[ijaeyz]

‎ the pitt recs ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ stray kids recs ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ enhypen recs ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 911 recs ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ steve harrington recs ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

[flowersforbucky]

you’re a bad idea (but a real good time)

frank langdon x reader ~ word count: 10.6k+

it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than sex. you barely even liked each other as friends. frank uses you, and you use him. but somewhere along the way, the lines got blurred.

warnings/tags: mdni, smut and implied smut, themes of addiction and recovery, emotional constipation from reader, vague references to prior relationships and trauma, coworkers with benefits to lovers, some angst and some fluff, oblivious idiots in love, frank is divorced, reader has a niece, takes place sometime after season 2, pov switches, reader is afab, resident reader, no use of y/n

author’s note: i needed to torture frank langdon, just a little bit, but i promise it’s a happy ending. also as always shoutout to my girl @fru1t4fr0gs for letting me virtually yap her ear off about this

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank’s therapist had cautioned him about replacing one addiction with another.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’s never been a smoker, but if he were, would that really be worse than being addicted to benzos? It’s not like American Spirits or cotton candy flavored vapes would drive him to steal from his job.

Yeah, yeah. Cancer. Lung cancer, esophageal cancer, all the cancers. Gum disease and tooth decay. He is still a doctor, even if it took him a long time to start feeling like one again. He knows the risks. And that is exactly why he hasn’t tried filling the void with nicotine.

He works out just enough to be able to say that he does and it not be a complete lie, but he’s never understood how people can get addicted to exercising. He understands the science behind it, but every time he steps on a treadmill, it just feels like an opportunity to think too much about every mistake he’s made in the last few years.

Video games have never really been his thing. He’s still paying off his stint in rehab, so betting and gambling are off the table. Alcohol, of course, is out of the question for obvious reasons.

When he hit one hundred days of sobriety, he really thought he was in the fucking clear. He let himself breathe a little for the first time in a long time, thinking he had finally learned his lesson.

Never did it cross his mind that he could become addicted to a person. Least of all one that he isn’t even supposed to like.

Least of all you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“This is a really fucking bad idea.”

Frank grunts, bottoming out as he fills you so full of him that it takes your breath away.

He stills, looking down at you in the glow of your living room television. His hands were on you the second your apartment door clicked shut - the two of you didn’t even make it down the hallway to your bedroom before you were pulling him onto the couch by the collar of his scrubs, his lips chasing yours with a degree of desperation that you might have found laughable if it weren’t for the fact that you had to bite back a moan the second that his tongue slipped between your lips.

He huffs a half breathless laugh. “We can stop if you want to, but I’m already inside you, so it’s a little late to realize this is a bad idea.”

You wiggle your hips, grinding down where his body meets yours. His eyes roll shut at the sensation, his muscles tensing beneath where your fingers grip his biceps.

“Didn’t say that I wanna stop,” you breathe. “Just said this is a bad idea. It’s called an observation.”

Frank snorts, retaliating by hiking one of your legs over his hip to deepen the angle. You hiss, your walls clenching around him. “You didn’t seem to think it was a bad idea when you were drenching my face a few seconds ago.”

You aren’t surprised in the least that his argumentative nature carries over into sex, but the dirty mouth on him does take you by surprise.

“So, what?” You hum, part challenge and part genuine curiosity. “You don’t think this is a bad idea?”

He shakes his head. He snakes a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. “It’s definitely a bad idea. I’m just finding it really hard to give a shit right now.”

You whimper at it all - the rough timbre of his voice, the the soft pad of his thumb brushing over your clit, the way he somehow still smells like musk and allspice even after working a full twelve hours in the emergency department and how his kiss-swollen lips glisten from his time spent between your thighs.

Come morning, you’ll regret this. Twelve hours from now, when you can’t concentrate on a routine intubation because you’re having flashbacks of pretty cerulean eyes peeking up at you as he brought you to climax with only his tongue, you’ll regret this. When you can’t take two steps tomorrow without the ache between your thighs reminding you where he’d been, you’ll regret this.

Probably should’ve thought about that before deciding that the best way to cope with stress of an exceptionally shitty day was by kissing him in the empty parking garage and inviting him back to your place, but you’ll deal with the aftermath of that when he’s no longer buried half a foot inside you.

You take his chin in your hand, stilling his face in front of yours. “Just so we are clear, this is a one time thing.”

Frank looks like he’s fighting the urge to laugh, a familiar, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know you’re the one who kissed me and practically ripped my clothes off, right?”

