it for a long moment before typing the message:

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.

He waited, eyes fixed on the screen. But the usual instant reply didn’t come. The angel on his shoulder whispered that it was late, that she was probably already asleep. But the devil on the other side told him he’d screwed up beyond repair.

He sat in silence, chain-smoking through the remainder of his pack, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours. Finally, resigned, he trudged up to his empty apartment, raw and alone.

Chapter Text

After the rooftop confrontation, Frank volunteered himself for a temporary night shift role without a word. He claimed it was for the quiet, said he liked the darkness—but the truth was sharper. Nights meant fewer eyes, fewer questions, and fewer chances of running into Mel. It wasn’t about preference. It was about retreat.

But night shifts weren’t peaceful. The ER after dark was chaos distilled: car wrecks, bar fights, overdoses. Everything hit harder at night, and Frank threw himself into the mayhem like a man trying to outrun something. He was constantly in motion, hands deep in trauma bays, voice sharp over monitors and alarms. His body ached from the grind, but it was the stillness that gnawed at him. The minutes between patients were worse than any emergency. That’s when his thoughts circled back to her.

He replayed their argument more often than he cared to admit—how her voice had cracked, the hurt in her eyes when she said he didn’t get it. He hadn’t meant to be dismissive. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed until she forced it into the open. Now, the silence between them echoed louder than any of the rumors ever had.

He drafted messages and deleted them. Scrolled through old texts but didn’t send anything. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. Sorry? I miss you? I shouldn’t have shut you down like that? None of it felt like enough. And beneath it all was the lingering fear that maybe she was doing just fine without him.

Mel, meanwhile, buried herself in the chaos of the day shift. She was all business—calling orders, reviewing charts, chasing consults. If she stayed busy enough, she didn’t have to feel the empty space where Frank used to be. Her work was meticulous, almost obsessively so, and colleagues started commenting on how “dialed in” she was. But it wasn’t focus. It was avoidance.

She told herself the rumors had blown over. People weren’t whispering anymore, at least not where she could hear them. But that didn’t fix the knot in her chest every time she saw him in passing—walking briskly with his head down, never looking her way. They used to be able to talk through anything. Now, it felt like they didn’t know how to talk at all.

At home, the silence followed her. She stayed up too late, stared at their old text threads, half-composed messages and deleted them. She missed him—his dry humor, his honesty, the way he had always made her feel seen and understood. But maybe she’d been wrong about that too. Maybe she’d let herself believe in something that wasn’t as mutual as she’d hoped.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t how their story was supposed to go. One morning, after a restless night and too much coffee, she finally let herself act on it. No more waiting, no more guessing. She opened their message thread and typed:

Hey, you up for coffee today? We should catch up.

It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was honest.

His reply came quicker than she expected.

When and where?

And just like that, the stalemate cracked. The conversation they’d been avoiding was finally waiting on the other side of a coffee cup.

Mel stepped into the coffee shop and spotted Frank right away, already seated, absorbed in something on his phone. She hesitated for a beat before making her way over. When she reached the table, he looked up—and for just a second, something in his expression softened.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he echoed, setting his phone down, thumb lingering on the screen for a second before sliding it aside. “You found the place okay?”

“Yeah.” Mel nodded, shifting awkwardly before lowering herself into the seat across from him. “I figured it was best to pick somewhere I know so I wouldn’t get lost this time.”

Frank gave a small smile at that, leaning back in his chair. "Progress."

The silence that followed stretched a little too long. Mel glanced around the coffee shop—families chatting at nearby tables, baristas calling out names, the comforting bustle of life moving on around them.

“How’s night shift treating you?” she finally asked.

Frank let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Honestly? I kinda love it. Abbot’s great, Shen’s chill—neither of them hover like Robby does.” His fingers drummed against the table before he added, “Less history, I guess.”

Mel nodded but didn’t reply. Silence pressed in again, heavier this time.

“I miss you, though,” he said, voice quieter.

Mel glanced up. For a second, she didn’t know what to say.

“I miss you too,” she eventually admitted. “It’s been weird without you. Nobody has mocked my coffee order.”

Frank chuckled, but it didn’t last. The laugh faded, leaving a silence between them again.

He shifted in his chair. Picked up his coffee, then put it down without taking a sip.

Mel glanced out the window, watching a couple walk past, their laughter cutting through the quiet hum of the café.

Finally, Frank exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “I hate how we left things.”

Mel kept her gaze on the table. “Yeah,” she murmured.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he continued, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “About… all of it.” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how to start. “I didn’t handle it right.”

She looked at him now, waiting.

“Uh—” He let out a breath. “I was… defensive. You were bringing up real shit and I was more focused on proving I wasn’t the bad guy than actually listening to what you were saying.”

Mel exhaled slowly. She hadn’t been sure what she wanted him to say, but that? That was closer than she expected.

Frank stared down at the table, fidgeting with the sleeve of his coffee cup. “I know what it’s like to feel like people have already made up their mind about you,” he said. “But I never had to deal with all the extra weight you’ve got on your shoulders. I didn’t think about how much you had to lose until… well, until I made it worse.”

She swallowed. Looked away again.

Another silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, he looked up, his voice steady but soft. “I’m sorry, Mel. I should’ve listened.”

Mel took a breath, her eyes briefly dropping to her hands on the table as she considered his apology. She looked up after a moment, the space between them no longer as tense, but still holding something unspoken.

“I forgive you,” Mel said, her voice quiet but steady. “But I wasn’t mad at you. Not really. I knew you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

She looked down again, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.

“I think I was just… frustrated,” she went on, slower now. “That something that felt good and safe got turned into this… mess. And maybe more frustrated that I let myself think I was immune to it. That I’d done everything right and it still didn’t matter.”

She glanced up, meeting his eyes. “And I’m sorry, too. I was upset, and I probably didn’t explain myself well. I’m not ashamed of being your friend. I don’t think you’re bad for my reputation or whatever. If this had happened with someone else, I probably would’ve reacted the same way. Maybe worse.”

Frank shook his head slightly, like he didn’t want her taking any blame, but he let her finish.

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, voice soft. “You were clear. I think I was just…projecting” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his cup. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

She studied him for a moment. “Neither did you.”

His lips pressed into a faint, crooked smile. “Maybe we’re both just a little too good at blaming ourselves.”

A beat passed before he added, a bit more tentatively, “And… I’m sorry if that kiss caught you off guard. I wasn’t thinking—it just kinda happened. Reflex, maybe.” His smile turned sheepish. “Abby used to say my love language is physical touch. Might’ve been one of the only things she was actually right about.”

Mel looked down at that, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah…” she murmured. “She’s definitely right about that.”

She’d noticed it more and more. The way he’d sling an arm around Robby’s shoulders after a brutal shift, or rest a quick hand on Whitaker’s back, a grounding touch amid the madness. The way he always reached out without really thinking—an elbow bump, a shoulder squeeze, a touch to someone’s sleeve in quiet solidarity. It was never calculated or weird. It was just the way he moved through the world.

And with her—it was different. He’d sit close even when there was space, his arm draped behind her on the couch, fingertips brushing her shoulder without thought. He hugged her like it was instinct, like letting go too soon would be rude. It didn’t feel romantic. Just… familiar.

“It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” she said firmly, finally looking back up at him. “Not at all.”

Frank blinked, as if surprised.

“I liked it,” she added, a touch of warmth in her voice. “Just… maybe let’s keep that stuff off-campus next time.”

He looked down again and smiled. “Next time,” he echoed, barely audible.

The tension in his shoulders eased as he looked up, still smiling. “Deal.”

“So if we’re done trading apologies…” Mel took a breath and leaned in slightly. “There’s something I want to tell you. It’s personal.”

Frank caught the shift in her voice and expression. He set his coffee aside and gave her his full attention.

“It’s not something I really tell people.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “But I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s part of why those rumors hit me so hard.” Another breath. “I’m… asexual.”

Frank blinked, leaning in a little, making sure he’d heard her right. “Asexual?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, gaze dropping a bit. “At least, I think so. I just don’t really think about sex, and I’ve never needed it. Maybe I’d be open to it if it feels right with someone I trust… I don’t know.” She paused and looked away, self-conscious. “I guess the rumors rattled me because that’s not how I see myself. Like… everyone was seeing a version of me I didn’t even think could exist.”

He was quiet for a moment, then gave a small, thoughtful nod. “That makes sense.” He leaned back and paused. “I never thought about how different that would feel. Especially in your position.” He gave her a hesitant, kind smile. “But, hey. You’re you. And that’s enough, right?”

Mel met his eyes, relieved by his nonchalant reaction. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I don’t really talk about it. Not because I’m ashamed—just… it’s private and usually irrelevant. And people treat me differently when they find out. Like I’m broken, or naïve.”

Frank shook his head. “People get uncomfortable about shit they don’t understand. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. Just means they’ve got work to do.”

She studied him. “Do you understand?”

“I mean…” he looked around, searching for the right words. “Not in that lived-it way. But I don’t need to understand it to respect it.”

She looked over at him. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I kind of do,” Mel said. “Most people don’t get it. Or they make it weird.”

Frank shrugged. “You told me something important. I listened.”

That made her smile, small but real. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It should be,” he said softly. “I’m sorry it usually isn’t.”

They sat with that for a beat, the weight of it settling between them.

“And I’m sorry again…” he started, tentative. “If I’ve ever made you uncomfortable, if the kiss was too much. I know you said it was fine, but—”

“No,” she cut in, firm but gentle. “It was fine. I trust you. You can do whatever you want.” She raised a warning finger, deadpan. “Within reason.”

“Noted,” he laughed, holding up his left hand. The wedding band caught the light. “Still legally married, anyway. God forbid Abby gets me for adultery, too.”

Mel raised a brow, dry. “Funny you say that…”

Frank blinked. “Uh-oh.”

“Dr. Santos told me something wild,” she started. “She said you already had a reputation.” She hesitated briefly, like she suddenly wasn’t sure she should continue. “That you’ll sleep with anyone who throws themselves at you.”

Frank scoffed, then let out a low, dry laugh. “That old chestnut.”

Mel offered a half-smile, waiting to see how he’d take it.

“God, ten years of faithful marriage and I still can’t shake the slut allegations, huh?” He ran a hand through his hair, still smiling, though the amusement seemed hollow, forced. “Yeah, sure, I got around in college. I was drinking a lot back then. But I met Abby our senior year and never looked at anyone else.”

He leaned back again and relaxed, eyes shifting like he was deep in thought. “Garcia and Santos must’ve swapped war stories in the breakroom or something.”

Mel tilted her head, brow furrowed. “You went to college with Garcia?”

“Yeah, undergrad,” Frank nodded. “Same dorm, same major. She dragged me to orgo study groups, probably the only reason I passed.”

“And you both ended up here?”

“We matched here the same year.” He smiled a little at the memory. “We used to be kinda close, something between friends and rivals. She’s always been brilliant.” His smile dropped, but the warmth in his eyes remained. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

Mel gave a small nod, taking that in. “So… she told Santos about your college reputation?”

“Probably,” Frank said. “Garcia’s never been cruel, but she’s honest. Santos just knows how to spin it.”

“So it’s not true?”

Frank shrugged, trying to keep it light. “No. I’ve never crossed that line. Never even thought of it. But hey—why let the truth get in the way of a juicy rumor?”

He tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was a flicker of something bitter in the way he said it. He caught himself, then added with a crooked grin, “Besides, if I were sleeping with everyone who threw themselves at me, I’d probably be on major antibiotics.”

That pulled a real laugh from Mel, quick and genuine. “Jesus, Frank.”

“What?” he said, half-grinning. “I’m just saying, it’s a public health issue at that point.”

Mel snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

“You say that like it’s news,” he said, still smirking.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed strong. “You wanna know what else Santos said?”

“Is it funny?”

“It has potential.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

She leaned in slightly. “Apparently…” She drew it out the word and paused for dramatic effect. “You’ve got a list.”

“A what?”

“A list of women at PTMC,” she said, biting back a grin. “Supposedly waiting for your marriage to tank so they can shoot their shot.”

Frank laughed, genuinely amused. “Too bad for them,” he said once he caught his breath. “I don’t shit where I eat.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“I don’t fuck where I work. Even if I was single this whole time. That’s messy.”

“Yeah, and you’re a mess,” Mel chuckled. “And I guess it goes beyond the pitt. You’re pretty popular.”

Frank gave her a look, then smirked. “Well, in that case…”

She laughed and nudged his arm across the table. He clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded and slumped back in his chair with a grin. “Cruel.”

Then Mel’s expression shifted, just slightly. “She said she didn’t expect me to be first in line. On the list.”

“Oh,” Frank gave her a long look, then smiled. “You’re definitely on a list.”

Mel narrowed her eyes, unsure.

“A list of people I’d go to war for,” he finished.

She rolled her eyes again. “You sap.”

“Only for you,” he said, smiling, and this time it wasn’t a joke.

Mel looked at him, more serious now. “Well, anyway. You’ll be glad to know not everyone buys the man-whore narrative. Samira definitely doesn’t.”

“Dr. Mohan?” Frank raised an eyebrow, leaning back in the chair.

Mel nodded, giving him a reassuring look. “She told me about a nasty rumor that spread when she was an intern.”

Frank’s expression softened, a flicker of something nostalgic in his eyes. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

“She said you were the only man who stood up for her.” Mel’s voice was gentle but steady, like she was offering a quiet compliment.

Frank’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Well, someone had to. Robby might’ve, but he probably didn’t even notice. He was kind of a mess back then.”

“Still is,” Mel muttered, and they both cracked a smile.

“Anyway, it wasn’t like it was some grand gesture,” Frank said. “No one else said anything, so I did.”

Mel studied him for a second, the easy smile fading into something quieter. “You do that a lot.”

“Do what?”

“Stand up for other people. But you kind of let them tear you up.”

Frank blinked at that, surprised, but didn’t argue.

After a beat, Mel leaned forward, voice softer. “How do you not let the rumors get to you?”

“Because they’re mostly true, for me,” he said with a dry huff of a laugh. “I was a player in college, I’m an addict, I stole drugs. I fucked up and I owned it. But my work speaks for itself, and I know the people who matter have my back.”

Mel was quiet for a second. Then, “See… that’s the difference. They were all wrong about me.”

Frank’s brow furrowed, attention sharpening.

“I didn’t screw my way into anything. I didn’t lead you on, I didn’t manipulate anyone, I wasn’t trying to play some game.” She shook her head. “But that’s still the story they want to tell. And once it’s out there, it’s like I don’t even get to define who I am anymore.”

“I know, that sucks,” Frank sighed, his voice softer than before. "You’re just doing your job, and people still find a way to twist it. But you know who you are, and like I said, the people who matter have your back. Everyone else is just bored and clearly not working hard enough."

He looked away for just a second, and then met her eyes again with a cheesy grin. “Do you want me to yell at everyone? I can get access to a bullhorn real quick.”

She laughed and gave a small, tired smile. “You can’t fight gossip with logic.”

“No,” he said, nodding solemnly. “But I can fight it with chaos.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could do something outrageous to take the attention off of you.”

Mel raised an eyebrow tentatively. “Like what?”

“I could start swiping benzos again,” he grinned. “That’ll really get them talking.”

Mel’s smile faltered slightly as she gave him a sharp look. “Should you really be joking about that already?”

“It’s been months,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve gotta make it funny at some point.”

She didn’t answer right away, but the edge in her expression softened.

“Okay, fine,” she muttered. “What else you got?”

He leaned back, pretending to consider it. “I could steal a falcon from that aviary on Arch Street and train it to swoop down during staff meetings.”

Mel blinked. “Those are my options? Ruin your career with more drug scandals, or grand theft falconry?”

“Distraction is distraction,” he said, deadpan. “Nobody’s gonna be talking about you when there’s a bird of prey loose in the ED.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot with a plan,” he said, grinning. “Just say the word.”

She leaned back in her seat, still smiling. “Thanks, though. For making me laugh.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Even if my material needs work.”

“You opened with drug theft, Frank.”

“Alright, noted,” he held up his hands. “Dark humor’s a slow burn.”

She shook her head again, but the smile stayed. “You don’t have to make a scene to help. Just… having someone in my corner is enough.”

Frank sat there for a moment, the words weighing in his mind like they always did when it came to her. He didn’t respond right away, his thoughts drifting, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The silence felt like that space they’d carved together over time, where everything didn’t need to be said to be understood.

Finally, he broke the quiet, his voice steady but with an edge of something new. “Hey.”

She glanced up, meeting his gaze, waiting for the next thing, not sure what was coming but sensing something different.

“I love you, Dr. King,” Frank said, and though the words were simple, there was a vulnerability in them that he hadn’t let slip before. He didn’t add anything more—didn’t clarify it or try to make it sound light. It was just there, raw and unguarded.

For a split second, Mel’s world seemed to stop. Her heart skipped, her breath caught in her chest. She’d known it, had felt it in the spaces between their words, in the way they looked at each other when no one else was around. But to hear him say it, like that—out loud—made it real in a way nothing else had. Her cheeks flushed, heat rising to her face as she stared at him, speechless for a moment longer than she would’ve liked.

But then the words came, tumbling out in a rush, an echo of the truth she’d been carrying, even if she hadn’t put it into those words yet. “I love you too,” she said, her voice soft but steady, her smile stretching wider. Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, with a playful twinkle in her eyes, “You big slut.”

Frank stared at her for a beat, blinking in disbelief. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter.

“You did not just hit me with that,” he said between chuckles, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. “God, I love you even more now.”

“You are a big slut, though. You admitted it!”

Frank laughed harder. “Was, Mel. I’m reformed,” he responded with another shake of his head. “I mean, seriously, I was expecting like, a hug or something. But no. Big slut it is.” He put his hand on his chest, pretending to be scandalized. “I’m honored.”

Mel grinned, still riding the wave of his laughter. “Well, reformed or not, I’m glad you’re not completely nocturnal yet. When are you back on days?”

“Next week,” he responded. “Ellis had some kind of family emergency out of state. She’ll be back on Wednesday, so you’ll be stuck with me again.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

There was a beat—comfortable, unhurried.

“Is it weird,” she asked quietly, “that it already feels like we’ve known each other forever?”

Frank looked at her, something soft flickering across his face. “No. I was just thinking the same thing.”

She stood, smoothing her hands down her jeans. “Come over for dinner tonight?”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected that—but the smile came easy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll cook. You bring dessert,” she added, already turning toward the door.

“Done.” He rose too, bumping her shoulder lightly. “This mean I’m forgiven?”

She gave him a look—half playful, half warm. “You were never in trouble.”

And weirdly, that felt true—not just for tonight, but for the whole time they’d known each other. However short that might’ve been.

Chapter Text

At some point, they’d stopped knocking.

The keys had changed hands quietly—no big moment, no explanation. Just a mutual understanding: I’m around. Come in whenever. And they did. Now Frank would wander into her place without a word, head straight for her fridge, and grumble when she was out of creamer. Mel kept a sweatshirt of his by the door for when the hallway heater cut out. He fixed the loose hinge on her bathroom cabinet like it was his own. She kept a pair of her slippers at his place. Rearranged his kitchen cabinets whenever he wasn’t looking. They didn’t ask. They didn’t explain. It just made sense.

His apartment was still mostly bare bones—unpacked boxes stacked along the walls, furniture sparse and temporary. But he was now the proud owner of a couch and a bed frame, which he pointed out like he’d built them with his own two hands. And the kids’ room was fully furnished, quietly and carefully—colorful sheets, a bookshelf, their drawings taped to the wall. He was taking the split custody seriously. And though he still kept himself a little removed from it all, there was something about the space that had started to feel real. Like he knew, even if he hadn’t said it out loud, that this might not be temporary.

Still, it didn’t feel lonely. Not with the way Mel drifted in and out—curling up on his couch with her laptop, falling asleep in his hoodie, dragging him out for groceries or dragging him back to her place when he got stuck in his own head. He'd brew her coffee before she even got out of bed. She’d leave a post-it on his fridge when he missed dinner. They bickered over music, fell into long silences, finished each other’s half-formed thoughts. It didn’t feel like borrowing time. It felt earned.

Whatever this was, it had settled in without fanfare. Not just close—familiar, like a favorite song you didn’t know you remembered. Like they’d known each other longer than they had. Like the boundaries had blurred in the best possible way. Not messy, not confusing. Just home.

It was another month before Frank and Mel had a day off together. Frank let himself into Mel’s apartment with a quiet click of the door. The place was quiet, save for the soft buzz of an iPad. Becca was already up, perched at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, eyes glued to the screen.

“Good morning, Frank!” she said, her face brightening when she saw him.

“Hey, Becca.” He wiped sweat from his forehead, giving her a tired smile. “Wanna go to an estate sale with me?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah!” she exclaimed, a little louder than the early hour called for, but Frank didn’t mind.

He ruffled her hair gently before heading down the hall. Mel’s bedroom door was cracked open, the faint hum of her sound machine still going. Inside, she was buried under the covers, a tangle of limbs and sheets.

Frank crouched down next to her bed and nudged the mattress with his knee. “Hey. Mel. Wake up.”

A muffled groan emerged from under the sheets. “Why are you awake so early?” She rasped, clearly not a fan of the early start. 

“I didn’t sleep,” he said, keeping his eyes level with hers and his voice low. “Went for a jog, found an estate sale. Becca’s ready to go.”

“Since when do you jog willingly?”

“Bad cravings all night,” Frank said, his voice low. “Thought I could outrun it.”

That got her attention. She pushed back the blanket and blinked up at him, squinting through her sleep. Her tone softened immediately. “Did it help?”

Frank hesitated. “No. But maybe looking at some dead guy’s old shit will.”