Your hands ghost over the planes of his shoulders and up his neck before settling at the base of his skull where your fingers thread through the short locks of his hair. “Don’t let it get to your head. You were the closest conventionally attractive man I could find after that shitshow of a shift. Don’t confuse convenience with desire.”

He cocks a brow. “What I’m hearing is that you think I’m attractive.”

You roll your eyes, pulling your hands away from his hair and playfully shoving his shoulders. You don’t bother denying it, though. He is attractive. Annoyingly, irritatingly, frustratingly attractive.

“I’m serious. One time, Langdon.”

He doesn’t verbally respond right away. Instead, he leans down, closing the space between your lips and his. You taste yourself on him, sweet and salty with a hint of the gum he had been chewing when you first kissed him in the parking garage. It’s slower than the first time, and the second, and the third, making heat bloom where he’s hard inside you.

He pulls back just enough to murmur the words against your lips.

“One time.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Two months ago, Frank Langdon kissed you and swore that he was only going to fuck you one time.

Two months ago, he lied through his teeth.

The good news is that you’re as big of a liar as he is.

Because one time turned to two, and two to three, and now the Pittsburgh winter has turned to spring and he’s forgotten all about that broken promise.

He knew before the words had fully left his lips that they were bullshit. How could he mean them when your kiss tasted like watermelon lip gloss and being bare inside you made him feel the best he’s felt since he got sober?

But still, he tried. For a whopping seven days, he tried his hardest.

One week. That’s all it took for him to feel like he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn’t touch and taste you again.

Then, in a moment of weakness - the kids were at Abby’s, he’d spent his day off cleaning his entire apartment in an attempt to keep himself busy, he’d already gone to an NA meeting earlier that afternoon, and he couldn’t get this one specific sound you had made when he nipped at the column of your throat out of his head - he did something he’s never done before.

He texted you.

Are you off work yet?

Short and vague, but you’re far from being dumb. He was confident that you could read between the lines without him having to spell it out for you.

Much to his relief, you replied before he could overthink the simple text message.

Keeping track of my work schedule now?

He scoffed to himself, smirking down at his phone. As if you haven’t worked the same set schedule the entire time he’s known you. At least, that was his excuse for knowing you’d be leaving work at approximately that time.

You replied fast. I take it that you are off?

He stared down at the screen as you typed, grateful that technology doesn’t allow you to see him waiting for your response in real time.

Leaving now. But if you’re about to say what I think you’re going to say, then you should know that I have been both puked and peed on today.

That should have deterred him, but it didn’t. In fact, it only further encouraged him, because you didn’t immediately tell him to fuck off like he halfway expected you to.

I happen to have a shower.

Then, before you can type a rebuttal, he sends a second text with his address.

You didn’t even reply, but twenty-three minutes later you knocked on his front door.

(It goes without saying that yes, you insisted on showering, and yes, he insisted on joining you, and yes, he ate you out until your legs turned to jelly and he had to help hold you up).

After both of you were thoroughly spent, he expected you to say something similar to the first time - when he had you pinned to your couch, balls deep inside you, and you told him that it would be a one time thing. He expected you to insist that what just happened would not be happening again, that it was a mistake for you to come over, and that he should lose your number entirely.

So it took him by surprise when you got out of his bed, put your clothes back on, and said, “it goes without saying that this stays between us, right? If this is going to be a thing, the last thing I want is Perlah and Princess spreading it all over the hospital.”

“Please,” Frank had scoffed, pulling his own t-shirt over his head. “Like I want the entire emergency department making a bunch of ridiculous bets about us. Trust me, this stays between us.”

And that was that. There was no further discussion of what exactly this is, but Frank knows.

He knows what it is, and he knows what it isn’t. For two months now, you’ve been on the same page. He comes to your place, or occasionally, you’ll go to his. One time, you even rode him in the backseat of his dad mobile, as you had referred to the midsize SUV.

But work is off limits. You have made that abundantly clear by acting indifferent to his existence anytime a coworker or patient is within ten feet of you, which happens to be damn near always. When the two of you are at work, he pretends like he doesn’t know that you clench around him every time he tells you how well you’re taking him or where your birthmark is located.

As soon as he walks out of those hospital doors, though, all the pretending comes to a stop.

It most often happens after long shifts, when one or both of you needs to decompress and not think of whatever horrors had been witnessed that day. But every now and then, like that day you and Frank both broke the initial agreement of this being a one time thing, he’ll find himself alone with thoughts of you that are a little too loud and unrelenting.

So instead of only thinking about the way your breathy, fucked out voice sounds saying his name when you’re on the verge of coming apart, he calls and hopes that you answer.

And, for some reason that Frank refuses to let himself dwell on, you always do. He knows that there will inevitably come a day that you don’t.

But he doesn’t let himself dwell on that, either.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

“Meet me in the empty on-call room in fifteen minutes.”

The words are murmured low enough for only him to hear. He glances up from his charting, utter disbelief on his face. He opens his mouth to question you, but you’re already walking away.

You’re weak. Spineless as a damn jellyfish, really.

And it’s all Frank Langdon’s fault.

If he didn’t kiss you like you’re the air he needs to breathe, go down on you like you’re the last thing he’s ever going to taste, and fuck you like he’s trying to ruin all other men for you, then it wouldn’t be so embarrassingly easy for you to go back on your word.

But here you are. Going back on your word. Again.

The first time it happened - when he texted you his address a little over two months ago and you wasted no time driving to his apartment even after telling him and yourself that you would not be hooking up with him again - you forgave yourself. You allowed yourself the small comfort of knowing it was him that reached out. It was him who caved first, even if you had thought about doing so every day since you first slept together.

But this time? Telling him to meet you in an empty on-call room in the middle of the day at work? Where any of your coworkers could potentially catch you? This boundary being crossed is all on you.

You must have a competence kink. That’s the only logical explanation for why you’re willing to let this happen right here, right now.

Your watch reads 2:17. He’s two minutes late.

Two more minutes. If he isn’t here in two minutes, then you’re leaving this room and forgetting that you ever even considered doing this.

The door creaks open and he slips in with only twenty seconds to spare.

“Wasn’t sure if you were actually going to come,” you hum from where you’re perched on the edge of the mattress.

Frank locks the door behind him. He still looks as confused as he did when you first told him to meet you here, but there’s now a hint of amusement on his features, too.

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh, slowly walking towards you with his hands shoved in his scrub pockets. “I came as quickly as I could. My patient in Central 14 pulled up WebMD on his phone to try to argue about his diagnosis so I got a little tied up with that.”

You snort. “Don’t you love when they do that?”

“So…” he drawls, eyes glancing around the small room, empty save for the two of you. He comes to a stop directly in front of where you sit on the bed. “You gonna tell me what we’re doing in here right now?”

You look up at him from beneath your lashes. “What do you think?” Then, before he can answer, your hands go to the waistband of his pants. You don’t look away from his face, blue eyes dilating and pretty lips parted in surprise.

“Seriously?” He breathes, looking around the room again as if there’s anyone around to catch you in the act. “Here?”

You shrug, tugging his pants down just enough to expose the soft patch of dark curls below the waistband. “What can I say? Watching you perform that closed cervical reduction really did something to me.”

He blushes. Even with the curtains closed and only a small bedside table lamp illuminating the room, you can see pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks.

“That’s all it takes to make you stop avoiding me like the plague while we’re here?” He scoffs low. “A closed cervical reduction?”

You hum a laugh. “Sorry, does it hurt your feelings that I don’t spend my shifts fawning over you like every early-to-mid twenties female that walks into this place?”

Frank chuckles lowly. “Not quite.” He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as he leans down far enough that his lips hover just above yours. “You might not fawn over me, but you’re the one who got me alone just so you can give me head.”

Under normal circumstances, you’d keep going until you get the last word. But right now, you have a list of patients who need tending to and a boss who has already been on your ass about patient satisfaction scores today.

And as much as it physically pains you to admit, he isn’t wrong.

“Mm-hm,” you hum in agreement. “I did. Now are you going to let me or not?”

With your fingers still hooked into the waistband of his pants and boxers, you pause. It’s not like he’s ever said no to receiving head from you before - and the unmistakable bulge behind the fabric of his scrubs would normally be enough of an answer - but he is just now finding his way back into Robby’s good graces, so the risks here may outweigh the reward.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his nose brushing against yours as he nods slightly. “If I ever say no to that, page neurology, because something is very wrong with me.”

You roll your eyes, pretending you aren’t slightly charmed by the dorky remark. “Sit down, then.”

The two of you trade places. He lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, and with help from you, his scrubs and boxers fall to a puddle at his feet. You spread his thighs gently with your palms, nestling yourself between them. You take his hard length in your hand, giving a few languid strokes as you look up at him.

“I mean it, you know,” you murmur, voice uncharacteristically earnest. For a moment, you drop the sarcastic facade. “The closed cervical reduction was very impressive. You were incredible.”