“Fine,” Mel smiled, her eyes softening as she blinked the sleep away. “Give me a minute to get ready.”

“Take your time,” he said, still crouched beside her. “But if you’re not outside in twenty minutes, Becca and I are leaving without you.” He flashed a crooked grin.

She waved him off, watching him stand and disappear down the hall with a crease of worry still etched into her brow. Then she pulled the covers back around her, taking a breath before facing the day.

Mel stepped outside, zipping her jacket up against the morning chill. Frank was leaning against his car, hair still damp from the shower, sipping coffee from a dented travel mug. Becca stood eagerly next to him, practically vibrating with energy.

“Alright,” Mel said, stretching her arms over her head. “So where is this estate sale?”

Frank made a vague gesture down the street. “Just a few blocks that way. We can walk.”

Mel opened her mouth to object, but before she could get a word in, Frank was already setting his coffee down on the curb.

“Or,” he added, eyes lighting up mischievously, “we can run. Becca, you wanna race?”

Becca smirked. “Only if you wanna lose!”

Frank grinned, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

“Okay, no,” Mel cut in, stepping toward the car. “We’re not turning this into a neighborhood 5K. We’re taking your car.”

Frank paused mid-bounce. “Why?”

“Because this is the perfect chance to get stuff for your place.”

He frowned, already suspicious. “Mel…”

She was already opening the back door for Becca, who hopped in with a grin and buckled herself in. “I’m supervising,” Mel added, shutting the door and circling around to the passenger side. “No more curbside garbage. Real furniture.”

Frank shook his head as she slid into the front seat and pulled the door closed. “I just wanted a distraction, not a whole home makeover.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Mel fastened her seatbelt with a smirk. “Estate sales, thrift finds, creating a vibe—this is my Super Bowl.”

“Fine,” he let out a breath, then cracked a smile. “But if you try to make me buy a doily, I’m leaving you both on the curb.”

Mel made a face. “Please. I have taste.”

Not long later, they were weaving through the narrow hallways of a sagging old house, the floors creaking underfoot and the air thick with the musty scent of old leather and mothballs. Becca was practically vibrating with excitement, darting from table to table like she was on a treasure hunt.

Frank, predictably, was swept right up alongside her.

"Mel!" Becca called from across the room, holding up a horrifically ugly ceramic cat with lopsided eyes. "Frank says he needs this for the living room!"

Mel squinted at the lumpy, googly-eyed monstrosity. "Absolutely not."

Frank, with a deadpan expression, whispered loud enough for Mel to hear, “She doesn’t understand real art.”

Becca giggled and plunked the cat back onto a shelf. “Guess it’s a no-go,” she said, and Frank nodded gravely.

Mel pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re both banned.”

Ignoring her, Frank and Becca wandered deeper into the house, joking with each other like a chaotic little duo. Frank tried on an ancient tweed blazer three sizes too large, Becca found a half-broken lava lamp that barely flickered when plugged in, and the two of them spent a solid five minutes debating the merits of an abstract clown painting like they were planning an art exhibition.

Mel, on the other hand, was laser-focused. She was on a mission. She was curating. Cozy, lived-in. Not some haunted bachelor pad that screamed ‘recently traumatized dad living off takeout.’

Frank caught up to her, picking up an old record with a raised brow.

“Alright,” Frank said. “What's my vibe gonna be?”

Mel glanced over, already focusing on a small, rustic wooden bookshelf nearby. “What do you want it to be?”

“No idea,” he frowned, thinking for a moment. “I went straight from tweaked-out college kid to marrying Joanna Gaines’ biggest fan. I’ve never had a vibe.”

Mel chuckled, then stepped back and gave him a look—part appraising, part fond. He was a blend of someone who’d been through it and come out the other side with that easy, worn-in charm. The kind of guy who looked like he’d drink beer on a porch with friends, but still had a few deep thoughts tucked away under the surface.

After a beat, she nodded, mostly to herself. “You’ve got this… rustic, old-soul thing going on,” she said, smirking as she gestured at him. “Like you’d live in a cabin in the woods—but not the creepy kind. Yours would have weathered leather, mismatched mugs, maybe some vintage bookshelves. Comfortable. Practical. A little messy. Not too perfect.”

“I’m that?”

“Mm-hmm.” She grinned. “You’re not into trendy crap. You like things that feel real.”

Frank leaned back, crossing his arms with a dry smile. “Alright, if you insist.”

As they moved further through the house, Becca popped up holding a quirky mid-century modern lamp. “Hey, this lamp is cool! I don’t think it works, though.”

Frank took a look, impressed. “It is cool. We can rewire it.”

Mel blinked at him. “You can rewire a lamp?”

“Yeah,” Frank shrugged. “Not too hard. Want to take a side quest to the hardware store?”

Mel laughed, crossing her arms. “God, I haven’t cluelessly followed a dad around a hardware store in forever.”

Frank grinned, flashing a mischievous look. “Better keep me on a leash or I’ll lose half an hour staring at lawnmowers.”

They continued through the house, Mel selecting practical pieces just as she’d promised—nothing flashy, just solid, well-loved items to make Frank’s place feel like home. A simple wooden coffee table. A sturdy shelf. As she moved through the space, Frank and Becca kept browsing, laughing and joking as they unearthed little treasures.

By the time they finished, the car wasn’t packed to the brim but held the essentials: the coffee table, bookshelf, lamp, and a few small decorative pieces. Becca clutched a couple of throw pillows with pride, and Frank—looking more at ease than he had all morning—loaded the last piece into the trunk.

He closed it with a satisfied sigh. “Okay, I’ll admit it… this wasn’t terrible.”

“Told you I knew what I was doing,” Mel teased, climbing into the passenger seat.

Becca hopped into the back, still excited about the lamp. “We get to fix it, right?”

“Yep. Next stop: hardware store,” Frank said, starting the engine with a grin.

“Here we go,” Mel rolled her eyes. “Are you ready for dad mode?”

Frank laughed. “Are you ready for my full monologue on propane versus charcoal grilling?”

As they drove off, he caught sight of Becca chattering about the lamp’s “potential,” her face lit up with joy. And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like just a distraction. It felt like a start.

Mel glanced over at him, a quiet smile playing at her lips. Nothing needed to be said. Sometimes, the little things really did make all the difference.

After a bit of goofing around at the hardware store, they finally made it back to Frank's apartment. The car was unloaded, and now the three of them were scattered across the space, unpacking and sorting through their finds.

Becca sat cross-legged on the floor, the lamp in pieces in front of her. She was halfway through figuring out how to screw the base back together, while Frank knelt beside her, guiding her through the process with ease. He was clearly in his element, taking the role of instructor without missing a beat.

Mel had claimed the living room as her personal project. She worked efficiently, setting the coffee table down with a satisfied nod before moving on to arrange the mismatched chairs she'd found.

Becca held up the lamp, looking to Frank with a hopeful expression. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“Oh yeah, go ahead and plug ‘er in,” Frank said with a grin, his eyes gleaming with that quiet pride.

Becca twisted the switch, and the lamp flickered to life. She beamed, thrilled.

“Voila! Let there be light,” Frank announced dramatically.

Becca’s smile matched his. “I wanna do it again!”

Mel smiled at the scene, but her thoughts drifted. Even with Becca’s excitement and Frank’s easy warmth, there was a heaviness beneath it all—something quieter, unspoken. The cluttered apartment, the unopened boxes, the faint weariness in Frank’s eyes—it all settled around her like background noise she couldn’t quite tune out.

Eventually, Becca sprawled onto the couch, pulling out her phone. Mel kicked a box with a sigh, glancing at Frank.

He rubbed a hand over his face, a tired expression softening his features. “You didn’t have to turn this into a whole project,” he said, almost apologetically.

Mel shrugged, already stacking the pillows they’d bought. “Are you kidding? I can’t think of a better way to spend a day off. I love decorating.” She nudged the box further into the corner. “Especially when you obviously need it.”

She crouched by one of the boxes and began peeling the tape away. “Do you mind?” she asked as she lifted the lid.

“Not at all,” Frank answered, lowering himself to the floor with a grunt. “Most of this is junk.”

She smiled when she saw the mess inside — books, a crumpled old jacket, a small keychain with the logo of a band. The metal was worn, and one of the letters was almost rubbed off, but it was still clearly something Frank had carried for years.

"Everyone’s got junk," Mel murmured, picking it up and turning it over in her hands. She set it on the new coffee table, the keychain a small, simple reminder of a time long past.

Frank didn’t respond at first, his eyes following the keychain, lost in thought. Then, after a beat, he leaned back against the wall, his gaze drifting to the pile of boxes around him.

Another box yielded photo albums — thick, heavy ones with peeling corners and scuffed covers. Mel pulled one into her lap and opened it carefully, half-expecting Frank to stop her.

But he didn’t. He just watched her, quiet, as if he wasn’t sure what she’d find, either.

The photos were old — some yellowed Polaroids, others faded prints. The first picture made her smile. Frank, maybe four or five years old, sitting in a kiddie pool with an orange popsicle melting down his arm. Same dark eyebrows. Same serious little mouth. She let out a small laugh and turned the album toward him.

"Oh my God. Tanner is your clone."

Frank gave a quiet huff of agreement. "Yeah. Poor little guy."

She flipped the page, the pictures turning into a blur of birthdays, school pictures, messy Christmas mornings. In every shot, Frank grew a little older, a little taller, a little more guarded around the eyes.

"That's your mom?" she asked, tapping a photo of a woman in a faded denim jacket, laughing with one arm wrapped tightly around a much younger Frank.

"Yeah," Frank said, his voice softer now. "Mom’s the reason I’m not completely feral."

Mel smiled as she flipped the page, but her fingers slowed when the next photo came into view. A family portrait — the stiff, formal kind — with Frank and his sister posed between their parents. His mom wore a smile, but it was smaller now, tempered. His father stood rigid beside her, face set in a hard, unyielding line. The coldness in his eyes didn’t match the fake grin stretched across his mouth.

At first, Mel thought nothing of it. Family photos were always a little awkward, right?

But as her thumb hovered, she noticed the tension in Frank’s frame — arms straight at his sides, not relaxed but braced, like he was expecting something. His shoulders hunched, his head tilted slightly down, as if trying to disappear. Then she saw it: almost hidden behind his father’s bulky frame, a faint red imprint on Frank’s neck. A handprint. The edges of it still ghosted against his pale skin. Her breath caught. She turned the page.

The next photo showed Frank at around eleven or twelve, standing beside his father in the harsh light of an outdoor snapshot. The sunlight hit a bruise—dark, swollen—spreading across his cheek and under his eye. His mother stood close, smiling faintly, her expression strained. Frank’s eyes, though, were distant. Hollow. Focused somewhere far past the camera.

Behind her, Frank spoke—so low she almost missed it. “Took a lot of tries to figure out how not to piss him off.”

She didn’t respond, just turned the page, letting him say more if he wanted or remain silent if he didn’t.

The next photo made her pause for a different reason entirely. Frank looked about sixteen, sun-dazed and barefoot on a stretch of golden sand. He sat close beside a beautiful girl, his arm draped casually but intimately around her shoulders, their fingers laced like they’d done it a hundred times. She leaned into him mid-laugh, head tilted just slightly as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. Her deep brown skin glowed in the sunlight, rich and radiant, and her smile—wide, dazzling, utterly unguarded—looked like it could stop traffic. Wind tangled in her curls, and the faded edges of the photo caught the movement just enough to feel like it hadn’t fully stopped.

Mel lingered on it, feeling the weight of the moment captured there. She resisted the urge to glance at Frank, already sensing the shift in his energy — quieter, heavier.

"Looks like she meant a lot to you," Mel said, quietly, still caught up in the image.

"Yeah," Frank answered, just as soft. "First love, or whatever. Thought we had more time."

She finally looked at him, but his gaze stayed rooted on the photo, a muscle ticking faintly in his jaw.

Carefully, Mel slid it from the sleeve and flipped it over. On the back, written in looping, feminine handwriting, was a note: Keep this one! Need more days like this. A little heart punctuated the line.

The words felt light, almost carefree—like a snapshot of a moment when everything still seemed possible. Mel held the photo gently, as if the paper itself might carry some of that vanished hope. She held it out to him.

"You should frame it," she said, her tone a little hesitant. "It’s beautiful."

Frank took the photo from her slowly, brushing his thumb over the corner like he was afraid it might fall apart.

"Maybe," he said after a beat, voice low and rough around the edges.

He didn't look at her, but the way he tucked the photo carefully against his side, like it mattered, said enough.

The photos tapered off after that, leaving little evidence of his late teens and beyond. Perhaps the rise of digital technology had something to do with it, or maybe there just wasn’t much left worth capturing.

Mel let her fingers linger over a high school graduation photo, feeling the faint indentations of the paper as if the picture itself was a memory worn thin. Frank was taller now, but thinner, so much thinner, and the energy in his smile was completely gone. His eyes were empty and withdrawn, staring just past the camera, lips pressed tightly together. His mother stood beside him, smiling as best she could, but her expression was weaker, too.

She let the moment stretch between them, letting Frank breathe in the silence. She could almost feel the absence in that picture — like he wasn’t really there, even though the image said otherwise. Slowly, she turned the page.

The next photo made her pause again. It was a close-up shot from a party, someone else’s arms around Frank’s shoulders, grinning, leaning into him. But Frank’s smile was slack, forced, his eyes unfocused. He stood apart despite being surrounded by people, his expression out of sync with the laughter and lightheartedness that filled the rest of the picture.

Mel’s fingers brushed over the photo, tracing the empty space around him. “You don’t look like you were having much fun there,” she said softly.

“I wasn’t,” Frank cleared his throat, his voice low. “That was after.”

She didn’t ask for more, and he didn’t offer it. Mel closed the album carefully, her fingers lingering on the worn cover as if trying to memorize its texture. When she looked up, there was a quiet understanding in her eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said softly, giving him space to leave the past where it was. “But, you know, I’m here if you ever want to.”

Frank shifted uneasily, his gaze drifting to the small pile of things they’d collected from the estate sale. Running a hand through his hair, he let out a slow breath—like trying to steer them away from the heaviness of the photos and back toward something lighter.

“You wanna eat something?” he asked finally.

A small smile tugged at Mel’s lips. “Do you have anything other than Red Bull and yogurt this time?”

He grinned. “I might have a stick of butter somewhere we can take turns gnawing on.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in suspicion.

“I’m joking,” he said quickly. “I own real food now, Mel. I’m evolving.”

She laughed, the sound easing the tension between them. “Alright then. Lead the way, Chef.”

Lunch was quiet—just grilled cheese sandwiches, a handful of kettle chips, and the last of the grapes that hadn’t shriveled in Frank’s fridge. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm, and Becca’s chatter filled the silence easily. She was still amused by the estate sale, asking Mel if the funky ceramic cat they’d left behind was cursed or just hideous.

Mel didn’t seem fazed by the randomness. She rarely was.

They didn’t linger once they were done. Becca brought her plate to the sink and drifted off to reorganize the pillows. Mel rolled up her sleeves again like she hadn’t just spent the morning elbow-deep in cleaning supplies and Allen wrenches. She moved through the apartment with quiet efficiency—pulling items out of boxes and choosing a meaningful spot for each thing.

Frank lagged behind, plate in hand, watching her from the kitchen. The place already looked different. Not just cleaner—warmer. Like someone actually lived here. Like someone cared.

He dried his hands on a dishtowel and wandered into the living room.

“You know, I thought I was doing fine with an air mattress and a folding chair,” he said, half-laughing as Mel positioned a small lamp on the new side table.

“You weren’t,” she replied, not looking up.

“Appreciate that.”

“Not a judgment. Just a fact.”

He ran his hand along the top shelf of the bookcase they'd wedged into place earlier. “This feels… weird.”

Mel glanced over. “Weird how?”

“Like I’m borrowing someone else’s place. Like someone’s gonna walk in and tell me I don’t belong here.”

Becca, from the couch: “You live here, Frank. That’s literally what this means.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, then sat down beside her. For a moment, he just looked around the room like it might disappear if he stared too hard. Becca nudged his shoulder with her own, hugging one of the new pillows to her chest.

“You’re allowed to have nice things,” she said gently. “That includes people.”

Frank didn’t respond right away. He looked from her to Mel—who met his gaze steadily. No pity. No awkwardness. Just the same quiet understanding she always gave him.

“I don’t really know how to say thanks,” he said.

“You don’t have to,” Mel replied. “Just keep the plant alive.”

He glanced toward the leafy green thing she’d put on the windowsill earlier. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re a doctor. It’s a fern.”

That got a real laugh out of him—softer, this time. He leaned back into the couch, like he was finally starting to believe the place might actually hold him.

There was still more to do—books to shelve, art to hang, whatever was in Becca’s tote bag—but for now, it was enough. Quiet. Settled.

After a while, he stood. “All right. Let’s finish this.”

Mel didn’t miss a beat. “Already ahead of you.”

They worked in companionable silence for the next hour—Mel organizing books, Becca experimenting with different configurations for the living room pillows, and Frank moving from task to task like he was still catching up to the fact that this was actually his life now.

Eventually, the room started to settle around them. The bookshelf was half full, the lamp worked with only minor electrocution risk, and the apartment had started to feel like something lived in—something his.

Frank glanced at the clock on the oven and exhaled quietly. “I’ve got a meeting soon.”

Mel didn’t look surprised. “You heading out now?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You guys can hang here if you want. You don’t have to keep working or anything—I mean, unless you really want to argue about curtain rods for another hour.”

Becca grinned without looking up. “I’m winning that argument, by the way.”

Frank gave a quiet laugh, but there was something tired behind it—overwhelmed, but grateful. He looked around again, like he still couldn’t believe this was his space. “I mean it,” he said, more to Mel now. “You don’t have to stay. You’ve already done way more than I expected.”

“I’m not in a rush,” Mel shrugged like it was nothing. “Are you coming over for dinner after?”

“Nah, gonna see the kids,” he responded. Then, after a beat: “I’ll stop by later, though, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” she said simply.

Frank grabbed his keys off the counter and gave the room one last glance before heading for the door.

It was quiet after he left. But no longer empty.

The meeting had run long, but he didn’t mind. It felt good to be surrounded by people who understood what starting over meant—no explanations needed. No questions about the past. No side-eyes or half-hidden judgments—just the shared effort of staying grounded. It was the kind of stillness he hadn’t known he needed until it was finally there.

It was a striking contrast to his visit with the kids—in the best way. Tanner demanded to show him every single LEGO structure he’d built since Tuesday. Chloe clambered into his lap, clutching a juice box, utterly uncoordinated. Abby, in her usual understated way, packed him leftovers and smiled when he thanked her.

By the time he got back to Mel’s apartment, the hall was quiet, and the day’s hum had dulled into something manageable. He knocked lightly, then eased open the door—already unlocked.

Mel stood barefoot in the kitchen, two mugs in hand. “Go sit,” she said without looking up. “Balcony’s open.”

He didn’t argue.

Mel nudged the balcony door open with her hip, balancing two mugs of tea. The evening hadn’t cooled much—just enough to soften the heat into something bearable. Lights shimmered through the city’s haze, distant and slightly blurred.

He took the mug, nodding thanks, then sank back heavily—posture loose but worn around the edges. The kind of tired that settles deep in the muscles.

They sat quietly for a few minutes. The faint buzz of traffic drifted up from the street below, occasional honks and shouts slipping into the background. Frank’s mug rested between his hands, untouched. Mel watched him over the rim of her own.

“You okay?” she asked after a moment, not pushing—just checking in.

Frank exhaled low. “Yeah. Just… beat.” He took a sip, then looked at her. “Meeting went fine. Kids are great. I needed that.”

Mel nodded, letting silence settle again before she said, “We didn’t break anything while you were gone, if you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well—maybe a little.”

“Your lamp’s still standing. Becca re-stuffed a throw pillow with spare socks, though.”

Frank snorted softly, the sound more breath than laugh. “Perfect.”

For a while, neither spoke. A siren wailed faintly, fading into the hum of traffic. Mel sat with one leg tucked under her, the mug warm in her hands.

“I wasn’t trying to pry earlier,” Mel said after a quiet stretch. Her voice was steady, not defensive. “With the photos.”

Frank didn’t look at her, but he nodded. “I know.”

“They just… caught me off guard. Some of them.”

He nodded again—slowly, unsurprised.

“If you ever want to talk about it—”

“Not now.” His voice was calm. Not abrupt, just certain.

Mel didn’t press. “Alright.”

“It’s not you,” he finally said, turning to her with a softer expression. “It’s just… easier keeping some things where they are.”

Her mouth curved in a faint, understanding smile. “I get that. I’ve got a drawer full of stuff I pretend doesn’t exist.”

That drew a quiet, genuine laugh from him. “Yeah. I figured.”

She set her mug down and reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against his knee. He turned his palm up in invitation, and she threaded her fingers through his.

“You’ll give me a warning, though, right?” she said. “If I’m poking too close.”

“You’ll know.” His thumb brushed hers once. “I’ll get that look.”

“The one that says ‘shut the hell up’?”

“Exactly that one.”

They sat like that for a while, quiet but connected. The breeze picked up, lifting the edge of Mel’s hair, and Frank’s thumb kept tracing the same slow circle across her hand.

She glanced back toward the door. “You know… you did good today. Place actually looks like someone lives there.”

“I barely touched anything,” he said finally. “You and Becca did all the work.”

Mel shrugged, sipping her tea. “You did more than you think.”

He let out a quiet breath, the kind that sounded like it came from the soles of his feet. “I didn’t expect to feel this…” He paused, trying to find the right word. “Full. Tired. Good. I don’t know.”

Mel didn’t press. She just gave him space to say it how he needed to.