He swallows thickly, his cock twitching in your hand as he stares down at you in the dim lighting. Despite the truth to your words, you expect him to brush the compliment off with a cocky grin and smartass retort that undercuts the rare instance of genuinity between you.

Instead, he leans forward without a word, takes your face in his hands, and crushes his lips against yours. He tilts your head slightly, sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip to encourage you to open up for him. You can’t help but lose yourself in the effortless familiarity of his kiss that you’ve grown to crave more than you ever thought possible.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t release the careful hold on your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “Means a lot coming from you.”

For one impossibly long second, the two of you stare at each other until the sincerity of the moment starts to feel suffocating.

And because you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to do with that, you swallow it down and do what you came here for.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank sees you before he finishes parking his car next to the ball fields.

At first, he thinks he’s seeing things. It must be someone who looks like you - someone with the same hair color and skin tone as you, who just so happens to be roughly the same height - because it couldn’t possibly actually be you.

Why the hell would you be at a Pee Wee soccer game bright and early on a Saturday morning?

He knows exactly why he’s here - it’s one of Penny’s last games of the season and between a pain in the ass custody arrangement and an even bigger pain in the ass work schedule, Frank has only been able to attend a few of his daughter’s soccer games this spring season. He would have missed today’s game, too, if Robby hadn’t agreed to him switching a couple shifts around and Abby hadn’t been willing to let him take Penny for the day during her week with the kids.

You don’t have children, though. He’s sure enough of that. There’s no way you wouldn’t have said something about having a kid at some point during your time spent together these last few months. He’s been over to your place enough times to have noticed toys scattered around the living room or sippy cups in the sink or tiny clothes left lying on the bathroom floor.

But as Penny sprints ahead to join the rest of her teammates and Frank crosses the field to where all of the player’s families sit in lawn chairs, he realizes that his eyes are not playing tricks on him.

Even from behind, he knows it’s you. He’s spent enough collective hours memorizing the curves of your body to recognize you anywhere - even wearing something so different than what he normally sees you in: scrubs or nothing.

He comes to a stop a couple feet behind you to take you in. It’s an unseasonably warm day, with temperatures already in the mid 70s before nine o’clock in the morning, and you’re dressed to match the weather. His gaze trails from your polished toes that peek out of your sandals and up the expanse of your legs before settling on the sun-kissed skin of your shoulders.

You’ve yet to notice his presence as you wave to a kid in the distance as all of the players start to take their positions on the field. “Good luck, Holly!”

He smirks, his eyes darting back and forth between you and the little girl with curly pigtails.

“Who’s Holly?”

You jump as if you had been electrocuted, your head snapping to look in his direction. He can’t see your eyes well because of your sunglasses, but he can clearly picture the look of surprise on your face.

“Jesus, Frank. What are you doing here?”

He snorts, coming to stand beside you, as he brushes off the fact that you called him Frank instead of Langdon. “My daughter is playing. What are you doing here?”

“My niece is playing.”

He looks back out to the field - your niece, Holly, you had called her - is standing right beside Penny. They’re wearing matching jerseys. Same team.

“Huh. I didn’t know that you have a niece.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. You cross your arms over your chest with a shrug. “We don’t exactly spend very much time talking about our personal lives, do we?” You glance around, seemingly looking for something - or someone. “Where’s Abby?”

“Oh,” Frank clears his throat, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants just so he has something to do with them. “It’s Abby’s week with the kids, but she let me take Penny for the day. She’s uh…she’s not here. She’s spending some quality time with Tanner today.”

You nod, your posture relaxing slightly. He isn’t sure if he’s just imagining things, but he can’t help but think you look a little relieved to hear that his ex wife isn’t here.

Not that he’d blame you for not wanting to see the ex wife of the man you’ve been casually fucking on a regular basis for months now. He definitely wouldn’t want that, either, and feels extremely relieved himself that Abby isn’t here to witness this interaction.

“That was very nice of her,” you say after a beat of silence with a small smile. “I’m sure Penny is happy that you’re here with her.”

Frank glances around now. You had been standing alone when he approached you, and you don’t seem to be here with anyone else. “So, is Holly your sister’s…or brother’s…kid?”

He mentally curses how fucking awkward he sounds. He knows what the most intimate parts of you taste like, knows what you sound like when you come for a third time in a row because of him, but he doesn’t know how to ask you a straight forward question about your personal life.

But he wants to. He shouldn’t, but he does. He wants to know if you have siblings, and how many, and if you have other nieces or possibly nephews. He wants to learn things about you because he asks and you answer or because you volunteer the information freely.

He wants to know what you do after a hard day at work, when you aren’t doing him after a hard day at work. He wants to know things because you want him to know things. Not just the shit that he observes at work (like how you take your coffee) or during the ten minutes that he lays in your bed after finishing inside you (like that you have a white noise machine that is basically always on).

“She’s my brother’s,” you answer, looking away from him to watch as Holly, Penny, and a few other girls all sprint after the soccer ball. For a second, he thinks you’re going to leave it at that, but then you continue. “He and Holly’s mom are going through a pretty nasty breakup. He only has Holly on weekends right now, and he works a lot, so…I’m just trying to help him out a little.”

“Ah,” Frank hums, surprised by the answer for more reasons than one. “Yeah, that’s tough. I know firsthand how…messy that kind of thing can get.”

“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh. “It sucks. But it’s probably for the best. They weren’t good together. I’m just hoping they can learn to co-parent for Holly’s sake.” You pause, eyes cutting back to him. “Seems like you and Abby do a pretty decent job with that.”

He has to refrain from laughing at that. He exhales slowly through his nose, gaze drifting back to the field. There’s a lot he could say in response to that - about lawyers and custody hearings and the same arguments that he doesn’t know if he and Abby will ever stop having - but if he starts then he might not stop, and he highly doubts you care to hear all of that. You’re here to watch your niece play soccer. Not listen to your fuck buddy trauma dump about his divorce.

“We try,” he settles on instead. “It’s still a work in progress, but we’re figuring it out.” Then, so you don’t feel pressured to respond in any particular way, he glances down at the lawn chair that he brought, still folded and tucked between his arm and side. “You uh - you want to sit? I brought a chair.”

He unfolds the chair, not giving you the opportunity to object as he takes a seat on the still slightly dewy grass right next to the chair.

The rest of the game continues with the two of you sitting side by side, watching the girls in an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable kind of companionship. He cheers for Holly, and you cheer for his daughter just as much.

You even introduce herself to her when Penny runs over to where Frank sits for a sip of water. As his coworker, of course. Because that’s what you are, even if the relationship title rubs him the wrong way for reasons he won’t let him think about for long enough to have to be honest with himself.

Still. It’s nice. Much different than how time with you is normally spent - working together to save someone from a pulmonary embolism, or naked between bedsheets - but this doesn’t feel wrong. It’s unexpected but pleasant, Frank thinks.

He tries not to think about how you feel about it, instead focusing on Penny chasing and kicking the soccer ball (sometimes in the wrong direction, but she’s four, so it’s cute).

When the final whistle blows, the swarm of four and five year olds erupts into excited shrieks. Penny and Holly spot the two of you at the same time and sprint over - Penny with her white tube socks stained green with grass and Holly with hair falling out of her pigtails.

Holly reaches you first, practically launching herself into your lap. “We won! We won! Did you see how far the ball went when I kicked it?”

“Of course I did,” you answer cheerfully. “You were amazing. I’m so proud of you. You did so great too, Penny.”

Before he has a chance to recover from the way the softness in your voice made his chest tighten, Penny starts jumping up and down, chanting daddy, daddy, daddy.

“Daddy, can Holly go with us to get ice cream?”

Oh. That’s right. He had promised his daughter ice cream after the game.

“Uh—” Frank hesitates, just for a second, glancing over at you. With your sunglasses now resting on the top of your head, he can see your wide, slightly panicked eyes. “We…we don’t know if Holly and her aunt already have plans, sweetie,” he says gently, not wanting to disappoint her but also giving you the out that he’s almost certain you’ll take.

But Holly is already looking up at you with pleading eyes. “Please, please, please can we go get ice cream?”

You let out a small laugh, eyes darting between Holly and Frank. He offers a small smile of his own, shrugging as if to say the ball’s in your court.

“Why not?” You sigh. “Sure. Ice cream sounds good to me.”

Frank might not show it in the same way that the girls do - with wild cheers and shrieks of laughter - but he’s just as pleased that you said yes.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

More and more often, you find yourself wishing that you met Frank Langdon when you were younger.

Not because you wish you met him before he got married or before he had children or before he fell into addiction. None of that deters you, actually.

Maybe it should. It probably should. But it doesn’t.

No, you wish you met him when you were still an optimist. When you still welcomed love with open arms and wore your heart on your sleeve and believed that everyone you met had as good of intentions as you do.

You wish you met him before your past tainted the mere idea of relationships and romance and trust.