“I think I was bracing for the whole day to suck,” he said, his voice low. “After last night... I don’t even know what set it off. I was fine, and then out of nowhere—I couldn’t stop thinking about using. Like a switch flipped.”

He rubbed at his jaw, eyes unfocused.

“It got so bad, I felt like ripping all my skin off. But I just ran for hours.”

Mel didn’t interrupt. She just sipped her tea with her free hand and let the moment settle.

Frank exhaled, a long breath that deflated his whole frame. “I didn’t talk about it at the meeting. Couldn’t find the words.”

“You don’t have to find them now either,” Mel said, steady but soft.

“I know,” he said. “But it’s different with you.”

There wasn’t anything romantic in it—just a quiet truth. A kind of trust that had taken root in the silence between them.

“I hate that it still happens,” he said. “I feel like I should be further along.”

“You are,” Mel started. “You ran it off. You found a healthy distraction. You’re talking about it. I don’t think you would’ve done any of that a few months ago.”

Frank looked away, letting the words settle before he shook his head slightly. “Doesn’t always feel that way.”

Mel watched him quietly, then nodded. “I get that. But it’s not about a finish line, right? Just... showing up, again and again.”

He gave a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit. “Yeah. Showing up. Even when it sucks.”

They fell quiet again, the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy. Just... full. The wind had settled, and the soft scrape of tree branches tapped lightly against the window.

Mel ran her thumb gently across the back of Frank’s hand, her touch light, almost absentminded. The silence between them had settled into something warm and easy, but she could still feel the shape of a question forming just beneath it.

“You’ve never talked about rehab,” she said softly.

Frank didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head a little, thoughtful. “I guess not.”

She glanced at him, tentative but steady. “What was it like? What did you do there?”

He gave a short exhale, the kind that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It was like… summer camp meets prison meets military training.”

Mel huffed out a surprised laugh. “That bad?”

Frank smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I don’t know. I guess it wasn’t all bad.”

He paused, his expression shifting. “I started in detox for like… a week. I thought I was gonna die there. They had me on this super fucked-up Valium taper. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop shaking. I don’t remember much of that week, honestly. It felt like thirty seconds and thirty years at the same time.”

Mel didn’t say anything. She just watched him, her fingers never leaving his.

“Then I went to the general rehab unit. It was almost entirely healthcare people—surgeons, nurses, paramedics. But nobody gave a shit about titles or education or specialties. We were all there for the same reason. It came up sometimes, what you used to do, what you lost, but it didn’t change anything.”

He rubbed his thumb along her knuckles, slow and absent. “They were really hard on me at first. I think I went in acting like addiction was something that just happened to me, like I was the victim of it, you know? Like I didn’t really do anything wrong, it just... appeared. And there were guys there who’d been arrested, OD’d, lost everything, and I thought, well, at least I didn’t screw up that bad. But it’s all the same thing, doesn’t matter how clean you looked doing it. They called me out real quick.”

He let out a soft snort, the memory half-amused, half-wincing. “There was this one counselor, used to be an anesthesiologist. Lost his license, never got it back. Guy was brutal. First group session he told me to wipe the smug look off my face and stop acting like I was better than everybody else. Said if I didn’t want to be there, the door was always open—but so was the cemetery.”

Mel’s eyes widened slightly at that.

“Did that change your attitude?”

“No, I stayed smug for, like, two weeks.” He thought about it for a moment, eyes drifting to a spot across the parking lot. “There was this guy, an ortho surgeon from Michigan. Big personality, even bigger ego, you know the type. One day in group therapy, he just… cracked. Started sobbing out of nowhere. Said he missed his daughter’s wedding because he was too high to get on the plane.”

Frank’s voice was quiet now, measured.

“That got through to me more than anything else. I’ve got kids. They’re gonna have graduations, weddings, all that stuff. And I want to be there. And it hit me—I never really thought about the long term. I just dealt with whatever was in front of me. The next shift, the next crisis, the next fix.”

He swallowed. “That same day, the therapy dogs came. This goofy little three-legged mutt named Reggie climbed into my lap and wouldn’t leave. And I lost it. I laid on the floor and cried for an hour.”

Mel’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “With the dog?”

“Yep.” Frank smiled too, faint and sheepish. “It was pathetically dramatic. But I think I actually started trying after that.”

“That’s not pathetic,” she hesitated as she brushed her thumb gently across his hand, searching for the right words. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How sometimes it takes seeing someone else hit rock bottom to realize what you’re risking.”

Frank nodded, eyes distant for a moment. “Yeah. That was the first time I really thought about what I might lose. Not just my career.”

After a pause, Mel asked, “Did you get along with everyone there?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Frank answered with a shrug. “I tried not to get too close. My roommate was cool—a pediatrician from Indiana, same age as me. We didn’t see each other much during the day, but we’d stay up after lights out, just talking about everything except why we were there. Medicine, sports, movies, crazy college stories. It was the only time I felt kinda normal, like I wasn’t being watched or analyzed, just hanging out with someone my age.”

He smiled a little at the memory. “And there was this guy, Ray—big burly paramedic from Staten Island, thick accent and all. He called me Mayberry because I was the only Southerner in the place. We played gin rummy every single day but never kept score. He was hilarious. Kept things light when everything else felt like sludge.”

Frank shifted, his thumb still tracing slow, absent circles on the back of her hand. The air between them had settled into something close to ease, even with everything that had just been said—maybe because of it.

Mel let the quiet linger a moment, then asked, “Were you allowed visitors?”

He nodded, eyes still on the city lights. “Oh yeah. I just… didn’t really want any. Abby came almost every week. Brought pictures, told me how the kids were doing.” His mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “After a while it felt like she didn’t even want to be there. Like she came because she felt like she had to.”

Mel didn’t say anything right away. She just shifted closer, letting their shoulders brush.

Frank’s voice was quieter when he added, “Robby called once, pretty early on. Asked if he could visit.”

“Did he?”

“I told him to fuck off,” Frank said, with a dry, humorless huff. “I thought he was still mad at me. And I was still really mad, too.”

Mel looked at him, her voice gentle. “Are you still?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled, slow. “No. I don’t know. We still haven’t really talked about it like we probably should’ve. Like… I should’ve thanked him.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, eyes flicking away. “We got into it my first day back. I told him he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father.” A pause. “Kinda cringe.”

Mel didn’t tease him for it. She just gave his hand a small squeeze. “I’ve heard way more cringe than that.”

Frank huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, with the faintest smile. “He probably needed to hear it.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, then nodded a little. “Maybe.”

They sat with that for a moment. Not heavy. Just quiet.

After a pause, Mel’s voice softened. “You still think about using a lot?”

Frank’s thumb stilled for a second, then resumed its slow circles. “It’s kinda always there,” he said, without hesitating. Then, softer, “but it gets quieter. With you.”

“Well, I’m glad you talk about it now,” Mel gave a small, half-smile. “And if dragging me out of bed at the crack of dawn for estate sales helps, I’ll do it every day.”

Frank huffed a soft laugh, the sound low and tired. “I don’t wanna make it your problem every time,” he said, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

Instead, he lifted it gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles—quiet, almost absent-minded. His eyes didn’t quite meet hers when he added, softer, “But thank you.”

Mel didn’t answer. She just held onto his hand, steady and sure, like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

They sat together a while longer, the city hum fading behind the calm between them.

Finally, Frank glanced at his watch. “I should probably get to bed. Early start tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Mel agreed, standing to switch off the balcony light. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” he said, voice low but sincere.

As the night wrapped around the quiet apartment, the easy presence between them felt like its own kind of solace.

Chapter Text

It was early afternoon, and for once, the shift had eased by without a hitch. Over the past few weeks, things had settled—no major incidents, no unexpected explosions of tension. Langdon stood by the nurse’s station, casually flipping through some charts when Santos approached, tablet in hand.

"Hey," she began, her tone matter-of-fact. "Sixteen year old boy in South 15, looks like a spiral fracture. Think it needs surgery?"

Langdon took the tablet from her, his eyes immediately locking onto the x-ray. He scanned the image for a long moment, and it wasn’t just the obvious present injury that made him pause. He looked over the rest of the x-ray, spotting the uneven healing of other injuries.

"Did he say how it happened?" Langdon asked, his gaze still fixed on the x-ray.

"Yeah," Santos replied. "Said he slipped in the shower. Tiny gash on his forehead too, but neuro’s clear and it doesn’t need sutures." She paused, then asked, “Think ortho will take him to the OR?”

Langdon gave the x-ray one more glance before turning back to Santos, his expression unreadable. "I’ll talk to him."

Santos sighed, her impatience thinly veiled. 

Langdon made his way to South 15. The kid was sitting on the bed, his posture stiff and defensive. His face was pale, and he had his arm crossed tightly across his chest, eyes fixed firmly on his sneakers. He didn’t look up as Langdon entered.

"Hey, man," Langdon greeted softly, his voice steady but warm. "I’m Dr. Langdon. You said you fell in the shower?"

The kid didn’t meet his gaze. He just nodded, and he spoke just loud enough to be heard. "I was getting out. The floor was wet. I fell weird."

"I hate when that happens," he said, with a gentle smirk. He took a slow step closer and sat at the patient’s bedside.

The kid didn’t respond, but Langdon could see his hand tighten slightly, gripping the edge of the bed. Langdon’s eyes flicked to the boy’s arm, where the fracture was clearly visible.

"So, I took a look at your x-ray," Langdon continued, keeping his voice calm, and turned the tablet towards the kid’s line of sight. "You’ve got a spiral fracture in your humerus, which is a pretty specific kind of break. You’ve probably seen it in movies—sometimes they call it a ‘twist’ fracture. It happens when your bone gets twisted or snapped, usually from a forceful motion." He paused, gauging the kid’s reaction, but the boy’s face remained closed off.

Langdon continued, "We’ll keep the splint on it, and manage your pain levels. An orthopedic surgeon will be down soon to get you a full treatment plan."

The boy didn’t respond, still avoiding eye contact. Langdon could feel the tension in the room, the unease hanging thick in the air.

Langdon hesitated for a moment, then added, "I’ll have to call your parents. Just need to let them know you’re here."

The kid flinched slightly, his face tensing, but still didn’t speak.

"Listen," Langdon said after a beat, his voice softening, "You're safe here. You don’t have to talk about anything, but if you ever want to, you can find me here anytime."

He still didn’t respond, but his eyes flicked up, just briefly, as if considering it. Langdon gave him a soft nod before turning and leaving the room, walking back to the nurse’s station.

“So, is it surgical?” Santos asked, waiting with a raised eyebrow.

“Unlikely,” he replied, his voice flat. “But still, page ortho.” He paused, taking a steadying breath. “And page Kiara. She can get CPS involved.”

“CPS?” Santos looked at him, surprised. “I mean, could be roughhousing. Sixteen-year-olds do dumb stuff.”

Langdon didn’t meet her eyes, keeping his voice clinical. "A spiral fracture usually indicates more forceful trauma. His story isn’t consistent with the severity of the injury." He leaned over and flipped the tablet’s screen back to the x-ray result. “And look at that,” he pointed. “It’s tiny, but that’s a greenstick fracture that didn’t heal properly.”

He finally looked up at her, but his tone stayed the same. “Keep him splinted and on six hundred of ibuprofen every six hours. Hold off on opioids unless ortho recommends it. And if his parents come in hot, have security ready.”

“Got it,” she replied, her nod deliberate, her eyes lingering on him for a second longer than usual. There was a flicker of something in her expression, but she didn’t say another word.

Langdon turned and noticed Robby, his usual confident stride heading their way. Langdon caught his eye, and Robby slowed, pulling up alongside him.

"Spiral fracture," Langdon said, holding out the tablet. "Kid says he slipped in the shower."

Robby’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the x-ray. "Yeesh. That’s doubtful."

Langdon nodded, pointing to a few spots on the image. "Other injuries in various stages of healing." He traced his finger over a tiny crack in the bone, barely noticeable. "This one's old. Looks like it didn’t get proper attention."

“Huh.” Robby’s gaze shifted, analyzing the x-ray further. "You called CPS?"

"That’s the plan," Langdon replied, his tone flat. "Santos was just about to page Kiara."

Robby raised an eyebrow but gave a quick nod. "Alright. Good catch." He took the tablet from Langdon and handed it back to Santos. "Keep me posted."

Santos nodded as Robby moved on, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway.

“Sorry,” Santos said quietly, her gaze flicking to the tablet before looking at Langdon. "Probably shouldn’t have made assumptions."

Langdon scratched at his jaw, considering her words for a moment. "Just gotta read between the lines sometimes," he said quietly, his tone neutral but not unkind.

She gave a quick nod, her expression softening a little. "Yeah, guess you’re right."

"I usually am," Langdon winked, lighter and a little playful.

With that, he turned toward the ambulance bay, already tapping the bottom of his cigarette pack against his palm.

Langdon leaned against the brick wall of the ambulance bay, cigarette burning steadily in the quiet air. The smoke curled around his fingers, slow and steady — the one quiet moment he could still control. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension melt away with the haze.

He heard the door open behind him, followed by the soft tap of shoes on the pavement. Mel stepped into view, her hands clasped behind her.

"What was that about?" she asked — tone light, but her eyes searching.

Langdon flicked the cigarette down and crushed it under his heel. He didn’t turn to face her right away, taking a slow breath to steady his thoughts.

"Nothing," he replied shortly, voice steady but guarded. "Kid in there going through something. Already did my part. Not my call how it plays out from here."

Mel’s eyes softened with a quiet understanding. She took a small step closer but didn’t press. “It’s okay to be affected by these cases. You can talk about it.”

He nodded, exhaling a slow breath. "I know," he said, his voice quiet. "Just kinda wanna be alone with this one, if that’s okay."

“Oh.” She hesitated, studying him for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. For sure.”

Just as she was about to turn and leave, Langdon straightened up, his voice softer now.

“I’m gonna skip the roof later,” he added. “Going to a meeting. I can come over after?”

“Of course,” she said, a small grin tugging at her mouth. “Dinner? What level of greasiness are you feeling?”

He smiled back, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I’ll bring Cane’s.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Gross. Love it.”

They exchanged a brief, knowing look, the kind that didn’t need words, before Mel turned and disappeared back into the hospital. Langdon stood there for a moment longer, his thoughts still a little heavy.

Langdon didn’t go straight back to work. He ducked into the staff bathroom, the door thudding shut behind him, final and heavy.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead, too loud, too white. He gripped the edge of the sink and stared down at the porcelain for a long moment, knuckles white. Then he wrenched the faucet on, shoved his hands under the freezing water, and splashed it hard over his face.

Once. Twice. Again.

Water dripped from his chin, clung to his lashes. He pressed both palms flat to the counter and bowed his head, breath coming fast now. Not quite panic—but close enough to taste it. He inhaled deep through his nose, forced himself to hold it. Let it go. Again. Again.

Still not enough.

He ran a hand down his face. Jaw tight. Eyes squeezed shut. One small, ugly sound escaped him—a breath that caught halfway between a scoff and a choke.

Whitaker stepped out of the stall just as Langdon splashed cold water over his face again, leaning heavy on the edge of the sink. He didn’t say anything at first—just moved to the next basin, turned the faucet on, and started washing his hands.

“...You okay?” Whitaker asked after a beat, glancing over.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You got any good cases?”

Whitaker paused, blinking. “Uh—yeah, actually.” He shook water off his hands and reached for a paper towel. “I wanted your take on this guy in Central 14—low-grade fever, diffuse maculopular rash, heart rate’s been running in the 110s, but no leukocytosis. LFTs are a little elevated, and platelets are borderline low. It’s weird.”

Langdon nodded once, wiping his face dry. The mirror caught him mid-blink, just long enough to register how tired he looked.

“Alright,” he said, already pushing open the door. “Let’s do it.”

They walked out together toward the nurse’s station, Whitaker keeping pace beside him. Langdon was already asking questions by the time they got to the board.

They stepped out of Central 14, door clicking shut behind them. Langdon didn’t wait—he was already halfway down the hall, eyes fixed ahead.

Whitaker hurried to catch up. “So I was thinking, maybe rickettsial? But he doesn’t have the right exposure—”

“Then why bring it up?” Langdon snapped, not breaking stride. “Lead with what’s relevant.”

Whitaker fell quiet, startled. “Okay. Yeah.”

A beat. Robby glanced up from the chart rack a few feet away, not quite looking at them.

“Watch your tone, Langdon,” he said, mild as anything.

Langdon didn’t answer. Just kept walking, shoulders tight, footsteps quick.

Whitaker followed in silence until they reached the corner. Then, tentative: “Hey… I’m sorry. If I interrupted something, uh… in the bathroom. If you were having a moment, or—”

“You didn’t,” Langdon said without looking at him.

“It just looked like maybe—”

“Not everything means something, Whitaker.” His voice was flatter now. “Are you suddenly in a psych rotation?”

He turned the corner without expecting an answer.

Whitaker didn’t follow.

By late afternoon, the ER was running hot with motion and noise, every corner packed with movement and purpose. Langdon walked past the nurse’s station with a tablet in hand, scrolling through finalized lab results. One line caught his eye—confirmatory. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound of grim satisfaction, and angled toward where he'd last seen Whitaker. He was halfway through the motion when he caught fragments of the CPS worker’s conversation with Kiara and the teenager in South 15.

The door to the room suddenly slammed open so hard it ricocheted off the wall.

“Who the fuck called CPS?” the boy’s father thundered, voice cracking through the ER like a gunshot. Heads turned instantly. Every conversation died mid-sentence.

Langdon didn’t flinch. He set the tablet down slowly on the counter.

“Sir, let’s go back—”

The father stalked toward him, fast. Shoulders squared, fists clenched. The kind of fury that made people step back on instinct.

“Was it you? You got a death wish or something?” he spat.

“Take a step back, sir.” Frank’s tone was firm, flat.

Everything exploded at once. Dana’s voice shot across the department—“Security!”—just as Donnie bolted from behind a curtain and Perlah vaulted the nurse’s station with a sharp curse.

"What, you’re gonna hide behind your little team?" He sneered, stepping forward closer, sizing Langdon up like they were two seconds from a bar fight. “Or you gonna handle this like a man?"

Langdon’s face stayed blank. Calm. He reached up, pulled his stethoscope from around his neck, and tossed it onto a rolling chair like it weighed nothing.

“Go ahead. Hit me,” he said quietly. “Or do you only hit your ki—”

The punch cracked across his face before the sentence finished. Fist to cheekbone, brutal and fast. His head snapped sideways—but he didn’t fall, didn’t flinch.

Langdon turned back slowly. His cheek was already swelling, a vivid flush spreading beneath the skin. Blood trickled from one nostril, smeared faintly across the edge of his face—but his eyes stayed level. Steady.

Donnie had closed in, cutting between them fast. Perlah flanked wide from the other side, voice low and sharp—“Langdon, step back.”

But he didn’t.

“That’s it?” he said, quiet and calculated, almost bored. He stepped in closer, not aggressive—just solid, unbothered. “Come on, big man. Hit me like you mean it.”

The father’s jaw flexed. His fists balled again, shoulder twitching like he might swing—

Heavy boots pounded down the hall. Security, closing in.

Then—

“HEY!”

Robby’s voice cracked through the tension like a shockwave.

He was there in an instant, shoving an arm out across the man’s chest, forcing him back just as two security guards lunged in from behind. They grabbed the father by both arms, dragging him away as he cursed and struggled.

No one was listening anymore.

Langdon stood still. Breathing even. He wiped the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand, then reached down and picked up his stethoscope like he’d dropped a pen.

Then turned away.

Only once the shouting faded did Robby turn to Langdon — grabbing him by the elbow and steering him to the other side of the nurse’s station.

"What the fuck," Robby muttered. “You okay?”

Langdon gave him a half-laugh, cocky and dry. "You kidding? My four-year-old could hit harder than that."

Robby didn’t buy it. He shoved him into a chair, turned his face toward the light. The swelling on his cheekbone was already blooming deep red.

"Hold still," Robby said, more a growl than a request. He flicked his penlight out of his pocket and checked Langdon’s pupils — sharp, reactive. No sluggishness.

Dana passed him an ice pack, eyes wide. “Holy hell. You know you’re not supposed to invite them to hit you, right?”

Langdon flashed a crooked grin. Princess just shook her head behind the desk—equal parts disbelief and concern. Perlah hovered nearby, arms folded, watching closely.

When Robby dropped the penlight, Langdon leaned back with a reckless sort of ease. “I’m fine,” he said. “Only thing I know better than emergency medicine is how to take a punch.”

Robby gave him a long, blistering look like he wanted to argue — maybe yell, maybe throw him in a trauma bay — but he just exhaled sharply and jerked his head down the hall.

“You’re getting a CT. Then ice and start an incident report in the staff lounge,” he snapped.

Langdon huffed. “Come on, man. I’m fine, that was—”

“Quit acting tough, Frank,” Robby cut him off, sharp. “CT. Ice. Report. In that order, before Gloria has my ass. Go.”

Langdon stared at him, deadpan and unmoving. Robby stared right back.

Without looking away, Robby added, “Jesse, go with him.”

Jesse, who had been standing on the other side of the nurse’s station watching the exchange, stepped forward without hesitation. “On it.”

Langdon finally stood, shaking his head. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“Yeah,” Jesse said, falling into step beside him, “but there’s way more paperwork if you pass out in the elevator.”

Robby let out a sharp breath as he watched them go, then turned to Dana.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I step away to take a piss and come back to a cage match? What the hell happened?”

Dana didn’t look up from the chart she was reviewing. “Dad lost it when he found out CPS was involved. Langdon told him to go ahead and hit him.”

Robby blinked. “He what?”

“You heard me.”

He stared at her for a beat, jaw tightening.

“God fucking dammit, Frank.”