You know it’s irrational. Things are the way that they are for a reason. If you had met him in med school, you probably would’ve thought he’s such a douche that you never would have even entertained the idea of kissing him.

But sometimes you still can’t help but wonder…

If you had met him at a different time, would there be more days like today? Early morning sunshine and soccer games and ice cream instead of late night booty calls that turn into mornings where you still wake up all alone, breathing in the scent he leaves behind on your pillow?

It’s fun to imagine that things could be different.

Then you remember the hurt and the heartbreak that comes with loving, and you shut those thoughts down. Back to sporadic, unplanned hook-ups and the illusion of control that they give you.

You suppose you can still allow yourself to sniff the scent of him that lingers after he leaves your bed, though.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

There’s a gradual shift in your and Frank’s dynamic over the weeks following Holly and Penny’s soccer game and the subsequent ice cream date that somehow ended in you and Frank sharing a chocolate soft serve.

It’s so subtle that at first, the changes don’t register as out of the ordinary.

You’re a little more reluctant to put your clothes back on and leave his place after sex. You stop ignoring each other at work, even exchanging jokes at the nurse’s station. He compliments you openly when you do something impressive with a case, not caring who might overhear the praise. When it’s his day off, you’ll randomly text him to tell him about something crazy that he missed at work. He starts opening up more - about his recovery, about his divorce, about his children. Not all at once. Just little pieces of his life bit by bit that you weren’t privy to before.

And you open up to him, too. Without realizing it. Without even meaning to.

It slips out by accident. You can’t even recall exactly what you’d been talking about at the time, but you tell him that he’s the first person you’ve slept with since your ex.

Your ex that you broke up with nearly two years ago.

He’d looked surprised when you revealed that. But he didn’t laugh, or say anything to tease you. He just turned to lie on his side, propped his head in his hand, looked down at you lying beside him, and asked you the same question that you’ve asked yourself on more than one question but have never answered.

“Why me, then? If you waited that long to…be with someone again. What made you kiss me in the parking garage that night?”

You stare up at him for a moment before answering, your fingers teasing his chest hair. “I’m not really sure,” you answer honestly. “Maybe I thought you were having as shitty of a day as I was, and that you looked like you needed someone as badly as I did. Maybe I thought it would be a good thing for both of us.” You pause. “Or maybe I just thought you looked like you’d be good in bed.”

He exhales a shaky laugh. One hand rests on your hip, fingers drawing lazy circles across your skin. It’s too dark to tell with only the moonlight from your open curtains illuminating the room, but if you had to guess, you would say that he’s blushing. It takes practically nothing to make him blush, a fact that you often take full advantage of because you think he looks pretty when he blushes.

“And were you right?”

“About which part?” You murmur, your hand stilling against his chest.

He gives a half shrug, hesitating just long enough for you to know exactly what he’s asking without him saying it. “The part about me being good in bed,” he says instead, with no trace of his normal humor in his voice.

“Frank.” You cup his face in your hand, swallowing down the answer to the question he won’t ask. “You know you are.”

It wasn’t a lie. He’s more than good. He’s the best you’ve ever had, and that’s exactly why you’re blind to the most damning way the lines begin to blur.

What started as stress relief, as a coping mechanism for a shit day, turned into something that started to feel less like an escape from reality and more like something that feels terrifyingly like love.

Just coworkers with benefits turned friends with benefits don’t stare into each other’s eyes during sex like they’re trying to see into each other’s souls. They don’t touch you, hold you, and kiss you like you’re their lifeline. Like you’re the air they need to breathe.

They definitely don’t call you baby when they’re telling you to come for them.

But then Frank goes and does just that.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank’s hips slam into yours, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that makes you croon his name against the sweat-slicked skin of his throat.

You weren’t supposed to come over tonight. He had come to your place last night, and the two of you have never hooked up two nights in a row before.

You’ve also never hooked up when his children are sleeping in their bedrooms just down the hallway.

But he called you, right as you were leaving the hospital, and told you that he wants to see you. That he misses you. He even said please in a low, sleepy voice that made heat bloom down your spine.

And you pictured him - skin flushed and dewy from his shower and dark gray sweats hanging low on his hips - and then next thing you knew, you were driving the route to his apartment that has become as familiar as the route to your own.

He noticed you were tired as soon as you walked in. Laid you down in his bed, undressed you, and kissed down your body until stopping between your thighs, where he spent even more time than he usually does - so much time, in fact, that your legs were shaking around his head when you pulled him up to you by the tops of his arms and all but begged him to fuck you.

And he did. Is.

Sounds of flesh on flesh and his bed frame creaking fill the room as your nails scrape down the skin of his back and his teeth dig into the meat of your shoulder, the familiar fiery coil in your core dangerously close to snapping again.

“Frank,” you breathe, voice unrecognizable. “Fuck, I’m close. I need - I’m gonna—”

He gently shushes your incoherent babbling, slanting his lips over yours with a sloppy, open mouth kiss that makes you cry into his mouth.

“I know,” he grunts low and breathless when he pulls away. Skilled, slender fingers find the swollen bundle between your folds, coaxing you to climax. “I can feel it. Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight. You’re so close, just let go for me, baby.”

The foreign pet name falls from his lips so effortlessly that it sends you over the edge - warms you from head to toe, white-hot pleasure coursing through you as he fucks you through your orgasm and his own.

Baby, baby, baby.

You barely register the fact that he pulls out and collapses beside you on his mattress, his thigh brushing against yours.

Every nerve in your body vibrates with the typical post-coital blend of oxytocin and serotonin but the bliss is background noise to the word he’d murmured so pretty against your skin.

It flashes in your mind like a neon sign. Baby.

Suddenly, everything leading up to this moment begins to play like a highlight reel.

The touches that linger for a split-second too long, the random texts throughout the day, the just because kisses that don’t necessarily lead to sex, your favorite vending machine snack randomly appearing on your desk at work when you’re having a hard day, how you know his go-to take-out order by heart, baby, baby, baby—

You bolt upright, cutting Frank off in the middle of a sentence that you hadn’t registered a single syllable of. You throw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching down to pick your underwear and scrubs up off the floor.

“Uh—” He lets out a soft, confused laugh. “You okay?”

You pull your shirt over your head, unable to bring yourself to look at him. “Yeah,” you say, your voice unnaturally high. “It’s just late. I’ve got work in the morning, so I should get going.”

“O…kay,” he draws the word out, obviously unconvinced. “You sure that’s all it is?”

You jump up, yanking your pants into place. “Yep. Just tired.”

He’s silent for a moment, as if trying to gauge the sudden shift in your demeanor. Then, he clears his throat. “I mean, if you’re tired, you can sleep here. Probably shouldn’t drive—”

“What the hell are we doing, Frank?”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, eyebrows knitting together. “What are we doing?” He repeats. “Same thing we’ve been doing for the last few months, I thought.”

You’re shaking your head before he can finish the sentence.

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same and you know it.”

He sits up straighter, blue eyes boring into you like he’s trying to read your mind. It feels like an eternity before he speaks again, and when he does, his voice is low and restrained. “Where is this coming from?”

You make a vague, exasperated gesture with your hands. “It’s coming from…all of it. You call two nights in a row and I come running. People at work are starting to talk because we barely even try to hide it. Your kids are sleeping right down the hall and you’re offering to let me spend the night—”

“Okay, okay,” he interrupts gently. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. You’re right,” he admits. “Things aren’t exactly the same. Haven’t been for a while now.” He pauses, the intensity of his stare keeping you glued to the spot where you stand next to his bed. “I just don’t see why that’s a bad thing.”

Your chest constricts at the way he doesn’t try to argue. Doesn’t get defensive, just wants to understand.

“Because it was never supposed to be…this.” Your gaze drops to the floor. “It was supposed to be casual. No strings attached. No feelings. But now?” You look back up to find him still staring at you, jaw clenched. You mentally will your voice to stay level, but emotion still slips through. “Cuddling all night then having breakfast with your children in the morning? Calling me baby like I’m yours? That’s not casual, Frank. That’s—”

He cuts you off with an incredulous laugh. “That’s what this is about?” He pushes the covers off of him, grabbing his underwear as he jumps out of bed to yank them on. “Me calling you baby?”

You’re silent as he walks over to you, stopping when his still bare chest is just inches from yours. He looks at you, unblinking, as he waits for you to answer.

You stare up at him, offering a small shrug. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything. Tell me it just slipped out and meant nothing and I’ll let this go.”

He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh and shakes his head. “I’m not going to lie so you can stay in your comfort zone,” he says, voice dangerously low. “It wasn’t just a slip. I called you baby because that’s what you are to me. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but at least be honest with yourself about why it upsets you.”

His words hit you square in the chest, knocking the air from your lungs and causing you to take a small, involuntary step back. “And why exactly do you think it upsets me?”

He leans in slightly, his eyes darkening. “Let me ask you this. Are you really that pissed off that I called you baby? Or are you upset that me calling you baby made you come harder than I’ve ever felt you come?”