Santos leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. She watched Langdon’s back disappear down the hallway, whistling like nothing had happened, and shook her head — half impressed, half exasperated.

Then she spotted Mel rounding the corner, just back from a consult, clearly unaware. Santos straightened, seizing the moment.

“Hey, Mel," she called with a sly grin. "Didn’t know your boyfriend was such a brawler."

“He’s not my—“ Mel frowned, momentarily confused. "Wait, what?"

Santos gestured loosely down the hall. "You missed it. Langdon just took a punch like a goddamn prizefighter."

Whitaker, nearby, shifted uncomfortably. “He just stood there and took it. Didn’t even try to defend himself. I don’t know, it felt off.”

“Oh, please,” Santos waved a hand dismissively, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Just because you’re feeling it doesn’t mean we’re all starring in a crisis drama.”

Mel’s stomach dropped. “Wait—he got hit ?”

“Square in the face,” Santos said, clearly enjoying herself. “Didn’t even blink. Kind of terrifying, honestly.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed, concern overtaking the confusion. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Whitaker was quick to reassure her. “Robby checked him out — sent him for a CT. Jesse went with him.”

Mel nodded quickly, trying to mask her reaction, though her throat felt tight. If nobody else was panicking, she wouldn’t either. She couldn’t afford to.

“Right,” she said. “Then he’s fine.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her pace brisk. She didn’t look back — didn’t want to. But that unsettled feeling clung to her anyway, quiet and persistent.

An hour later, Robby spotted Langdon at the board, scanning for another case with that usual laser focus.

He stepped up behind him, eyeing the CT results. “You’re done for the day,” he said, tone sharp but easy. “Take a seat.”

“Aw, come on, coach. You’re benching me?” Langdon looked over, a playful glint in his eye.

“Consider yourself benched. Cheekbone fracture,” Robby held out the tablet. “And you’re way behind on charting. No patient care till you’re caught up.”

“It’s not even that bad,” Langdon groaned, eyeing the image. “That’ll heal on its own, I can do both—”

“Frank.” Robby nodded toward the nurse’s station, where Dana stood at a monitor. “Either go home, or sit with Dana and chart your ass off. No more heroics.”

Langdon sighed, squared his shoulders, and made a slow loop around the station. He dropped into the seat beside Dana with the weight of a man sentenced to boredom.

Robby turned to leave, then paused and leaned in across the desk. “You ever feel like you’re trying to set something on fire just to make sure the alarms still work?”

Langdon blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Robby said. “You’re Dana’s bitch for the next two hours.”

With that, he walked off — but his eyes lingered a beat longer, just to be sure the message landed.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Dana said with a smirk, nudging Langdon lightly. “This isn’t a punishment. Get on your charts before I make you update patient files.”

Another hour later, Mel came around the corner, spotting him immediately — hunched over in front of a monitor, ice pack discarded, a dark bruise now blooming under one eye.

"Jesus Christ, Frank." Her arms crossed, but her voice had more heat than humor.

Langdon didn’t look up right away, but a small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I told you I'd do something crazy to get the attention off of you.”

“The attention has been off of me,” Mel walked up beside him, narrowing her eyes as she scanned the bruise darkening along his cheekbone. "And I would've preferred the falcon over getting yourself punched in the face.”

He looked up, eyebrows raised, a mischievous grin spreading. “Oh yeah?”

He picked up the phone and pretended to dial, launching into an improv call: “Hi, yes, good day, sir — this is Dr. Langdon, emergency medicine specialist at PTMC. I was wondering what the going rate is to borrow a falcon, for, say, twelve hours? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, any large bird of prey will do if there’s no falcon available—”

Mel tried to stay stern, but a snort escaped her, and then she was laughing, covering her mouth with one hand as she doubled over slightly. "Stop it!" she managed, grabbing the phone from his hand and hanging it up with an exaggerated click. "You're unbelievable."

Langdon leaned back, looking thoroughly proud of himself.

Still chuckling softly, Mel reached out and brushed his bruised cheek — the moment her fingers touched skin, the smile slipped just a little.

“Don’t fuss,” he said quickly, the grin still plastered on his face like armor. “I’m fine.”

Before she could respond, Robby rounded the corner.

“And I’m still prettier than Robby!” Langdon called out without missing a beat, like it had been scripted.

Robby shook his head with a breathy laugh as he approached. “Prettier, huh? Guess that makes you the beauty and me the brains.”

“Hey, I’m the full package,” Langdon retorted with a smirk and a raised brow.

Robby chuckled. “Get the ice on that pretty face before I change my mind about letting you stay.”

He sauntered back down the hall as quickly as he appeared, and Mel turned back to Langdon.

“Seriously, keep the ice on it. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Langdon sighed dramatically but made no real protest as he slapped the ice pack back on his face. “Yes, Dr. King,” he muttered with an exaggerated eye roll.

Mel leaned against the counter, giving him a playful look. “Let me pick up the Cane’s tonight. You’ve hit your chivalrous act quota for the day.”

“Haha,” Langdon groaned and gave her a mock glare. “I’ll allow it,” he said, voice dripping with sarcastic authority.

Mel shook her head, amused, and headed back down the hall. Langdon watched her go, the grin fading just slightly. He leaned back in his chair, ice pack to cheek, and exhaled through his nose — softer, steadier now.

Hours later, the tension of the shift had settled, empty takeout containers were stacked neatly on the kitchen counter. Mel's apartment had eased into its usual nighttime routine — low lights, quiet rooms, and Becca asleep down the hall.

Frank sat beside Mel on the balcony, holding ice to his face with one hand, a cigarette dangling loosely from the other.

Mel watched the smoke curl into the night air, then broke the quiet. “Santos was impressed. Said you took it like a prizefighter.”

"Yeah, that was the plan," Frank gave a soft, sardonic laugh. "Impress the intern.”

She turned to him, watching his expression. “You asked for it?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said with a shrug, still pressing the ice to his cheek like it was second nature. “Just wanted to feel something. I don't know.”

Mel let that hang between them, then asked quietly, “Seemed like you knew exactly what he was gonna do.”

Frank didn’t answer. He set the ice on his knee and absently touched the plastic beads on his bracelet—clumsy, colorful, strung together by tiny hands. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt like this: distant, watching his own life from outside.

Mel hesitated, then spoke gently. “I get why you don’t want to talk about it. I do. But if you ever need to…”

“I should probably just dump it all on my shrink,” he said with a dry chuckle. “But I’m not ready to hear someone say, ‘Oh, that’s why you are the way you are,’ like ‘daddy issues’ is just a diagnosis to slap on a chart and forget about.”

He smiled wryly, but it tugged at the bruised side of his face, and he winced.

They sat in silence.

“I saw it in those photos,” Mel said, voice barely above a whisper. “And you told me a while ago… he broke your nose?”

Frank gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Yeah.”

She didn’t press. Just waited.

“I think I was seven,” he said finally, voice light and strange. “He threw a metal flashlight at me because I changed the channel during a commercial. When it ended, I didn’t flip it back fast enough. Caught me square in the face. Blood everywhere. He made me clean it up. Said crying was for girls.”

His voice stayed even—too even. Like he was reading off a chart. Flat. Detached.

“And that kid earlier... I had that same injury. He twisted my arm so far behind me it snapped. Spiral fracture.” He paused but didn’t look at her. “I made some dumb excuse—said I got in a fight at school or something. And if the ER docs clocked it, they didn’t care. No social worker, no CPS. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. My dad was the fucking chief of police.”

He gave a crooked grin, almost laughed—but it was heavy. “Everyone knew him. He was untouchable.”

His eyes stayed forward, glassy and unfocused. He held the cigarette like he didn’t realize it was burning down.

Mel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just breathed slow and steady, like if she moved too fast, he might vanish.

“I only fought back once,” Frank continued, robotic. “I was fourteen. He got in my face, and I shoved him without thinking. He spun around, grabbed a kitchen knife, held it to my throat, and said, ‘You wanna fucking die today?’”

A pause. Not for drama—just a memory digging its claws in.

“I grabbed his wrist, looked him in the eye. My mom was screaming at me to let him go. Like I handed him the knife.”

Mel didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. She wanted to stop him, to pull him back—but didn’t dare reach too fast.

He shook his head, that lifeless smile returning. “This part’s kinda funny,” he said, the humor sour and distant. “My high school girlfriend saw the bruises, the cuts, all of it, and asked if I was in some underground fight club. I said yeah. Like it was cool. Like, ‘You should see the other guy.’”

His voice dropped.

“But the other guy was my father. And he never had a mark on him.”

Mel let out a soft, stunned breath, but Frank didn’t seem to notice.

Something flickered across his face—guilt? anger?—but it vanished before Mel could name it. He dropped the burnt-down cigarette on the balcony floor and didn’t bother to stomp it out. Mel couldn’t tell if it was intentional or if he just wasn’t present anymore.

“And Abby hit me once. Just once, super early on. We were arguing, I was being a dumbass, she got mad and slapped me. She immediately panicked, started crying and apologizing. And I didn’t even react. Told her it was fine.” He blinked like he’d lost the thread of what he was saying. “It didn’t seem like a big deal. I pissed her off, so she hit me. Like... what else was she supposed to do?”

His hand clenched into a fist, reflexive. Mel closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, he was still staring past the horizon.

“I didn’t even realize how fucked up it was until I became a dad,” Frank said. He looked down at the bracelet again, rolling one of the plastic beads between his thumb and finger. “Literally just four years ago. And I couldn’t stop thinking—how could anyone ever raise a hand to something that small? That trusting?”

No answer expected. No answer given.

“And after everything with the drugs... Robby yelling at me, throwing me out... it wasn’t the same as my dad. But it still hit me sideways.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I thought he saw me for more than just the fuck-up I am. But he pushed me out like the last four years meant nothing. And it wasn’t even the hit. It was that look. Like I wasn’t even worth the time.”

His expression twisted—pain or shame, hard to tell—but he still wouldn’t look at her.

“I told myself he didn’t mean it like that. But it made me question everything I thought I knew about trust. About people who give a damn. And that’s the feeling I can’t shake. That you’re not safe feeling. I guess some shit’s just hard to unlearn.”

Mel wiped under one eye—fast, like she was mad at herself for crying. She didn’t want him to see.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said, barely above a whisper. He touched his temple like he was trying to snap himself out of it. “I shouldn’t… I didn’t mean to dump that on you. That was too much.”

Mel didn’t answer right away. She reached out, slow and steady, and gently wrapped her hand around his—calming the nervous tug on the bracelet, grounding him with touch. Then she leaned against his side, warm and solid.

Frank didn’t flinch. He exhaled, ragged and uneven—and leaned into her, like his body remembered something his mind had forgotten.

“No,” Mel said, soft but certain. “It wasn’t too much.”

He finally looked at her. Saw the tears caught in her lashes. His chest tightened.

“Don’t cry,” he said, hoarse. His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “I know it sounds bad, but it was just... my normal.”

Mel let out a shaky, involuntary laugh-sob, pulling even closer, like her presence might shield him somehow.

Frank turned toward her without thinking, forehead resting against the side of her head. Their hands stayed tangled, anchored in her lap.

“It should not have been normal,” she said. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” he said. And for once, he almost believed it.

They stayed like that—linked, leaning into each other, breathing together.

“I love you, you know,” Mel finally said. “Always.”

Frank closed his eyes, feeling the words settle deep inside him, like a missing piece snapping into place.

“I love you too,” he said, not needing to say anything more.

No weight. No expectation. Just the truth.

Mel stayed close, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. The world felt quieter now, the sounds of the night fading into the background.

“Hey,” she said after a moment, watching the way his eyes had dropped again. “Are you still thinking about it?”

“What?”

“You're drifting a little,” she said softly, brushing her thumb across his hand. “Want to shift gears for a minute? Tell me something good to balance it out?”

Frank let out a soft breath, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “Sure.” He shifted his arm, the weight of his thoughts settling somewhere quieter. “My sister and I used to take a bunch of random classes at the local library. Like a little escape.”

“Your sister?” Mel tilted her head, curious.

“Yeah. He never laid a hand on her, but he yelled a lot, so she wanted out too. We'd go together, just to get away.” He paused, gaze distant. “Just random shit—sewing, car repair, basic computer programming. I started taking Spanish classes there and stuck with it all through high school and undergrad.”

“That’s really sweet,” Mel glanced over at him, a soft smile forming. “Wait— do you actually speak Spanish?”

“Yeah,” Frank gave a small, almost sheepish shrug. “I guess it was just a way to keep our minds busy.”

“I think you did more than that,” she said, leaning into him a little more. “You made it work. You were strong.”

“I guess so.”

Mel watched him for a moment, then asked gently, “What’s she up to now? Your sister?”

His expression shifted, softened. His gaze dropped as he took a breath, then spoke with quiet pride. “She’s a total badass. Wicked smart. She’s an environmental engineer, and she and her wife own a big property with a couple of horses. No kids, though. They’re happy with just the horses.” He smiled, just a little. “We have a standing phone call every Wednesday night. Never miss it.”

He let the silence settle for a second.

“I’m proud of her.”

Mel rubbed his hand softly. “She sounds awesome. I’m glad she has all that now.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s voice was quiet. “Me too.”

Mel shifted slightly, her hand still resting on his. She glanced up at the night sky beyond the balcony, then back to Frank’s face, soft in the dim light.

“You don’t have to go back to an empty apartment tonight,” she said quietly, careful not to push.

“I know,” he said after a moment. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not,” Mel said, her voice low but steady. She didn’t look away as she spoke. “You can stay here. I mean… if you want, you can sleep in my bed.”

She felt him stiffen beside her, the hesitation subtle but immediate. Before he could say anything, she added quickly, “Not that it’s—” She gave a short, almost self-deprecating laugh. “It’s not like that. Just... the bed’s more comfortable. Better for your face.”

Frank didn’t say anything at first. His eyes flicked toward her, searching, unreadable. His hand twitched slightly in hers.

“No,” he said at last, quietly but with conviction. “You’re not sleeping on the couch in your own apartment.”

Mel gave a faint shrug. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He hesitated. “Mel…”

She turned her head to look at him fully then—gentle, steady, absolutely clear. “It’s just sleep,” she said. “I want you to be somewhere safe.”

That landed. He didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat. But he didn’t immediately answer either. There was a pause, heavy with thought, with instinct, with all the places his brain was trained to go first.

Mel felt it building and softened her tone even further. “Come on,” she said, a quiet nudge beneath the words. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

Frank let out a breath, slow and tired. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little, enough to show he was giving in.

“I won’t make it weird,” he murmured.

And he meant it.

They didn’t speak as they moved toward the bedroom. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward—it was full, peaceful. Frank rubbed at the back of his neck as he stepped inside, eyes scanning the room like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

Mel climbed into bed first, flipping back the blankets with a practiced, casual gesture. She didn’t look at him like he was a guest or a burden. Just someone she trusted enough to share space with. Someone she wanted close.

At the edge of the mattress, Frank hesitated for a moment. Then, without ceremony, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the nearby chair before climbing in beside her. He didn’t explain it, didn’t ask.

Mel slid over to make room and settled onto her side. But her gaze flickered once, then again—to the thin gold chain resting against his chest, catching the low light with a quiet gleam.

“What’s that?” she asked, voice low.

Frank followed her eyes, then looked down. He looped a thumb through the chain and tugged the medallion outward. “St. Christopher,” he said.

“I’ve never noticed it before.”

“It’s always there.” He smiled faintly. “Don’t think I’ve ever been shirtless around you, though,” he said, trying for lightness. It almost landed.

Mel huffed a quiet laugh and rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed anyway.

“You’re religious?”

“Nah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “More of a superstition, I guess.”

“Huh.” Her tone stayed light, but she didn’t look away right away. “Didn’t think you'd be the superstitious type.”

He gave a small shrug, the grin fading but not quite gone. Whatever flickered behind his eyes was too brief to catch.

“Fair enough,” she said, nudging his leg gently with hers beneath the blanket. “Whatever works.”

The moment hovered there. Not heavy, not unfinished—just still.

“You okay?” Mel asked.

Frank looked over, surprised—not at the question, but at how gently she asked it.

He didn’t answer right away. But his exhale was soft, steady.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Getting there.”

Mel just nodded and reached for the lamp. The light clicked off.

She shifted once, easy and unbothered. Like this wasn’t a big deal.

Because it wasn’t.

He lay stiffly for a beat, on top of the covers. Mel reached down and tugged the blanket over him too—no fanfare, no commentary, just a quiet, grounding gesture.

No grazing hands, no forced closeness. Just shared space. Shared quiet.

Frank stared at the ceiling for a while, the dark pressing in gently around them. He felt her shift slightly—just a reminder that she was still there, solid and warm beside him.

Eventually, he turned onto his side, not quite touching. Not needing to. The bed didn’t feel foreign anymore.

Just safe.

Chapter Text

The coffee in the staff lounge was lukewarm at best, but Langdon didn’t care. He leaned against the counter, cradling a chipped mug in both hands. The room smelled like burnt grounds and lemon disinfectant, and the air still carried the overchilled bite of night shift AC. Just past six-thirty, and the fluorescents were already too bright for anyone’s comfort.

Two days out, and the bruise on his cheek had settled into a rich violet, darker at the bone, a little puffy near the edge. It looked worse than it felt.

The door opened behind him with a soft hydraulic hiss. Robby stepped in, already in scrubs, stethoscope looped around his neck like always. His gait was brisk, practiced. He glanced once at the bruise, but his face didn’t change.

He nodded, grabbed a cup, poured.

“How are you feeling?” he asked casually.

Langdon took a sip. “Fine.”

Robby arched a brow. “You met with HR?”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

“And?”

Langdon gave a dry, noncommittal shrug. “Oh, you know. Got a stern talking-to about not instigating fights in the ED. Told ’em I’d save it for the parking lot next time.”

Robby didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile.

“You’re lucky they didn’t suspend you,” he said. His tone was calm, but there was something underneath it—disappointment, maybe. Or worry.

Langdon huffed out a humorless breath. “Guess I’m charming when I have to be.”

His tone was easy, shoulders loose. If he was rattled, he wasn’t showing it. The bruise didn’t change how he carried himself, and the whole thing—HR, the punch, the fallout—felt like it belonged to some other version of him, two days ago and already filed away. The system had moved on. So had he.

Robby studied him for a beat. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” Langdon didn’t even look up. “I’m fine. You don’t need to be worried.”

Robby exhaled slowly. “Then quit giving me reasons to worry and do your damn job.”

Langdon gave a tight nod, finished the last sip of his coffee, and set the mug in the sink without a word. His hands still shook faintly when he wasn’t thinking about them. The left one trembled as it hovered over the faucet, and he clenched it into a fist before drying it on his scrub pants.

Robby didn’t move right away. His eyes flicked to Langdon’s hands, then back up. He didn’t say anything, but Langdon could feel it—whatever Robby wanted to say but wouldn’t. The lecture that wasn’t coming. The offer that wouldn’t help.

“Let’s go,” Robby said instead.

They stepped out of the lounge together, the hum of the hallway rising to meet them. Footsteps. Phones. Voices already climbing. Langdon rubbed at the edge of the bruise as they walked, fingers brushing over the swelling.

It would fade, eventually. They always did.

Langdon walked up to the nurse’s station like it was any other morning, even if the bruise told a different story.

“Damn, Langdon,” Jesse said, glancing up from the board with a grin. “Looks like Princess owes me twenty bucks.”

He paused mid-step, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For what?”

“She bet you’d come back ugly.”

The laugh that escaped him was genuine, low and easy. “Guess she’ll have to wait for round two.”

He crossed to the board, clapping Jesse lightly on the shoulder as he passed. The tension in the room shifted—not suddenly or sharply, but like a soft breeze ruffling the curtains. Perlah looked up from the desk, eyes briefly catching the bruise before sliding away with a quick glance.

“You feeling okay?” she asked, voice casual but edged with concern.

“I’m fine,” Langdon said—light, quick, no hesitation. Easy enough to sound believable.

A few others glanced up from behind monitors or over clipboards. No overt stares, just those subtle sideways looks people give when something’s out of place but they’re not sure if it’s worth mentioning.

He felt it, sure. The quiet curiosity circling like moths around a porch light. But it didn’t touch him.

“Don’t make me the center of attention,” he said with a half-smile, grabbing a tablet from the desk. “I’m just here to work.”

His finger flicked across the tablet screen, tapping a name. “Central 8, wrist sprain?”

Jesse nodded. “Loud ass cop, been waiting all night.”

“On it,” Langdon responded, voice steady as he moved toward the room without looking back.

He was already shifting into gear when he nearly ran straight into Mel as she stepped out of the bathroom.

“Oh—sorry,” she said, pulling back a step, her voice soft against the low hum of the hallway.

He caught her eye and smiled, automatic and easy. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Her gaze flicked over his face, pausing just a moment longer on the fading bruise. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Langdon said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. His voice was steady, calm. “Sorry I didn’t text you back yesterday—I had to come in to meet with HR, and then I spent the rest of the day with the kids.”

“Oh. That’s good,” Mel took a slow sip of her coffee. The cup warmed her hands, but her eyes stayed fixed on his face. “I kind of thought you were avoiding me.”

Langdon blinked, the smile faltering just for a flicker. “Why would I be avoiding you?”

“Just… you know.” She hesitated, searching his expression for something unspoken. “After what happened the other night. I wasn’t sure if you felt weird about it.”

The smile dimmed completely, confusion clouding his features—brief, unguarded—before something in him snapped back into place. His posture straightened, and he adjusted the tablet against his chest like it anchored him.

“Oh. Shit.” His voice was low, uneven. “I—I crashed in your bed, and I didn’t—God, I was out of it, but I didn’t do anything. We didn’t—”

“No. Nothing like that,” Mel cut in, her tone gentle but firm, stepping closer to catch the spiraling words before they could tumble further. “No lines were crossed. You just slept.”

“Right. Okay…” He watched her for a moment, as if trying to replay a scene behind his eyes. “I mean—maybe I should’ve kept my shirt on, I’m sorry if I—”

“Frank.”

He froze.

In that pause—too measured, too still—Mel knew.

He didn’t remember.

Not the way his voice cracked. Not what he said about his dad, or never feeling safe. Not how his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, or how he couldn’t look at her when he told her. Not the story he let fall open in her hands like it had been waiting years to be heard.

She softened—just enough for it to show. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But he didn’t look like he believed her. His mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes slid away, restless, like he still wasn’t sure which part of the night was missing. Like he wanted to rewind the tape but didn’t have access to the file.

“So…” he finally said. “What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll catch up later,” Mel replied, a quiet promise in her tone. She lifted her coffee and stepped past him, her presence still lingering like a warm weight.

He stood there a moment longer, frowning slightly—like the question hadn’t really gone away. The distant beep of a monitor, the faint rush of air from the vents, the muted clatter of the nurses’ station all felt a little too loud.

Mel glanced back once, just a flicker, before disappearing down the hall.

She understood, more than he knew.

The patient was mid-fifties, broad-shouldered and sun-reddened from decades behind the wheel and a lifetime outdoors. Pittsburgh PD, off duty. Boisterous and loud in the way men were when they were used to people listening to them. He’d sprained his wrist breaking up a fight outside a convenience store. No real damage—just swelling and pain.

Langdon sat on the stool beside the gurney, winding the elastic wrap with easy precision. “At least it wasn’t your dominant hand,” he said, glancing up.

The guy gave a short laugh — then tilted his chin toward Frank’s cheek. “What about you? That shiner looks fresh.”

Langdon didn’t miss a beat. “Occupational hazard.”

Whitaker stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing the guy’s chart, only half-listening to the banter.

"Damn kid swung on his friend over a vape pen," the cop grunted as Langdon shifted his hand. “I pulled him off and told him he was lucky he’s not my son. I woulda smacked him into next Tuesday.”

Langdon’s fingers paused—just for a blink—then kept wrapping, smooth and steady.

He didn’t look up. “Protect and serve, huh?”

“Hey, you know, kids these days don’t know a thing about respect,” the patient chuckled. “Old school style still works.”

Whitaker glanced up from the chart, catching the brief hesitation in Langdon’s movements, but he didn’t call attention to it.

Langdon reached for the clips, hooking them into the wrap with practiced ease. “The way I see it, if a couple swings from a teenager is enough to get you riled up, you might be in the wrong line of work.”

The cop laughed, genuine and hearty. “Damn, doc. You got the kind of mouth we could use down at the station.” He eased off the bed with a wince. “You ever think about leaving this place? You’d fit right in.”

Langdon smirked, giving the wrap a final pat. “Nah. I’d rather patch ’em up than lock ’em up.”

“Fair enough.” The guy flashed a grin, relaxed and easy. “We both should milk that worker’s comp. Let me buy you a beer sometime.”

Langdon walked him toward the exit, casual as ever. “I’ve got a strict policy about drinking with cops,” he said. “I don’t.”

The cop cracked up at that, and they slipped into easy talk about the Pirates’ latest slump like nothing had shifted.

And then — as they reached the doors — the man turned and gave Langdon a solid clap on the shoulder. Casual. Friendly. Thoughtless.

He flinched.

Not enough to make a sound. Not enough for most people to notice. But it was there — a full-body recoil, small and sharp, like someone expecting something worse.

He covered it instantly, gave a tight smile, nodded once. The doors slid shut behind the guy.

Mel was walking down the hall toward the nurse’s station when she caught the tail end of the moment. She saw the subtle twitch—the way his body stiffened for just a fraction of a second before settling back into its usual rhythm. Her steps faltered, slowed almost imperceptibly. Her eyes met Whitaker’s across the hall, and he gave a barely noticeable nod, having caught it too.

Mel looked away and kept walking, tucking the moment away—quietly, carefully, for later.

Whitaker caught up with him a few minutes later as he was making his way back toward one of the trauma rooms. He had stopped at a computer, typing into a chart with tight focus and a posture that was just a little too straight.

“Hey,” Whitaker said, coming up beside him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?” Langdon responded without looking up from the screen.

Whitaker shrugged, resting a hand on the counter’s edge. “Not a fan of cops?”

Langdon smirked without turning. “Definitely don’t have a ‘thin blue line’ sticker on my car.” He paused, then asked, “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing,” Whitaker said, eyes flicking briefly to him. “Just… you know. I get that you said not everything means something, but… no one’s expecting you to act like you weren’t assaulted two days ago.”

Langdon exhaled slowly through his nose, still not meeting his eyes. “I’m fine. Seriously. It looks worse than it feels.”

There was a pause. Then he finally looked up, expression quieter now.

“And I’m sorry, by the way… guess I kinda snapped at you that day. It wasn’t personal.”

“Oh, yeah, no, I know that,” Whitaker nodded quickly, brushing it off. “It’s fine. I’ve moved on.”

“Cool.” Langdon let the silence settle a second, then nodded toward the board. “Find something good for me up there. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

Whitaker gave him a half-smile, already stepping back. “You got it.”

Langdon sat hunched over the charting station, eyes fixed on his own CT scan displayed on the tablet in front of him. The faint glow lit the tired lines around his eyes.

“You look deep in thought,” Robby said as he approached, leaning casually against the counter. “Got something interesting?”

“Y-Yeah… uhh…” Langdon stammered, quickly closing the image and forcing a casual tone. “I’ve got this patient — blunt head trauma. CT’s clean, neuro exam’s normal, alert and oriented. But he’s missing a chunk of time. Just… this weird memory gap.”

Robby raised an eyebrow, curious. “No other symptoms at all?”

“Nothing. No dizziness, no confusion, no nausea. Just the memory loss.”

Robby crossed his arms loosely, still watching him. “You doing an EEG? Neuro consult?”

“Yeah, uh… yeah. That’s the plan,” Langdon said, voice just a little too even. He kept his gaze locked on the now-dark screen.

“Good.” Robby nodded. “Make it quick, then hand him off to Psych if nothing turns up.”

“Psych?” he echoed, his tone sharper than he meant.

Robby didn’t seem to notice. “Uhhh, yeah? If you rule out everything physical, but the guy’s got unexplained memory loss? Could be psychological. People blank out all the time under the right conditions. Panic response, dissociation, repression. You know this.”

Langdon hesitated. “And if it’s not that either?”

“What, are you thinking about an alien abduction?” Robby responded with a smirk. “If the scans are clean, the guy’s neuro exam is normal, and psych clears him? I don’t know— maybe stress or sleep deprivation.”

“Yeah… could be that,” Langdon added sheepishly.

“Why are you stuck on this?” Robby shot him a stern look. “Just call Psych if the EEG is clear and then it’s not your problem. The waiting room is too swamped for us to babysit that one.”

And with that, he walked off, already calling out orders to a nurse across the hallway.

Langdon sat still for a long moment, staring at his reflection in the dark screen. Then he pushed away from the charting station and made his way out of the ER, nodding briefly at the passing staff.

Outside the automatic doors, he paused near a low brick wall lining the ambulance entrance. He slid his phone out and pulled a cigarette from the pack he kept tucked in the thigh pocket of his scrubs. Lighting it with steady hands, he took a slow drag, the brief calm filling the space before he opened his text thread with Abby.

He leaned back against the wall, exhaling quietly as he typed.

(10:37am) Frank:
Hey. Did I seem okay yesterday?

(10:40am) Abby:
Aside from freaking out the kids with that disgusting bruise?
Yeah, you were fine. Why?

(10:40am) Frank:
I wasn’t, like… spaced out or anything?

(10:41am) Abby:
What? Are you using again?

(10:42am) Frank:
No.
Just answer the question, please.

(10:45am) Abby:
No, Frank. You were fine all day. What’s going on?

(10:45am) Frank:
It’s probably nothing. Just overthinking it. Thanks.

(10:47am) Abby:
You? Overthinking? There’s a shock.
You’re still taking Tanner to the dentist next Friday, right?

(10:50am) Frank:
Yes. I got it.

He slipped his phone into the scrubs’ pocket, feeling the rough fabric brush against his palm. Leaning back against the brick wall, he closed his eyes, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to his fingers. I’m fine, he told himself, but the dull ache in his head lingered. The CT was clear. Just stress or exhaustion. He opened his eyes, took a slow breath, and pushed off the wall.

By early afternoon, Langdon had cleared a few more cases and bounced between consults without slowing down. No time to think. 

The next patient had already been settled by the time he got there. The curtain hung half-closed, the gurney angled slightly toward the wall. No alarms, no chaos—just the quiet routine of something simple. 

The man’s skin was paper-thin and liver-spotted, his white button-down streaked with blood. He sat patiently on the gurney, right arm outstretched, while Langdon methodically cleaned the torn skin of his forearm.

“It’s always the damn ladder,” the man muttered. “I’ve been trimming that hedge for fifty years, and today it decides to fight back.”

Langdon cracked a grin. “You’d think the ladder would have learned by now.”

“Yeah, but apparently it wanted to remind me who’s boss,” the man replied with a wry laugh.

Mel stood off to the side with the suture tray, watching the easy rhythm of their conversation.

“Looks like you took a hit worse than I did,” the man said, squinting past the overhead light and nodding toward Langdon’s swollen cheek. “Guess I should see the other guy, huh?”

Langdon didn’t look up. “Nah,” he said lightly, just shy of flippant. “Other guy’s fine. I only bruised his ego.”

The phrase landed sharp in Mel’s memory — the same words he’d muttered two nights ago, distant and flattened, dissociated and unaware. Back then, he hadn’t even known he’d said it.

Now the line came smooth, almost rehearsed. No hesitation. Just another deflection, passed off as a joke. But Mel caught it — the slow blink, the brief tension at the corners of his mouth. Like some part of him had registered the echo.

“My daughter told me to hire someone,” the man went on. “Says I’ve got no business being up a ladder at my age. I told her, ‘I’ve still got my legs under me.’ She says, ‘For now.’”

Langdon nodded without looking up. “My dad used to say his favorite tool in the shed was the phone book — call someone else to do it.”

His smile faltered as the words left him, and he grimaced slightly, like he wasn’t sure where the memory came from — or why he’d said it.

The man chuckled, oblivious. “My old man was the opposite. Wouldn’t let anyone touch a damn thing. Stubborn pride runs in the blood, I guess.”

Langdon gave a half-smile but kept his focus on the wound. “Yeah. Stubborn pride’s hard to argue with.”

“Well,” the man muttered, “maybe next time I’ll listen to my daughter. Maybe.”

Langdon smiled faintly. “You won’t.”

“Probably not.”

Mel passed him the last piece of gauze and helped tie off the final stitch.

Langdon stepped back, inspecting his work with a practiced eye. The bleeding had stopped, the wound clean and closed.

The man flexed his fingers, then looked up at Langdon with a tired but genuine smile.

“You take care of yourself, son. Can’t help others if you don’t.”

Langdon gave a small nod, the smile fading from his face. He didn’t say anything.

Mel caught his eye briefly. No words were needed.

By late afternoon, the ER’s pace had dipped just enough for the tension to settle in, but the quiet was only temporary. The trauma bay doors slammed open, alarms shrieking behind Jesse as he stepped into the hallway, calling for help. Langdon was already on his feet, moving swiftly.

“What’s going on?” he asked, closing in on the bedside.

“He was stable twenty minutes ago,” Santos said, her voice sharp, clipped. “Then he started complaining of abdominal pain again. BP shot up, so I started labetalol—”

Langdon’s eyes flicked to the monitor. “The pressure didn’t spike until after his heart rate dropped.”

She hadn’t noticed the bradycardia beneath the rising blood pressure—signs of decompensation masked by the meds.

He grabbed the ultrasound probe, moving fast. The screen lit up the instant it touched the patient’s abdomen—dark, unmistakable free fluid.

“It wasn’t stress pain. He’s bleeding. You masked the compensation.”

Santos said nothing. Her hands dropped to her sides, stiff. The sharpness in her expression softened, folding into something smaller, heavier.

They moved quickly—fluids wide open, portable X-ray called, gurney headed for the OR. Langdon’s tone stayed even, his movements steady, grounding the room.

But when the patient was gone and the rush faded, Santos stayed rooted.

“You weren’t here,” she said, words tumbling out too fast. “He wasn’t unstable. You think I’d just give antihypertensives for fun?”

He blinked, caught off guard—not by what she said, but how. Her shoulders squared like she was gearing up for a fight. Like she expected the blow she’d seen from him before. Like she was bracing.

And beneath that? Fear.

She thought he was about to snap. To yell, to humiliate—just like before. Arms crossed like armor, chin lifted, ready to meet the worst.

But Langdon froze.

His heart pounded uneven and loud. The world narrowed—sharp edges and searing light. His pulse thundered in his ears. His throat seized; words barely pushed out.

“You missed it,” he said, voice tight and low. “But you weren’t reckless. It happens.”

Santos didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stared past him, waiting.

His jaw ached from clenching. He stepped back slowly, struggling to unclench his fists, to pull a breath that didn’t burn. His body screamed—run, disappear, anything but stay.

He nodded toward the tablet she still held tight against her chest. Voice unsteady, “Write it up. Walk through it. It’ll stick.”

A pause. One heavy breath.

Then he turned sharply, like the ground might crumble beneath him. Shame pressed heavy on his ribs.

She’d looked at him like he was dangerous.

And worse—he knew exactly what that felt like.

Robby scanned the patient board with a furrowed brow, eyes moving across the list of active patients.

“Hey, Dana,” he said, turning toward the nurse’s station. “What ever happened with Langdon’s amnesia case? He didn’t give me an update.”

Dana looked up from her keyboard. “Langdon’s what?”

“Guy with a clean CT. Blunt head trauma, normal neuro exam, but had some kind of retrograde amnesia. He told me earlier he was ordering an EEG, planning to consult Psych.”

Her frown deepened. “When was this?”

“Earlier today. I was walking by, he looked like he was reading the CT right then. Said it was clean but the guy was missing time, no other symptoms.”

She turned back to her screen, fingers already flying. “That doesn’t sound familiar at all.”

Robby stepped beside her, watching the screen now too.

“Nothing like that in his caseload,” Dana said, turning back to face Robby and pulling off her glasses. “No EEGs ordered, no Psych consults.”

Robby was quiet for a second too long. His gaze stayed fixed on the screen, even though there was nothing there to read.

“Could it have gotten reassigned?” he asked, but his voice had shifted—less about logistics now, more careful, more… watchful.

Dana gave him a look. “Robby, I know every case that comes through this ED like it’s tattooed on my brain. There was no patient like that today.”

Robby exhaled, slow and quiet.

The whole conversation started to spool back in his mind. Langdon sitting hunched over the charting station, the tightness in his voice, the way he’d jumped when Robby walked up. How he’d rushed to close the image. How strangely defensive he got when Robby mentioned calling Psych.

It hadn’t struck him as odd at the time—Langdon had seemed tired, maybe rattled, but nothing alarming.

But now…

No patient. No orders. No scans.

Just a weirdly detailed clinical summary that never showed up in the system.

And that question he’d asked— “And if it’s not that either?” —like he was hoping Robby would say something else. Hoping he wasn’t losing it.

“You okay, Cap?” Dana gave him a sideways look. “Are you the amnesia case?”

He gave a soft huff through his nose, not quite a laugh. “No.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “Where’s he at now?”

“Langdon?” Dana checked the clock. “Stepped out for a smoke a few minutes ago, I think.”

He turned and walked away—not rushing, not storming. But his focus was different now. Tuned in.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a passing moment.

Langdon stood outside the ambulance bay, half-shielded by a concrete pillar, the early evening wind threading through his scrubs. The cigarette between his fingers had mostly burned to ash, long forgotten, its ember dimming with the dusk. His gaze was distant, fixed on nothing. He didn’t hear Robby approach until the older man’s voice cut through the quiet.

“What happened with your amnesia patient?”

Langdon flinched—not much, just a subtle jerk of his shoulders—but enough to betray the tension coiled beneath his skin. He didn’t turn around.

“He left AMA,” he said, a little too casually.

Robby stopped beside him, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, letting the silence do some of the work. His eyes scanned Langdon’s profile—the muddied bruise, the rigid set of his jaw, the haunted stillness behind his eyes.

“You gonna keep pretending, or do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Langdon exhaled sharply through his nose, then dropped down onto the curb like the weight of the question had physically knocked him down. He hunched forward, elbows planted on his knees, and dragged a hand down his face with a sigh that was half exhaustion, half surrender.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Probably stress and sleep deprivation, like you said.”

Robby eased down beside him with a quiet grunt, joints creaking with the effort. For a moment, the two of them just sat there in the chill, framed by the soft, rhythmic whoosh of the automatic doors behind them.

“You lost a whole chunk of time?”

Langdon didn’t look up. His hands dangled loosely between his knees, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to fold into himself. 

“I guess,” he said finally. “It’s, uh… kinda coming back now.”

Robby studied him—really studied him. The way his foot kept tapping anxiously against the pavement. The shallow, tight rhythm of his breathing. The quiet desperation buried beneath the practiced stillness.

“You remember what I said the other day?” Robby asked. “About setting something on fire just to make sure the alarm still works?”

Langdon huffed under his breath. There was no humor in it—just a sharp exhale, brittle and bitter.

“That’s what you think I’m doing?”

“I think…” Robby broke off, pressing a thumb against the corner of his mouth, his brow furrowed. His voice dropped when he spoke again, gentler now, the edge worn down. “I think you saw something in that spiral fracture kid and stopped thinking like a doctor. I think it’s catching up with you.”

Langdon didn’t respond. His jaw tensed, and his eyes stayed locked on a faraway spot in the parking lot like he was afraid of what would happen if he blinked.

Robby shifted slightly, turning toward him just enough to be felt.

“It’s okay to need more help, you know.”

“I don’t need help, I need—” Langdon said quickly—too quickly. Then his mouth stopped mid-sentence, lips parted like the rest of the words had revolted on the way out. He shot Robby a glance, then turned away again, blinking hard. “Fuck.”

Robby leaned in a little, cautious, but not crowding him. “What?”

Langdon flicked the dying cigarette to the pavement. It landed with a faint hiss near his shoe, the ember crushed beneath his sole. He pressed the heel of his hand to his unbruised eye like he could push something back into place. Then his arm dropped limply to his side.

A sharp breath escaped—tight, pinched, like it hurt coming out. He leaned forward again, even lower now, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and barely audible. “I need to forget what I remember.”

Robby’s stomach sank. But still, he asked, “What are you saying?”—even though the shape of it was already clear.

“What do you think I’m saying?” Langdon mumbled through his hands. “I need a fucking Ativan.”

Robby didn’t move. He didn’t speak, either—not right away. Just sat there beside him, watching Langdon like he was making sure the words were real before deciding what to do with them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Measured. “You ever think about what it cost to get clean the first time?”

He didn’t answer.

“You already made it through hell once,” Robby said. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to go back.”

Langdon gave a short, humorless scoff. “I didn’t make it through hell,” he muttered. “I’m still in it.”

Robby didn’t argue. He didn’t try to correct him or soften the blow. He just folded his hands in his lap and stared ahead at the darkening sky, his voice quiet again when it finally came.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing.” Langdon’s voice was flat, detached. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

Robby let the silence settle again. Then he gave a small nod, like he was accepting the answer for what it was, even if he didn’t believe it.

“Well,” he said. “Thanks for being honest.”

Another pause stretched long between them, so long it nearly faded into stillness.

“I know recovery doesn’t begin and end with rehab,” Robby started quietly. “But you’ve come a long way. Even if it doesn’t feel like it—I can see it.”

Then, without hesitation, he added, “I’m proud of you, Frank.”

For a second, Langdon didn’t move.

Then his body betrayed him—shoulders hitching the barest inch, like he'd been hit in the chest and was trying to swallow the sound it knocked loose. His throat worked around nothing. He blinked once. Then again, faster, like maybe if he kept doing it, the sting behind his eyes would stay contained.

He brought a hand to his face—not rubbing it, not scratching, just… covering. A motion too slow to be casual, too tense to be anything but defense. When he let it fall, his mouth had drawn tight, a line etched with effort.

Still, he didn’t say a word.

Robby broke the silence.

“Do you wanna take some time off?”

Langdon’s response came too fast. “No.”

Then there was a pause—half a beat, maybe less—but it stretched just long enough to register the shift. Like the refusal had slipped out on instinct, and now the rest of him was catching up.

“Can I just take tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Robby said softly, nodding once. “Whatever you need.”

Langdon nodded, too, but it was jerky—unfinished. He stood slowly, like his body wasn’t synced with his brain, like something deep inside him was still sitting on that curb. He held out a hand to help Robby up, fingers trembling just slightly as they gripped—muscle memory, not presence of mind.

They didn’t speak as they turned toward the ER.

Their steps fell into rhythm, but Langdon’s gait had lost its steadiness. His shoulders sagged just enough to notice, his eyes gone distant. Wind cut down the breezeway and caught the edge of his scrub top, tugging it like it might pull him off course.

He wasn’t walking taller.

He was walking to make it to the end.

The locker room was too bright. Too still. Langdon stood at his open locker, one hand braced on the door, the other hovering uselessly over the mess inside—half a sandwich he didn’t remember packing, his hoodie balled into a corner. He blinked at it like it was someone else’s stuff.

His hands weren’t cooperating. Every movement felt just a little off. He tried to grab his hoodie, missed, then tried again. His fingers fumbled with the fabric like it was slick with water.

He heard light, cautious footsteps approaching behind him, but he didn’t turn.

“Hey,” Santos said.

Langdon closed his eyes for a second. Swallowed hard. “Hey.”

She hesitated just a beat. “I just wanted to say thanks. For earlier.”

“What?” he asked, not quite snapping, but the word came out sharp anyway. He was too frayed to smooth it over.

Santos shifted her weight. “You didn’t yell at me.”

Something twisted in his chest—tight and sudden. He exhaled, shakily. His voice, when it came, was raw. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

She went on, tone half-wry, half-defensive. “I mean, I messed up. I was expecting to get torn a new one.”

Langdon's breath caught. His eyes burned. He stared hard at the inside of his locker, willing himself not to flinch, not to break apart right there. His knuckles went white where they gripped the edge of the open door. For a second, he forgot what he was even reaching for.

His throat clicked. He forced a swallow.

Then, too fast, too forced—“Did you need me to sign off on the chart or something?”

It came out clipped. Off-kilter. Like he didn’t hear what she said—or couldn’t stand that he did.

Santos blinked. “No… You already did.”

He nodded, or maybe just tilted his head in some jerky approximation of it. He turned back to his locker, shoved the hoodie into his bag with more force than necessary. Slung it over his shoulder, the strap catching awkwardly on his arm.

He steadied himself against the locker door, just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.

Then, voice thin and rough: “Have a good night.”

And he left—too fast, like walking away was the only thing keeping him upright.

Mel moved through the familiar rhythms of coming home—kicking off her shoes by the door, pulling her hair free from the tight ponytail she’d worn all shift, stripping off the hospital-scented scrubs and dropping them into the hamper. She showered quickly, checked on Becca before and after, got her settled in bed with her tablet and noise-canceling headphones. The apartment was quiet now, steeped in the soft hush of their evening routine.

Usually, Frank was right behind her. Most nights, he slipped in not long after she did—sometimes with takeout, sometimes with nothing but that lazy half-smile and tired eyes that said, we’re both wrecked, but I’m here. They hadn’t made specific plans tonight, but he’d mentioned stopping by earlier. Casual. Assumed. Enough to expect him.

But the clock ticked on. And something started to feel… wrong.

It wasn’t just that he hadn’t shown up yet. It was the silence. The gap where he usually filled the space—even with just a text, a meme, a one-word reply. Nothing.

She glanced at her phone.

(8:37pm) Mel:
Are you stopping by tonight?

She gave it twenty minutes, trying to shrug off the lack of response. Tried not to spiral. Tried to tell herself he was probably just tired. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he went to a meeting, or got caught up with his family. But it didn’t land. It didn’t feel like that.

Something in her gut pulled tight. Not panic. Not yet. Just an ache of knowing.

(9:01pm) Mel:
You okay?

Still nothing.

Her stomach twisted. She waited another ten minutes—restless, checking the phone every few seconds. Then she stood, grabbed her hoodie, and stepped into the hallway.

Frank’s place was only a few floors up.

She knocked twice. No response.

The doorknob turned easily.

Inside, the apartment was dark. Not untouched—his work bag was slumped near the door, keys and wallet tossed on the kitchen counter, badge still clipped to his hoodie. 

“Frank?” she called out gently.

No answer. Just the faint hum of pipes and the soft buzz of the bathroom fan.

She turned toward the hallway, her nerves taut and humming. The bathroom door was cracked open, light spilling out in a soft wedge across the floor. Quietly, she padded forward, palm brushing the wall as she neared the doorway.

She pushed the door open the rest of the way.

And stopped.

Frank was lying on the tile floor, shirtless, like he had gotten out of the shower and only had the strength to get dressed halfway. One arm tucked above his head, the other curled in tight to his chest. His hand was clenched hard around the chain of his St. Christopher medal—not just holding it, but twisting the chain between his fingers, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The bruised side of his face was pressed flat against the tile.

His eyes were open, rimmed faintly red. Unfocused. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just blinked slowly once, then stared past her again—like she wasn’t there.

Mel exhaled, steadying herself.

“…Are you okay?” she asked softly.

A long beat.

Then, finally, his voice: “Yeah.” Flat. Barely there. “The cold feels nice.”

Mel stood in the doorway, frozen in the dim glow of the bathroom light. The tile was cold beneath her feet, the air still and heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. Frank didn’t look at her.

“Do you want to be alone?”

A pause.

“I don’t know what I want.”

That landed with more weight than it should have. The words sounded like they were spoken through molasses. Like he was tired on a cellular level.

The silence that followed stretched long. Not tense—just thick. Oppressive.

Then, from the floor:

“I remember what I said.”

Mel’s breath caught. She hesitated. “You do?”

“It kinda came back. In pieces.” He blinked slowly again. Still didn’t look at her. “My face really fucking hurts.”

The last part slipped out like it surprised him. Unfiltered. Unburied. The way someone might say they’re cold. Or tired. Just a fact that broke through. He exhaled deeply, though it came out as more of a pained groan.

Mel finally moved, lowering herself to the floor beside him. Not too close. Just there. Level with him.

He didn’t react.

“I don’t think I…” he started, then trailed off again. His voice was barely audible now, rough around the edges. “I never let myself think about it too much. I numbed it for so long.”

Mel watched him for a beat, then shifted slightly beside him. Her voice was quiet, even—just present.

“Do you want me to get you something? Ice pack? Tylenol? A blanket?”

Not a fix. Not a demand. Just a question—a tether, offered gently. Something simple. Something real. Something to remind him he was here, now, and not alone.

Frank ignored it. For a moment, it seemed like he hadn’t heard her at all.

“I was talking to Robby earlier,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “He said he’s proud of me.” He paused, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on some indistinct point beyond the tile wall. “Do you think he meant it?”

Mel’s heart ached—not just for the question, but for the rawness behind it. She reached out without hesitation and pressed her hand to his. Her fingers barely touched his skin, just enough to let him know she was there, grounding him without crowding him.

“Of course he meant it,” she said gently. Because there was no doubt in her mind.

Frank glanced at her—just for a second—but in that flicker of eye contact, something in him gave. A subtle uncoiling. A flicker of ease softened the tension in his face before he turned away again.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever…” His voice caught. He blinked hard. One tear slipped sideways across the bridge of his nose, carving a thin streak down to the tile.

A moment passed.

“Did you eat yet?” he asked suddenly.

Mel blinked, startled by the shift. She searched his face—still unreadable—and let a beat pass before answering.

“…Frank,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to pivot away from this. I’m right here.”

His fingers stilled on the medal chain. Just for a second.

“I feel insane.” His voice was thin. Almost embarrassed.

Mel nodded, grounding herself with a breath.

“Okay,” she said. “Then forget trying to hold it together. Just be here.”

Frank didn’t answer. He kept twisting the chain again—slower now, less frantic.

“I wanna call my sister,” he murmured. He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I don’t know where I left my phone.”

“I’ll find it,” Mel said, warm and steady. She gave his hand a soft squeeze—tactile and brief—then stood. She stepped out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her.

She checked the usual spots—the counter, the coffee table—but it wasn’t there. Then she glanced down and saw a faint glow beneath the chair where his hoodie was draped. His phone had slipped out of the pocket and slid underneath, unnoticed.

When she returned, Frank sat up slowly—not fully, just enough to lean back against the vanity. His face was tight with pain, but he reached for the phone without a word.

Mel didn’t ask if he wanted privacy. She simply gave it to him.

Quietly, she slipped out and let the bathroom door fall mostly shut behind her. The apartment remained dim, bathed only in the faint amber glow of the lamp she’d switched on earlier. Mel moved slowly through the space, the soft rustle of her footsteps barely stirring the stillness. She reached for an incense stick, lit it, and watched the thin spiral of smoke curl upward, carrying a quiet, calming scent into the air. Setting water on the stove to boil, she pulled a mug from the shelf—heavy in her hands—and reached for a tea bag. Mint chamomile, one of the random boxes he kept stocked just for her.

Her movements were deliberate, unhurried, almost meditative—not out of busyness or distraction, but as a steady heartbeat in the next room, a silent assurance that he was not alone. The faint clink of the mug settling on the counter was the only sound beside the low hiss of the kettle beginning to warm.

From the bathroom, a woman’s voice drifted through the cracked door—gentle and warm, with the kind of softness that could only come from someone who knew him well.

“Hey, it’s not Wednesday. You okay?”

The phone must’ve been on speaker—resting somewhere near the sink, like even holding it up was too much.

There was a pause. Then Frank’s voice came, quiet and frayed at the edges.

“Yeah, um…” A shaky breath. The sound of him swallowing, hard. Then a soft exhale—broken, almost like a laugh that turned into something else. “That was so fucked up.”

Mel went still, her hand frozen on the kettle. The rawness in his voice caught her off guard. It was the kind of grief that leaked out sideways—unguarded and unplanned.

A beat of silence, then his sister again—so gentle it almost didn’t carry.

“Yeah, it was,” she said softly. “But you’re safe now. It’s over.”

From the kitchen, Mel moved again, her fingers finding the speaker and turning on a playlist she knew he’d like—soft, familiar songs that would fill the room and gently drown out the conversation. She didn’t listen. She didn’t eavesdrop. Instead, she let the music hold the space between them, a quiet promise of presence and care.

An hour had slipped by. Mel had gone back to her apartment for a bit—just long enough to check on Becca, who was already asleep—then returned to Frank’s and moved quietly through the space. She tossed his hoodie in the dryer just so it’d be warm for him, rinsed out the half-finished coffee mug on the counter, cleaned the ashtray on his balcony. Occasionally, she’d pause the music and stand still, listening for any sign of movement from the bathroom.

She was sitting at his kitchen table, reading something on her phone with one leg tucked up under her and a half-full mug of tea cupped in her hand, and looked up when she heard the soft creak of the bathroom door opening.

Frank stepped out slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed, face blotchy, hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times. But his movements were steadier now—quieter, softer. Not fine, not even close. But not crumbling either.

He paused in the hallway, listening for a second. A low, rumbling blues rock playlist floated out from the speaker on the counter. 

Frank offered a small smile and nodded toward the speaker. “Nice choice.”

“Thought you’d like it,” Mel said, returning the smile, warm and knowing.

He hovered for a second longer, casually leaning against the wall like he wasn’t quite sure how to do this—how to re-enter the world after breaking down. 

Then, silently, he turned toward the freezer. The motion was slow, deliberate. He opened the drawer, rummaged for a second, and came out with a half-empty bag of frozen peas. Pressed it to the side of his face with a quiet, almost involuntary grunt, eyes slipping closed like the cold grounded him.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned, crossed the room, and sank onto the couch. Head tipped back, legs sprawled. The frozen peas stayed pressed to his face, fingers lax around the crinkling plastic. He looked wrecked and tired and human.

From the kitchen table, Mel didn’t move right away. She watched him, not intruding, not fixing. Just witnessing. She sipped her tea, the warmth of the mug grounding her, too.

A few long, quiet minutes passed—just the music playing low, and the distant hum of traffic through the cracked balcony door.

Then, without looking at her, Frank shifted slightly, exhaled a breath, and said, “Will you come sit with me?”

It wasn’t a plea. Just a threadbare offer. A tether.

Mel set the mug down and rose. She crossed the room slowly, like she was approaching a hurt animal—not out of fear, but reverence.

She didn’t ask where to sit, didn’t hesitate. She just curled up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.

Frank didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. He didn’t say anything, either. He just let out a breath he didn’t seem to know he was holding.

And after a moment, she gently leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I’m not going to work tomorrow,” he said, voice quiet.

Mel turned to look at him, surprised. He never took time off. Her brow lifted slightly. “Oh.” She gave it a moment, then nodded. “That’s good.”

A beat of silence followed. Not tense—just still. They sat close enough to share warmth, both facing forward, neither needing to fill the space.

“I’m sorry,” Frank murmured. “I’ve been leaning on you too much. It’s not fair.”

Mel glanced sideways, her gaze soft. 

“That’s not true.” She didn’t argue, just shook her head slowly. “I chose to be here. I keep choosing it.”

Frank shifted again, the ice pack rustling. “But who do you lean on?”

Mel’s voice was even. “You.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost a scoff, but there was no bite in it. “Feels like I’m always the one spinning out.”

“Well,” Mel said, angling her body slightly toward him, her knee brushing his thigh, “you’ve been dealing with a lot. I’m kinda coasting on a steady streak.” She paused, the corners of her mouth pulling into something faint and real. “But I’ll have my turn. And I know you’ll be there.”

Frank gave her a small smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was sincere. He leaned in, slow and unselfconscious, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Hell yeah I will.”

Mel closed her eyes for a second, just breathing him in. They sat like that for a while—bodies close, the speaker humming gently in the background, the rest of the world on mute.

“I can’t stay over,” she said eventually, voice low. “I have to check on Becca. But you can come, if you want.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. His thumb ran a slow line over the seam of the ice pack. “I slept in your bed that night. With you.”

“You did.”

“Nothing happened?”

“I told you,” Mel said. “Nothing happened.” She let the silence hang for just a moment, then glanced up at him with a flicker of mischief in her eye. “But I hope that would snap you out of a fugue state.”

Frank huffed a genuine, surprised laugh, then winced and muttered, “Ow.”

He shifted after a breath and cleared his throat. “I don’t have to do that again.”

Mel tilted her head. “Maybe I want you to.”

Another pause.

“So…” he said, a smirk creeping in. “Am I graduating from your couch?”

She gave a soft laugh. “I liked having you close. Knowing you were safe.” Her expression warmed, more vulnerable now. “And, honestly? You’re warm, you don’t move, and you don’t snore.”

Frank let out a low chuckle. “High praise.”

The silence returned, companionable again.

“It felt safe,” he added quietly.

“Good.” Mel reached over, brushing his arm lightly. “That’s all I wanted.”

Frank sat with that for a long moment, eyes on the floor, then looked up.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

They moved through the space with quiet familiarity. Mel set down her keys. Frank kicked off his shoes. She poured him a glass of water without asking and handed it over, their fingers brushing in the exchange. He murmured a soft “thanks,” barely audible.

She disappeared into the bathroom. Frank stayed in the kitchen, sipping the water and staring blankly at the fridge like it might give him instructions. Then, slowly, he made his way down the hall and sat on the edge of her bed.

By the time she returned—in flannel pajama pants and a worn-out T-shirt—he’d already sunk back onto the pillows, one hand resting over his eyes. She climbed in beside him wordlessly, pulling the covers up and draping them over both of them like she’d been doing it for years.

They lay there for a while in silence. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just quiet.

Eventually, Frank shifted slightly, still staring at the ceiling.

“Are you gonna tell Robby?” he asked.

Mel turned her head toward him. “Tell him what?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. That I’m falling apart.”

A faint exhale left her nose—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I don’t think you are,” she said gently. “You had an understandable response to repressed trauma.”

She let that settle for a beat, then added, “But I think you should tell him. Maybe he can help you.”

Frank didn’t say anything right away. Then, softly: “Yeah. Maybe.”

Another pause. The air between them felt a little lighter.

Frank lay on his back, one arm stretched out along the mattress. Mel nestled on her side facing him, her head resting on his shoulder. His outstretched arm hovered just above her—close, but careful—not quite touching, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

She didn’t say anything. Just gently shifted her hand over his, guiding it down until it rested lightly against her side. Not pulling, just letting it settle.

He let out a slow breath, the smallest bit of tension easing from his frame.

After a long moment, she spoke softly. “Did talking to your sister help?”

Frank didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, eyes unfocused, expression unreadable. Eventually, his voice came—low, a little rough.

“I think so.” He paused. “I didn’t know if…” He trailed off, then gave a tired exhale. “Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I remember, and I was overreacting. She’s the only one who knows.”

Mel didn’t interrupt. Just listened, quiet and steady beside him.

“I think I needed to hear her say it,” he admitted. “To know I’m not making it all up in my head.”

Mel looked at him for a long moment. “Sometimes it takes someone else to help you believe yourself.”

He nodded, the tightness in his shoulders seeming to ease just a little. The silence that followed wasn’t hollow—it was full. With trust. With knowing.

“What are you gonna do tomorrow?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just… needed a day. I wanna see my kids again.”

“That’s good,” Mel said, smiling faintly against his shoulder. “But maybe you should sleep in first.”

Frank didn’t speak, but his hand curled slightly where it rested against her side—firm and grounded.

They lay like that in silence, bodies close, breaths slow and in sync.

Then, barely audible: “Thank you.”

Mel didn’t answer with words. She shifted, just enough to press a soft kiss to his cheek—light and warm. Then she tucked herself closer, letting her eyes fall closed.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

The staff lounge was quiet when Frank walked in—too quiet for the usual surge of impending shift change. No muffled chatter from the hallway, no clatter from the supply alcove across the hall. Just the soft trickle of the coffee machine and the distant wheeze of the air vent overhead.

Robby sat at the table with his legs stretched out onto an empty chair, a tablet balanced on one knee. His thumb scrolled steadily, eyes narrowed in quiet concentration. A half-finished coffee sat cooling beside him, long forgotten. He looked comfortable in the way someone does when they’ve been here too many times—like the hospital itself had shaped to fit him. Fresh scrubs, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, posture loose but alert. Already turning over problems in his head, sorting the shift’s first puzzles before he even hit the floor.

Frank hovered near the door for a second longer than he needed to. His hand tightened around the strap of his bag before he made himself move. The chair closest to the wall creaked as he dropped into it, his bag sliding to the floor with a soft thud. He sat hunched, elbows on his knees, hands knit tight, thumb tracing an old scar on his knuckle. The fading bruise on his cheekbone caught the room’s weak light—a smear of yellow and green at the edges where deep purple still clung to the bone, the last stubborn signs of the punch that had fractured it.

He didn’t say anything. Just… watched.

Watched the steady motion of Robby’s thumb. The thoughtful set of his mouth. The quiet patience he wore like armor.

Frank shifted his weight. Breathed in. Held it. Let it out slow. His chest tightened, breath catching, like something unspoken was swelling there—too big to swallow, too dangerous to say.

Without looking up, Robby said evenly, “Why are you staring at me?”

Frank flinched, caught, and his gaze dropped like a stone. His teeth found the inside of his cheek—pressure building there, holding back the spill. He braced. Swallowed. The air in the room felt heavier, like it was waiting with him.

“You were right,” he said, voice low.

“Yeah?” Robby didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling. “Which time are you referring to?”

A quiet huff slipped out—half breath, half bitter laugh. Frank worked at a loose thread on his scrub pants, thumb worrying the rough spot like he could rub a hole straight through if he tried hard enough.

“The spiral fracture kid,” he muttered. “Guess it hit me harder than I thought.”

That made Robby glance up. Not sharp or surprised. Just steady, watching now. The weight of it settled between them. A silent patience, like Robby had been waiting for this without ever saying so.

But Frank didn’t meet his eyes. He stared hard at the floor, like it might cough up a script, something easier than this.

His mouth opened. Shut. Another breath dragged in—held too long—before slipping out in a tight exhale. His jaw worked like he might swallow them down again, but they scraped free anyway.

“I need help.”

There it was. The thing he’d been waiting for. The words Frank had never let himself say—not when Robby warned him, not when he came back from rehab looking hollow and sharp around the edges.

He set the tablet aside gently—no sharp clack, no hurry. Then leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, shifting into quiet, deliberate presence, mirroring Frank’s posture without crowding him.

Frank kept his eyes down. The words dragged behind his teeth like stones.

“I think I dissociated. That night. I was talking to someone, but I wasn’t really there. Didn’t even remember it until the other day. And then I kinda…” He pressed his mouth tight. “Fell apart a little.”

Robby’s nod was slow. Knowing. Not the kind that says I saw that coming, but the kind that says I’ve been there.

Frank rubbed at the thread again, circles, circles, smoothing the rough spot.

“Mel said I should tell you.”

A breath stirred in Robby’s chest, low and steady. Mel. Of course it was Mel.

He should’ve guessed. She’d been the one person Frank couldn’t fool—not with the quiet unraveling, not with the brittle smiles he wore when he thought no one was watching.

Robby let the silence hang a moment longer. No rush. No weight behind it.

He remembered the old fights. The shouting match by the lockers when he’d found the stolen pills. Frank’s face pale and panicked, backed into a corner, lying badly because the truth hurt worse. And then the blow-up on the roof, when Frank—ragged and furious—spat that Robby had sent him away like a problem to fix, not a person to save. When he’d admitted, choking on the words, that he’d seen Robby as more than a mentor. More like family.

But this—this was what Robby had really wanted. Not anger. Not broken confessions.

Choice.

Frank, sitting here by his own will, asking for help with no threat behind him. A step he hadn’t been ready for until now.

When Robby finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “What can I do?”

Frank leaned back slowly, the wall cool and solid against his spine. His head tipped until it rested there, eyes dragging upward toward the ceiling—anywhere but here, anywhere but the weight in Robby’s gaze.

“I hate my board-appointed shrink,” he said. The words grated like they hadn’t seen daylight. “She watches me like I’m lying. Like I’ll slip. We haven’t gotten anywhere.” A thin, shaky breath. “But if I ask for someone else… the board’s gonna think I’m just being difficult. Noncompliant. I can’t risk that.”

Robby sat still, eyes distant for a moment as he considered the weight behind Frank’s words. His fingers tapped lightly on the table—slow, deliberate.

The pause was long enough for Frank to glance over, restless and searching. Robby finally reached into his pocket and slid a business card across the table. Crisp. Unworn.

“This was Abbot’s recommendation for me,” he said. “He’s good. Specializes in PTSD. I’ve been going for a while.”

Frank stared at the card. Didn’t reach for it. Like touching it would make it real.

“He should know how to get you cleared if the board has a problem with it,” Robby added.

A pause. Frank’s gaze stayed fixed on the card, not yet reaching.

Then, quietly, he asked, “You just walk around with this on you?”

Robby gave a small shrug. “I’ve been waiting for someone to be ready for it.”

That landed. Frank finally reached out slowly and took the card, rubbing his thumb over the print. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked back up to Robby’s face. A little surprised. A little raw. But grateful.

“You feel okay to work?” Robby asked.

“Yeah.” Frank’s mouth twisted. “But I don’t know if I’d be the first to notice if I’m not.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Robby said. “No judgment. You feel weird, step back. I’ll cover it.”

Frank nodded again, still looking down. A long pause stretched between them.

Then Robby, gentler: “And thank you for telling me.”

Frank’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Just didn’t want you to find out the hard way.”

Robby stood, chair legs creaking softly against the floor. He rested a steady hand on Frank’s shoulder—warm, firm, solid.

“You’ll be alright, kid.”

He squeezed once. Then turned, walking out without hurry, leaving Frank alone in the quiet lounge. He sat for a moment longer, letting out a slow breath, thumb brushing the card’s edge as he slipped it into his pocket. He felt the knot in his chest ease—not gone, but loosened enough to make space for something else. Something that felt like the start of hope.

The locker room buzzed with low conversation and the clatter of opening doors, that familiar cocktail of antiseptic and stale sweat lingering in the air. Mel stepped inside, tugging off her jacket as her eyes landed on Frank.

He was already there, half-leaning against his locker, a coffee cradled in one hand and a tablet balanced in the other. He wasn’t really reading—just scrolling, idle and unfocused, thumb flicking without purpose. But his posture was looser than usual, the tightness in his shoulders eased, like some weight had finally shifted.

His gaze lifted when she walked in, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—quieter than usual, but real.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said, almost warm. “You’re late.”

Mel raised an eyebrow, smirking as she hung her jacket. “I’m ten minutes early.”

That earned a slow blink and the ghost of something almost playful. He straightened a little, took a step toward her like he might close the space between them—then stopped himself with a quick glance around the room.

“Exactly,” he murmured. “That’s late for you.”

“Well, that makes two of us. You’re uncharacteristically early,” Mel shot back.

“Yeah, I, uhh…” His expression softened, flickering with something quieter than amused. “I came in early to talk to Robby. I told him—”

Before he could say more, Samira strode in, scrubs already creased like she’d been on shift for a while.

Frank instinctively eased back, his posture shifting—not tight, not tense, just cautious, like muscle memory that hadn’t quite caught up to his mood.

“Hey, you two,” she said. “You’re missing all the fun.”

Frank gave her a low grunt that passed for a greeting and sipped his coffee, the guardedness flickering out of habit more than need.

Mel turned toward Samira, grinning. “Let me guess—someone tried to flush their own Foley again?”

Samira gave a long-suffering sigh. “Worse. Central four smells like someone bathed in malt liquor and regret.”

Frank actually huffed a quiet laugh at that, the sound dry but real. Mel caught the flicker in Samira’s expression—surprised, maybe, but relieved. Like she hadn’t been sure what version of him she’d be walking into.

The door swung open again. Trinity stepped in with Dennis on her heels, shrugging off her jacket. She muttered something under her breath about “chlorhexidine and divine intervention,” then fell quiet as she caught the tail end of Samira’s complaint. Her eyes flicked across the group—lingering, just briefly, on Frank.

He perked up the second he saw Dennis, the weight in his shoulders easing like flipping on a light after dusk.

“Whitaker,” he called out. “You ever debride a decubitus ulcer?”

Dennis blinked, mid-yawn. “Uh… no. Don’t think I’ve even seen one in person.”

Frank grinned like he’d just won something. “Oh, buddy. You’re in for a treat.”

He turned to his locker, grabbing a small packet of essential oil patches. “Ellis left me a present— stage four, deep as the Grand Canyon, straight from a nursing home. Might be chewing on bone by now.”

He tossed a patch to Dennis. “Stick that on the inside of your mask.”

Dennis caught it mid-air, brow furrowing as he turned it over in his hand. “Is it really that bad?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Samira deadpanned. “We save them for Langdon whenever we can.”

Mel arched her brow. “Didn’t know you had such refined tastes, Dr. Langdon.”

Frank gave a mock-sentimental sigh as he clapped Dennis on the shoulder. “What can I say? I have a calling.”

He was already nudging Dennis toward the hallway, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, rookie. Hope you haven't eaten breakfast yet.”

Dennis groaned but followed with a grin, half-laughing as he went.

Behind them, Trinity watched the interaction with an unreadable expression. She didn’t say anything—but her eyes followed them a second too long, and when she turned back to her locker, her jaw had tightened just slightly.

Samira lingered beside Mel, watching Frank and Dennis disappear into the thick of it. She turned back with a smile, eyebrows raised—not nosy, but definitely amused.

“So…” Samira said under her breath, a teasing edge in her voice. “Is that a crush I’m detecting?”

Mel gave a dry snort. “What? No.”

“'Didn’t know you had such refined tastes, Dr. Langdon.’ ” Samira mimicked, her voice lilting in exaggerated flirtation. “You laid it on like you were auditioning for some hospital rom-com.”

Mel rolled her eyes. “We’re just good friends. You know that.”

Trinity, halfway through tying up her hair, cut in with a look sharper than amused.

“Sure. You’re just friends with a guy who lights up like a Christmas tree every time you walk in.”

Mel paused for half a second, then shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything. He just lit up when he saw Whitaker.”

“Well now that you say that…” Trinity smirked, a hint of reluctant amusement in her tone, “Maybe I’d be on board with an ER affair if it was gay.”

“That’d be a plot twist I didn’t see coming,” Samira said as she cracked a grin, elbowing Mel lightly. She checked her tablet and sighed. “Back to the front lines. Central four’s still drunk, still yelling. I think he’s negotiating with the IV pole now.”

Mel smirked. “You want backup?”

“Nah. I can take him. I fight dirty.” Samira winked as she turned to go. “But if you are into broody married men with a secret affection for festering ulcers, let me know. I’ll stage an intervention.”

Mel gave a dry laugh. “Call me if he pees on the floor. You’ll owe me a coffee for every puddle.”

Samira shot her a grin over her shoulder. “Put it on my tab,” she called, disappearing into the ER.

Trinity lingered a beat longer before heading toward the hallway herself, tossing over her shoulder, “You could do better, by the way.”

Mel blinked. “What?”

Trinity didn’t turn around. “If you were into him.”

And then she was gone.

Dennis stifled a gag the second they stepped into the room.

“Oh my God . That’s… potent.”

The smell hit like a punch—wet rot, old sweat, something sharp and chemical trying and failing to cover the stink of decay. Frank just grinned like it was his birthday.

The patient—elderly, glassy-eyed, deep in a medicated fog—lay limp and still on his side, breathing slow and shallow. He barely stirred as Frank peeled back the dressing covering his lower back. Beneath it, the wound yawned open: raw, angry, ringed in sickly yellow and crusted black like burned leather.

Dennis’s eyes widened, mouth pressed thin behind his mask.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” Frank glanced back, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You didn’t think I dragged you in here just to observe, did you?”

He stepped aside and offered the curette, twirling it once between gloved fingers like a magician offering a trick.

“All right. What do you see?”

Dennis hesitated, gaze stuck on the gaping wound, then took the tool gingerly, like it might bite.

“Uh… it’s fucked.”

Frank barked a laugh, sharp and delighted. “Correct. Medically speaking: severely fucked. Now try again.”

Dennis let out a breath, shoulders tightening. “Definitely necrotic. Yellow’s slough, black is eschar.”

“Bingo.” Frank nodded, approving. “What do you do with it?”

“Debride it?”

“Well, duh. But how?”

Dennis swallowed, adjusting his grip like the curette weighed more than it should. “Start at the edges, look for healthy bleed. If it bleeds, it’s viable.”

“Attaboy.” Frank eased down onto a stool at the foot of the bed, sipping his coffee like this was Sunday morning paper reading, not a gaping stage-four pressure ulcer. “Don’t be too gentle. You’re not frosting a cake.”

Dennis shot him a side-eye, but leaned in and set to work. The suction machine kicked on beside them—loud and wet—and the room filled with the awful squelch of dead tissue lifting away. The smell somehow got worse, bitter and cloying under the antiseptic.

Frank watched, content to let the kid sweat.

Halfway through, the door creaked open. Robby stepped in, pausing just inside with a low whistle.

“Whoooa. That’s a hell of a crater.”

Frank glanced back over his shoulder, grinning mid-sip. “Thing of beauty, right?”

“Langdon.” Robby gave him a dry look, eyebrows raised. “Torturing med students again?”

“Torture? Please,” Frank gestured grandly at the wound, like a proud museum curator. “This is a gift.”

Robby stepped closer, hands on hips as he leaned for a better look. “Did you sedate him?”

“Nope.” Frank shook his head. “He came in already lost in Depakote town, courtesy of the nursing home.”

Robby sighed through his nose, the sound heavy and familiar. “Jesus.”

His attention slid to Dennis next, voice turning crisp and clipped. “What’s your plan after debridement?”

Dennis glanced up, blinking as if yanked from a nightmare. But he straightened, gripping the curette like a lifeline.

“Ongoing wound care. Start broad-spectrum antibiotics while we wait on cultures. Imaging to rule out osteomyelitis. And a social work consult.” He paused. “Pretty clear case of neglect.”

“Good.” Robby nodded once. “Admit to internal medicine.”

He lingered a beat longer, then shifted his focus back to Frank. His voice dipped, soft and careful. “You okay?”

Frank didn’t hesitate. “We’re elbow-deep in necrotic tissue, Robby. I’ve never been better.”

Robby smirked faintly. “Right. I forgot about your weird affinity for wounds.” The smile lingered, then dimmed. “But you know what I mean.”

Frank’s own smile held a beat too long—tight around the edges—then faltered just slightly. “I’ll let you know if I’m not.”

Their eyes locked across the gulf of the room. For a breath, the buzz of suction and the beeping vitals filled the space between them.

Robby gave a small nod, already backing toward the door. “Page me if cultures come back weird.”

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.

Frank turned back toward Dennis, who was still hunched over the wound, scraping carefully, jaw clenched beneath his mask.

“How you holding up?” Frank asked, peeling off his gloves with a quiet snap.

Dennis didn’t look up. “Feel like I need to debride the olfactory bulb out of my skull.”

“You’re doing fine,” Frank chuckled, tossing the gloves into the bin. “Just keep the edges clean—anything you leave behind can fester.”

Dennis adjusted his stance, nodding tightly. “I get why wound care usually handles this.”

“They’re great,” Frank agreed, reaching for a fresh dressing. “But sometimes you don’t have time to wait around. You see a mess, you clean it up. That’s the job.”

Mel stood at the wall dispenser, working sanitizer into her palms, eyes fixed on the exam room. Through the glass, she watched Frank move—mid-gesture, animated, alive in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. He leaned over Dennis’s shoulder, coaching with steady patience, as if the yawning crater of rotting flesh in front of them were just another challenge, not the ugliest thing in the room.

It almost made her smile. Almost.

Robby stepped up beside her without a word, reaching for the dispenser. The sharp scent of alcohol filled the space between them as he rubbed his hands, slow and deliberate.

For a long moment, they stood in silence. Breathing. Watching. The distant hum of monitors and hurried footsteps barely reaching.

Then, quiet enough for only her to hear, he leaned in.

“Thank you.”

Mel glanced sideways. His face stayed unreadable—tight around the edges—but his voice cracked the armor, low and rough-edged, weighted with something he wasn’t saying.

“He told you?” Her voice came out softer than she intended, almost hesitant.

“He did.”

She grabbed a paper towel, drying her hands with slow, careful movements. Her gaze flicked back to the glass but didn’t really settle—drifting past the room, past the moment.

“That was the right push,” Robby said, softer now. Careful. “I appreciate it.”

Mel gave a small shrug, dismissive but not unkind. Her shoulders tensed for just a fraction, like holding steady was an effort. “I didn’t push. I listened.” Her voice was quiet. Steady. “That’s all you ever had to do.”

Robby didn’t answer. Not right away. His hands stilled, the scent of sanitizer sharp and clean between them.

She wasn’t wrong.

He’d pushed Frank hard. Pressured him when he wasn’t ready. Thinking he could force the truth out, drag the damage into the light where it could be fixed. But that had only made Frank retreat deeper.

Mel hadn’t done any of that. She’d stood beside him. Waited. Let him come to her.

And it worked.

For the first time in weeks, Frank wasn’t slipping. He was standing. Present.

His jaw shifted, tight for a breath, then eased.

“No shoving. Just... steady ground,” Robby murmured, almost to himself.

Mel didn’t reply. She didn’t have to.

The quiet held a moment longer before Robby turned away, brushing his hands dry against his hoodie. Composed. Professional. Like the weight in his chest hadn’t settled just a little heavier.

Hours later, Mel stepped out into the ambulance bay, the doors gliding softly shut behind her. The air smelled of asphalt and exhaust, warm concrete and distant rain. Frank sat on the low curb by the wall, a cigarette burning between his fingers, elbow propped on his knee, gaze turned toward the parked rigs like he was watching for something that never came.

He didn’t notice her at first—too busy with the slow drag of smoke, letting the quiet stretch. A trauma cap was stuffed in his pocket, sleeves shoved to his elbows, scrubs rumpled from the long day.

Mel crossed the pavement and sank down beside him without a word, curling her fingers around her fresh cup of coffee. For a moment they sat in companionable quiet, distant sirens and the hiss of the ER door the only sounds surrounding them.

“So,” she said lightly. “How was your spontaneous day off?”

“Oh, fine. Kids are great. We made pancakes and Tanner dumped an entire bag of chocolate chips in the batter,” Frank responded casually.

“Huh,” Mel smirked into her cup. “That sounds like something his dad would do.”

A real laugh this time, quiet but warm. “Yeah. I think I read somewhere that the sweet tooth is genetic.”

Mel let a small smile tug at her mouth, but the pause that followed wasn’t empty. She gave it a beat, let the quiet settle, then gently nudged the moment forward.

“You were saying you came in early to talk to Robby?”

Frank’s expression flickered. Not closed, not quite guarded, but careful. He nodded once, slow, and dug into the pocket of his scrub top. A small, newly creased business card appeared in his hand. Wordlessly, he held it out.

She took it, brushing her thumb along the edge as she read the name. Her face softened.

“Are you gonna call?” she asked, quieter now, passing the card back to him.

He opened his mouth like he meant to answer—then hesitated, teeth clicking softly shut. “I don’t know. There’s all this red tape—medical board wants me jumping through every goddamn hoop just to—”

“Langdon.”

Collins’s voice cut sharp at the doors behind them as she strode forward. “Robby wants you in Trauma Two. Now.”

Frank sighed, stubbing the cigarette out on the curb beside him. “Guess we’ll finish this later,” he said as he stood, flashing Mel a crooked grin. On his way past, he tossed her a lazy wink and a theatrical air-kiss before easing through the doors.

Mel shook her head, smiling despite herself.

By mid-afternoon, the last few hours had run mercilessly. Trauma after trauma, no room to breathe. Frank sat at a charting station now, the backs of his hands resting lightly against the desk, tablet untouched beside them. His shoulders stayed squared, posture easy—but his body hadn’t quite come down yet. Muscles tight under the surface. Brain still braced for the next hit.

Robby stepped up beside him, quiet as ever, a manila folder in hand he didn’t bother opening. He stood there a moment, gaze skimming the line of Frank’s jaw, the set of his shoulders. No hurry.

“Why don’t you step off for a minute.”

Frank didn’t look up. “Why? I’m fine.”

“I know. Isn’t that the best time to take a break?” Robby’s voice stayed even, unreadable. “Before you’re not fine?”

The words settled, easy as breath. A quiet between them that said more than either of them needed to.

Frank let his thumb drag slow along the corner of the tablet. Considered arguing but immediately thought better of it.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Robby asked, still not looking his way.

Frank huffed soft through his nose. “Please don’t coddle me.” His voice low, more tired than sharp.

“I’m not.” Robby gave the faintest shrug, like shifting a deck of cards. “Just keeping my word.”

A beat.

“There’s Primanti’s in the lounge. Go get some pastrami before Whitaker eats it all.”

Frank sat still, breathing slow. Weighing the quiet. The nothing in his hands against the low hum of pressure in his chest.

Then he exhaled, long and even. The ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Guess I can’t say no to pastrami.”

He stood, stretching the line of his spine, a quiet pop in his shoulders as they loosened. As he passed Robby, his hand brushed his shoulder—a faint, careless pat. Unspoken thanks.

No eye contact. No words.

Robby let him go. Watching without watching. Steady.

Frank walked into the lounge like he hadn’t just spent the last few hours elbow-deep in blood and panic. No scowl. No muttered swearing. If anything, he looked… lighter. Brighter.

Dennis glanced up from the table. “Look who finally came to sit with the cool kids.”

Grinning—an actual grin, easy and unguarded—Frank tugged out a chair. “Must’ve missed them. I only see you two.”

“I saved you a sandwich,” Mel said without looking up as she slid one across the table. “You get weird when you’re hungry.” 

“I do not get weird,” Frank muttered, already peeling the paper back like this was what he’d been waiting for all day.

“You definitely do.”

He shrugged, smiling, too unbothered to argue.

Dennis watched them, eyes narrowing. “You two hang out a lot outside of here or something?”

Frank shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Not really,” Mel said at the same time.

Dennis raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Frank took a slow bite, glancing sideways. “What, you jealous?”

“Just trying to figure out the vibe. Feels different today.”

Wiping his fingers on a napkin, Frank leaned back—relaxed in a way that didn’t feel forced. “I like to keep people guessing.”

Something in the air shifted then. Not enough to break the moment. Just enough for Mel to notice. Like a door easing open, quiet and careful.

“You wanna grab a drink later?” Frank asked suddenly, like the idea had just occurred to him and the words rolled out before he could overthink it.

Dennis blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Mel froze mid-bite, eyes flicking to Frank like she wasn’t sure if he was joking. But he was still looking at Dennis, calm and casual.

“Yeah, man. Let me buy you a beer,” Frank said, still easy. “After that wound debridement I threw you into this morning? You’ve earned it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—just surprised. Like something had tilted and no one was quite sure how to stand up straight.

“Alright, sure,” Dennis broke first. He tossed a napkin onto his tray. “But I swear, if this turns into karaoke—”

“It won’t,” Frank cut in, already smiling.

“—I’m still doing it,” Dennis finished, laughing.

Frank laughed, low and almost to himself, like it slipped out by accident. Then he looked at Mel.

“You’re coming too. This is mandatory,” he said. 

She watched him, sandwich forgotten in her hand. There was something different here. Not just the light mood—something deeper. Like he’d cracked a window she didn’t realize was shut.

“Am I gonna end up being some kind of third wheel?” Dennis asked, glancing between them.

Frank didn’t miss a beat. “Nah, man. You’re not a third wheel. You wanna bring someone, bring someone. Get a group together. We’ll make a whole thing of it.”

Mel blinked, surprised. That wasn’t what she thought he’d say.

“Wait,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What?”

Frank shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah, why not? We’re allowed to breach containment once in a while.”

“Breach containment?” Mel snorted softly. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Frank grinned, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

Mel didn’t answer. She just watched him, her appetite forgotten, wondering when the hell that door had opened—and how she’d missed it.

“Time of death, 17:51. Fuck,” Frank called as he stripped off bloodied gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bin by the wall.

Dennis was leaning there, scrubs rumpled, face drawn. The rest of the team moved with quiet precision, easing out of the room after cleanup.

“She was my age,” Dennis said softly, like the thought had surprised him. “Four days of pain before she came in?”

Frank didn’t look up from the computer. “Yeah. Happens more than it should.” He clicked through the chart. “People think it’ll pass. Can’t miss work. Don’t want to believe it’s serious.”

“She had a six-year-old,” Dennis murmured. His gaze was somewhere far away.

Frank exhaled slow. The weight hung there.

“You’ve got a wife and kids, right?” Dennis asked.

Frank glanced over, surprised—but only for a breath. “Yeah.”

“So how do you do it? Go out there, tell her husband and kid she’s gone... then go home to yours like nothing broke?”

For a second, Frank almost gave the old answer. The shrug. The easy lie. But it didn’t come.

“I’m probably not the best guy to ask about coping,” he said instead, mouth tugging faint and dry. “Had a full-on breakdown on my bathroom floor two nights ago.”

“Seriously?”

“Wasn’t exactly job-related, but you know,” Frank shrugged, honest and open in a way that felt strange—and strangely easy. Weird, how the truth came now without a fight. Like the floor he’d hit had made pretending not worth it anymore. “There’s no shame in falling apart sometimes. But you keep coming back. We save a hell of a lot more people than we lose.”

Dennis breathed out, slow. His mouth pulled tight, working the thought. But after a beat, he nodded—like some small part of him had steadied.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Frank gave his shoulder a light pat. No weight. No fuss. 

 “Come on. We’re almost done. You still in for that beer later?”

A faint tired laugh slipped out of Dennis. “Definitely.”

Mel was posted up at one of the charting stations, tapping notes into the system with the kind of mechanical focus that only came after twelve hours on her feet. Her hair was pulled back again, strands curling loose around her temples, and her water bottle sat forgotten at her elbow.

Frank wandered over, tablet in one hand, a crooked half-grin pulling at his mouth as he leaned his back against the counter beside her.

“Guy down in triage tried to superglue his own cut,” he said. “Did it backwards. Glued the gauze inside the wound. Took twenty minutes and half the skin off to fix it.”

Mel winced without looking up. “People are disgusting.”

“But inventive,” Frank added with a shrug. “Gotta give him that.”

He shifted slightly, casting a glance down toward her. “Anyway—you’re actually okay to go tonight, right? I didn’t mean to put you on the spot earlier.”

Mel exhaled, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah. I just…” Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. “I don’t want Becca to feel like I’m choosing happy hour over her.”

Frank dipped his head, trying to catch her eye without turning. “So bring her. The more the merrier.”

“She’d hate it. Dive bars and shouting and sticky floors? Not her scene.”

“Well. You’re not choosing anything over her. You’re grabbing a drink with your friends after a long-ass shift. You’re allowed to have fun sometimes. She’d want you to.”

Mel paused, her gaze lingering on the screen in front of her before finally glancing sideways at him. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“But you love me anyway,” Frank said with a crooked smile.

A beat passed between them. She didn’t say it—but she smiled, and that was enough.

Frank nudged her ankle lightly with his foot. “Just an hour or two. We’ll pick her up on the way back.”

“Okay, fine,” Mel gave a small nod, her eyes a little softer now. “What’s gotten into you today? You’ve been more—”

Before she could finish, Robby appeared in front of Frank, coffee in hand.

“What’s this I hear about an ER bar night?” His dry tone cut through the hallway buzz. “Did my invitation get lost in the mail?”

Frank looked up at him without moving. “I figured you wouldn’t wanna hang out with us off the clock.”

Robby raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re going?”

“Might’ve been my idea,” Frank admitted.

That made Robby pause—a flicker of something passing across his face. Surprise, maybe approval. “Huh.” He nodded once, slow sip of coffee. “Good.” Then a glance at Mel. “But he’s right. I’ve seen enough of him today.”

“Fair enough,” Frank responded, leaning back slightly with a half-grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess I can be a handful.”

“Langdon,” Kim called as she rounded the corner, holding a tablet. “Patient’s mom in South Six has questions.”

Frank didn’t even look over. “So... answer them?”

“I did. She wants to talk to an actual doctor.”

“Huh.” Frank raised his badge comically close to his face, inspecting it like he’d never seen it before. “Yup, guess that’s me. I’ll go repeat whatever you just told her.”

He pushed off the counter and headed down the hall, flashing Mel a quick wink from behind Robby’s shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Robby didn’t move right away, his gaze settling on Mel instead. His voice was low, dry.

“You’ll keep him upright tonight?”

Mel glanced up from her screen. “I’m not his babysitter.”

A faint huff, almost like a laugh but without the humor. “No. But you’re the one he listens to now.”

He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary—something heavy, unspoken hanging there—then took a slow sip of coffee and turned away.

The bar was exactly the kind of place you’d warn your mother to avoid—floors tacky enough to slow your steps, neon signs buzzing faintly above a battered bar, and bowls of stale peanuts on every table. Barflies nursed their drinks with quiet resignation, hunched in dim booths or slouched on cracked stools.

Mel, Frank, and Dennis had claimed a scarred vinyl booth near the back. The seat had long since given up on cushioning, but it was still warm and lived-in, like the rest of the place. Dennis was already elbow-deep in a basket of fries when Frank stood and made his way toward the bar.

Mel scanned the room while he was gone, eyes adjusting to the haze of cigarette smoke that clung low in the air, mixing with the faint scent of fryer oil and cheap beer.

Frank returned a minute later, balancing two drinks—gin and tonic for Mel, a dark stout for Dennis. He set them down without comment and deliberately left the third spot at the table empty.

Dennis glanced at the untouched space, then at him. “Wait… you’re not drinking?”

Frank smirked, easy and unbothered. “Not unless you’re willing to peel me off the floor later.”

“Why’d you invite us to a bar, then? I thought maybe—”

“Relax,” Frank cut in smoothly. “I’m still picking up the tab.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Dennis’s mouth as he lifted his stout in thanks.

The door creaked open behind them. Samira slipped inside, catching the conversation and making a beeline for the booth.

“Did I just hear that Langdon planned this?” Her smile widened as she settled in the booth next to Mel.

“Don’t get used to it,” Frank said without looking up, smirking.

Another gust of warm air swept in as Trinity arrived a moment later, eyes scanning the room until they landed on the group. She shrugged off her jacket as she came over.

“Didn’t peg you as the dive bar type,” she said, eyeing Frank as she slid into the booth beside Dennis. “Thought you had a wife and kids to go home to.”

There was the barest pause—not long enough for anyone else to notice.

Except Mel.

Frank’s shrug was easy, smooth. “They let me off leash sometimes.”

Samira smirked. “Don’t scare him off, Trinity. This is a rare event.”

Trinity gave the smallest smile. “I’m just surprised. That’s all.”

“Join the club,” Dennis muttered, lifting his stout.

The door swung open again in a burst of noise and warm air as Jesse walked in with Mateo, Donnie, and Kim close behind. Mateo said something that made Donnie groan dramatically; Jesse was laughing before they even reached the bar. They waved on their way past, claiming a high-top near the jukebox without breaking stride.

The booth settled into its own rhythm—Dennis complaining about hospital coffee and his terrible aim with a central line, Samira grumbling about the cursed vending machine in the staff lounge, Trinity rolling her eyes at both.

And Frank—he didn’t drift quiet, or fade to the background, or watch the door like he was halfway out of the room.

He leaned in, elbows on the table, grinning easily. Like he’d always been there. Like he meant to stay.

It didn’t take long for Frank and Dennis to spiral straight into shop talk—arguing the merits of balanced crystalloids versus saline in septic patients, tossing around terms like “third spacing” and “MAP goals” like they were gossip. Mel chimed in now and then, sharp and thoughtful in the rare pauses, but Trinity and Samira sat back in the booth, exchanging glances through glassy-eyes, silently begging for mercy.

When the phrase "lactate clearance versus central venous oxygen saturation as endpoints" actually came out of Dennis’s mouth like it belonged in casual conversation, Samira groaned, drained the rest of her drink, and stood, stretching.

“Alright. I wanna talk about anything but medicine for one night,” she announced. “Mel, Trinity, come on. Girl talk time.”

Trinity was on her feet in an instant, muttering, “Thank God,” under her breath.

Mel stood more slowly, casting Frank a look—half apology, half amusement. He only shrugged, easy and unbothered, already leaning back with his arms folded like he’d seen this coming.

Samira led them to a smaller table a few feet away, one of the quieter corners of the bar. It was slightly sticky, slightly lopsided, and just isolated enough to feel separate from the rest of the group.

“Good lord,” Samira said, settling into the booth like she’d been waiting all night for this moment. “Is Whitaker always like that?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Trinity said mid-eye roll. “Sometimes he rambles about dairy cows, like genetics and milk production or some shit.”

Samira and Mel exchanged a quick, amused glance, both suppressing little giggles.

Leaning back with a smirk, Samira nudged Mel. “What about Langdon? Is he normal at all outside of work?”

Trinity’s eyes shot up from her drink. “Wait— you actually hang out with him?”

Mel took a slow sip of her drink, letting the question slide past. “We all survive the same shifts. That counts for something.”

The dodge was casual, but not casual enough—Samira caught the deflection, eyes narrowing just slightly in quiet amusement.

“Well, he’s definitely not normal,” Trinity cut in, oblivious. “Dennis told me he once saw him shotgun two Red Bulls back to back right at the central nurse’s station.”

A quiet huff of laughter from Mel. “Can’t say he’s not efficient.”

“Okay enough about Langdon the caffeine goblin.” Samira pointed a finger at Trinity, grinning. “You—tell us about that girl you're seeing.”

Trinity brightened immediately. “Oh my God. Yes. Total smoke show. Her name’s Ren—she’s a motorcycle mechanic. Has this whole leather jacket collection and insists on picking me up on her bike like we’re living in some queer rom-com.”

Samira groaned in approval. “Hot. Pictures. Now.”

Meanwhile, Frank and Dennis’s conversation was stuck on medicine, not in a showy way, but the kind that happened naturally after enough time in the trenches together. Dennis wasn’t testing Frank, not exactly—just throwing out weird cases, puzzling through them out loud like he usually did when something lodged in his brain and wouldn’t let go.

“I still don’t get how that guy walked in talking with an O2 sat of seventy-three,” he said, half-laughing. “I looked at his chest x-ray and thought it was upside down.”

Frank reached across the table and grabbed a clean napkin. “He shouldn’t have. Ever seen a tension pneumo that bad without tracheal deviation?”

Dennis raised an eyebrow. “That’s what that was?”

“Yeah. If it were me, I’d have needled him before the x-ray. But you got him stabilized.”

“Mostly me,” Dennis said, grinning. “You came in and big-dogged me halfway through.”

Frank snorted. “That’s just my face. It reads condescending.”

Dennis laughed, leaning back. “That and the part where you said, and I quote, ‘You’re about to tube him with a salad tong, Whitaker.’”

“Which was accurate,” Frank deadpanned. “What’d you pull, a Mac 4? Planning to intubate a buffalo?”

A server passed by just then, pausing to set a shot glass in front of Frank with a practiced hand. “Compliments of the lady in the red top,” she said, nodding toward a cluster of patrons gathered under a flickering neon Rolling Rock sign.

Frank barely glanced their way. Without hesitation, he slid the shot across the table to Dennis.

Dennis eyed the glass, then him—then down at the simple gold band on Frank’s ring finger. “Bold move. You’re clearly married.”

“Yeah…” The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile. “Only on paper.”

Curiosity flickered in Dennis’s glance, but Frank didn’t elaborate.

“It’s fine,” Frank added with a shrug, easy as ever. “Take the free shot.”

Shaking his head, Dennis lifted the glass anyway and knocked it back in one smooth gulp. His face scrunched immediately. “God. Tastes like jet fuel.”

Frank just raised a brow. “You’re the one drinking it.”

“Yeah, because you passed it to me, Dad .” Dennis tipped the empty glass. “Are you always the responsible adult?”

Frank gave a dry huff of a laugh. “I already burned through my reckless phase.”

A shout broke the moment as Donnie waved a cue stick like a flag from the other side of the bar. “Langdon! You coming, or what?”

Frank raised a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t move. 

“You any good at pool?”

“Good enough to talk shit. Not good enough to back it up,” Dennis replied, squinting toward the table.

A slow smile spread across Frank’s face as he stood. “Perfect.”

They made their way toward the pool table, the rest of the bar noise rising to meet them.

Two hours slipped by in a blur of laughter and clinking glasses. Mel was comfortably buzzed—three drinks in, maybe four—and still deep in conversation with the girls.

“…I swear, she’s got three red flags and a criminal record, and Trinity’s still like, ‘Well, maybe it’s character development,’” Samira said, grinning.

Trinity rolled her eyes, laughing. “Okay, but she’s hot .”

Mel laughed too, leaning into the table. “You need a screening committee.”

“Yeah,” Samira said, raising her glass. “And I nominate us.”

They clinked drinks, the moment light and easy.

Frank appeared like he’d been waiting for a lull, crouching beside Mel at the edge of the booth. He didn’t interrupt—just touched her knee gently and leaned in so she could hear.

“I’ll be out front when you’re ready. Don’t rush.”

Mel nodded, her eyes slightly glassy but focused. “Okay.”

Frank stood and walked off, weaving through the crowd toward the door. Mel turned back to the table, reaching for her drink.

“Are you sure you’re okay leaving with him?” Trinity asked.

Mel blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a few,” Trinity said carefully. “And he hasn’t. I’m just… looking out for you.”

Samira frowned. “Oh, come on. It’s Langdon . He’s harmless. And he’s married.”

Trinity didn’t let it go. “So? Being a doctor didn’t stop him from stealing drugs. Why should I believe being married would stop him from—”

“Okay,” Samira cut in, sharper this time. “That’s enough.”

The table went quiet. The warmth of the moment drained away.

Mel stood, gathering her things with deliberate calm. 

“I have to go pick up my sister,” was all she said before turning and walking out.

Trinity shifted in her seat, eyes still on the door. “That was… not how I meant for that to go.”

Samira let out a slow breath. “I know.”

Trinity picked at the label on her beer bottle. “I’ve just seen things go bad, you know? Sometimes you think someone’s safe until it’s too late.”

“You’re not wrong for being cautious,” Samira said gently. “But dragging up his past like that? That wasn’t fair.”

Trinity didn’t respond. She looked like she wanted to say something, but it didn’t come.

“You didn’t know him before,” Samira said after studying her for a moment. “And he’d throw himself in front of a train before hurting anyone, especially Mel. That’s not something I’m guessing about.”

Trinity didn’t meet her eyes. Just stared down at the bottle.

“And honestly,” Samira added, “if Garcia’s your source of truth, you might want to fact-check your gossip.”

Another long beat of silence. Trinity stared down at her drink, then said quietly, almost to herself, “It’s just hard not to see the worst in people when that’s all you’ve been shown.”

Samira didn’t argue with that. She just sat with it, letting the weight of it land between them.

Outside, the air was muggy and close, the sidewalk still damp from an earlier rain. Frank sat on the curb a few feet from the entrance, his jacket folded beside him, a cigarette burning between two fingers. The glow from the bar’s neon sign cast a flickering red halo over his shoes.

Mel walked up slowly, arms crossed, her face drawn tight. When he finally glanced up, he squinted at her through the smoke.

“You okay?” he asked, not unkindly.

Mel looked away, ignoring the question. Just said, low and flat, “I wanna go home.”

Something in Frank’s expression shifted—barely—but he stood right away, flicking the cigarette away and grinding it out beneath his heel. He picked up his jacket.

“Does anyone else need a ride?” he asked, glancing back toward the bar.

Mel just shook her head, not trusting her voice.

Frank didn’t answer. Instead, he shook out his jacket and draped it over her shoulders without a word—warm from his body, smelling faintly of smoke and clean cotton. His hand lingered lightly at her back as he steered them toward his car.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

The car was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal as Frank pulled out of the lot. Streetlights streaked across the windshield in long, tired patterns. Mel hadn’t said a word since buckling in. She just stared out the window, arms still crossed, jaw set tight.

Frank didn’t push. He never did, not when she was like this. He adjusted the heat slightly, more out of instinct than need, and kept his eyes on the road.

A few blocks passed in silence.

Then—soft, sudden—he heard it. A shaky breath, sharp at the start, breaking by the end. When he glanced over, she was wiping at her eyes, trying to make it look like nothing.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Mel—”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, voice thick.

“Are you crying?”

“Just—can we not?” She turned farther toward the window, swallowing hard. “I don’t want Becca to see.”

“I mean… I can take you home first. Then I’ll go get her.”

“No. I’m fine.”

Frank only nodded.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. Real. Frank reached over and turned the volume up just a notch—just enough to offer her a little cover. Not to distract her. Just to let her fall apart without feeling watched.

He didn’t say anything else. He just kept driving—steady, quiet, present.

And she cried. Not loud or dramatic. Just quietly, like her body had finally decided it couldn’t hold the pressure anymore.

Becca’s soft footsteps padded down the hall as she headed to her bedroom, calling her goodnights over her shoulder without turning around. Mel didn’t respond, just listened to the faint sounds of drawers opening and closing.

Mel dropped her keys in the dish by the door, then moved toward the bathroom. She paused at the threshold, caught off guard when Frank’s voice came from the living room.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked quietly.

Mel hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

While Mel showered, Frank puttered around the apartment — folding a stray blanket on the couch, tidying up the kitchen counter, then setting a kettle on to boil. When the soft whistle came, he carefully brewed a cup of tea and carried it to the living room, placing it gently on the side table.

The apartment was quiet but not empty. Frank settled onto the couch, ready to give Mel space but close enough if she needed him.

Mel stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair damp and wrapped loosely in a towel. She was dressed in soft, worn pajamas, the kind that felt like a small comfort after a long day. She moved over to the couch and sank down beside Frank, her shoulders still carrying the weight of the night.

“Thanks for the tea,” she said quietly, her voice tired but genuine.

Frank gave a small nod, watching her carefully. After a moment, he asked gently, “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Trinity said something.” Mel let out a slow breath, rubbing at her forehead. “About you.”

“Of course she did,” Frank scoffed and rolled his eyes. “What was it this time?”

“She… warned me. About leaving with you. Because I’d been drinking and you hadn’t. Like you were gonna—” She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek. Her voice was thinner when she finished. “She thinks you’d hurt me.”

Frank went still. The corner of his mouth twitched, but not into a smile.

“Wow,” he said softly, after a long pause. “Ouch.”

Mel swallowed. “I wasn’t gonna tell you. I knew you’d be upset. I know you wouldn’t—”

“Mel.” He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

But his voice wavered just enough to betray the sting underneath. He let a breath go, rubbing at his jaw.

“Not fine,” he admitted. “That stings. But I’m glad she was looking out for you. I want her to.” He paused again, longer this time. “Doesn’t mean I like the implication.”

Mel glanced at him, quiet. “She brought up the drug thing again too.”

Frank huffed a dry breath, the ghost of a bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “Well. That’s a reputation I earned. Can’t even be mad about that.”

“It really doesn’t bother you? After all this time?” she asked, watching him.

He tipped his head, considering.

“The idea that I’d ever lay a hand on you—that part gets me,” he said finally. “But I know who I am. And I know you do too. That’s enough.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she murmured.

Silence curled around them, heavy but not sharp.

“I just hate when people assume I can’t take care of myself,” Mel said after a while, her thumb rubbing restless against the seam of her pajama pants. “Like I don’t know how to make good choices about who I trust.” She paused, frowning at her lap. “I don’t need people to vet my safety for me. I need them to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Frank shifted closer, the warmth of him bleeding into her side without quite touching.

“I trust you,” he said quietly. “And now I trust that you’re safe with Trinity, too. Even if she’s a paranoid little shit sometimes.”

That pulled the faintest smile from Mel.

“You’ve spent your whole life taking care of everyone around you, Mel,” he went on, softer now. “You deserve to have good people looking out for you. Doesn’t mean you’re weak. Doesn’t mean you’ve got bad judgment.”

Mel let out a tired, breathy laugh. “Did you just say you think Trinity’s a good person? Sure you weren’t drinking?”

Frank huffed too, shaking his head. “She’s alright, I guess.” His smile faded as his voice gentled again. “I know you don’t need protecting. But you deserve to feel safe.”

Mel let out a slow, shaky breath. Then, almost without thinking, she leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder. Frank shifted carefully, letting her settle against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. No pressure. No expectations. Just steady, quiet presence.

“I feel safe with you,” she murmured, the words slipping out like truth she hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Frank’s chest rose on a slow breath. His hand curled gently around her arm, firm and warm.

“I feel safe with you too,” he whispered, pressing the lightest kiss to the top of her head.

They sat like that for a while—quiet and close. The weight of the night slowly ebbed, replaced by something quieter. Gentler. The TV was off. The tea cooling on the table. Just the soft hush of the apartment around them.

After a long moment, Mel stirred slightly, tilting her head to glance up at him.

“Did you notice we kept getting interrupted all day?” she murmured. “Like… every single time we tried to talk?”

Frank let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. That was annoying.”

“So… what happened? You seemed lighter. Inviting Whitaker out for a drink?” Her tone was gentle, curious, careful not to press.

Frank gave a quiet laugh, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Well, he looked like he was gonna yak the whole time he was debriding that wound this morning. I owed him one.” He paused, his thumb idly tracing the curve of her shoulder. “But I don’t know. I told Robby I need help. He gave me that therapist recommendation.” Another pause, softer now. “Guess it made me feel… hopeful. Like I finally said the hard part out loud and now I can move forward.”

Mel smiled up at him, small and real. “Good.” She rested her head back against his chest, her voice gentler. “You’re gonna call?”

“I don’t know. I want to,” Frank sighed, the sound low and tired but not dismissive. “It’s gonna be some major bullshit with the board to switch shrinks, though.”

She glanced at him, brow lifting slightly. “Why don’t you go to both?”

He gave a quiet, bitter scoff. “With what time?” His thumb brushed over the edge of her sleeve. “Between work, NA, my mandatory shrink, my kids… I barely have time to eat. I can’t double up on therapy.”

Mel didn’t argue. She just listened. Stayed close.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said softly after a while. “You always do.”

Frank let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh, or maybe just relief. His hand settled warm and steady against her back.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe this time I will.”

They settled into silence again. Mel stayed curled against Frank’s side, her cheek resting just beneath his collarbone, fingers absently toying with the hem of his shirt. Frank shifted slightly, stretching his legs out and resting his wrist along the back of the couch, close but not quite touching her hair.

After a while, she stirred. “Are you gonna stay over?”

Frank let out a quiet sigh, not harsh or dismissive—just tired, honest. He shook his head. 

“Nah. Not tonight.”

Mel frowned, turning slightly to look at him. “You don’t have to shy away just because Trinity said something. I’m not even drunk.”

“It’s fine,” he said, smiling faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he pressed another gentle kiss to the top of her head. “And don’t speak too soon. I’ll come by in the morning with Pedialyte.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, the sound small but warm. “Thoughtful.”

“You gonna be okay?” he asked softly, his hand smoothing down her back once before resting there.

She nodded, slow and sure. “Yeah. I will.”

Frank gave her a last squeeze, reluctant but steady, then gently pulled away, standing with a soft creak of the floor beneath him. He reached for his jacket—the same one he’d draped over her shoulders outside the bar—and slung it on without hurry.

At the door, he glanced back, catching her watching him from the couch, wrapped in quiet and lamplight.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

Mel smiled, small and real. “Okay.”

The door clicked softly behind him as he left, leaving the apartment warm and still in his wake.

Mel let out a long breath, sinking deeper into the couch, the faint scent of him still clinging to her sleeves. The knot in her chest began to ease.

The silence wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was safe.

And she closed her eyes, letting it hold her there.