You laugh at that. Cackle, really. Louder than you probably should at this hour when his children are sleeping with only walls in between you.

“Wow,” you exhale. “Okay.” You nod. “You’re a dick, and I am leaving.”

You don’t wait for a response before you’re grabbing your tennis shoes and bag off of his floor, not even bothering to put the shoes on your feet before storming out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the front door.

You’re aware of footsteps trailing after you, of Frank calling your name in a desperate whisper-shout, but you don’t stop. You aren’t thinking, you aren’t processing what just transpired, you just want to go back to your place, scream into a pillow, and hope that when you wake up in the morning, your heart is no longer doing gymnastics in your fucking ribcage.

“Please,” he breathes, his hand blanketing yours over the doorknob when you go to turn it. “Hear me out for just a second, okay?”

You don’t look up. His palm feels like wildfire against your skin and your brain is screaming at you to yank your hand away but you’re frozen in place.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he starts, voice a notch above a whisper. “If you want to leave, you can leave. But I can’t let you walk out of here thinking that this is still just sex to me. It was at first. I don’t know exactly when that changed for me, but it did. And I think it did for you, too.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. All of the words that you know you should probably say pile up in your throat.

I can’t be what you want me to be. I don’t know how.

I’m scared of hurting you. I’m scared of getting hurt.

It’s easier for me to shut down than to admit how I really feel.

I don’t remember how to let someone in. I wish I could.

For you, I wish I could.

You swallow them all down.

But you don’t tell him he’s wrong, either.

“I’ll see you at work, Frank.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Though the cravings have yet to subside, Frank is now a month sober from the exact thing his therapist had warned him about in the earliest days of his recovery.

Unlike when he got clean from benzos, this specific brand of newfound sobriety isn’t his choice. It’s yours.

He would never choose this for himself.

But still, he has surprised himself. Hasn’t reached out, no matter how much he has wanted to. Hasn’t texted you, no matter how many drafts he’s typed and deleted. Hasn’t called, even though it has killed him inside to watch your name get lower and lower in his call history. He’s given you space at work and has only talked to you when it pertains directly to a case.

He’s hated every fucking second of it, but he can officially say that he is thirty days clean. If the past thirty days have taught him anything, though, it’s this: he’d happily fall back into old habits, if only you’d give him the chance.

Because it isn’t the sex that he misses most. The sex doesn’t even crack the top ten things he thinks about when he’s trying to fall asleep at night.

It’s the way you’d occasionally forget a hair clip or chapstick on his bedside table and he’d find little pieces of you when you weren’t around and smile. It’s the way he’d get a text from you when he least expected it. It’s the way you’d ask about his children, and make a point to celebrate his recovery milestones even when he didn’t.

And now he’s here, thirty days without you, and one thing has become abundantly clear to him: he didn’t fall back into addiction, he fell in love.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The news comes on a random Tuesday.

Temple University Hospital. Philadelphia. An internal medicine based fellowship you had impulsively applied for the night after you slept with Frank for the last time.

You had already made peace with the fact you weren’t going to get it. Didn’t think you even stood a chance, really, and you were okay with that. You had already been offered a pediatrics fellowship here in Pittsburgh, anyway.

Then the email appears in your inbox on a random Tuesday morning while you’re at work.

Suddenly, you have what most doctors approaching the end of their residencies don’t have: options.

And because you can’t talk to the one person you most (selfishly) want to talk to about it all, you talk to Cassie, instead.

“Wait. Temple?” She exclaims. “As in Philadelphia? I didn’t even know you had applied! What happened to pediatrics here in Pittsburgh?”

You sigh, taking a seat on the concrete curb in the ambulance bay. “It was really last minute. I didn’t say anything because I really didn’t think I’d get it. And as for the peds fellowship…” You shrug. “I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

“Oh my god,” she laughs, sitting down beside you. “That’s amazing. Do you know how hard it is to get into that program? They’re crazy selective.”

You force a smile. “I know.”

Cassie’s smile falters into concern. “Why does it seem like you aren’t thrilled about this?”

“I am,” you answer way too quickly, hugging your knees. “I’m just…surprised, that’s all. It’s big news.”

She stares at you as if you’re a patient who’s lying to her about how much pain they’re in. “You sure that’s all?”

Before you can bullshit a response, the automatic doors to the hospital slide open, and the very reason that you find it impossible to jump for joy right now steps outside.

He’s saying something to an EMS worker, completely oblivious to you watching him from across the bay, but the mere sight of him makes your heartbeat stutter and palms go clammy.

“I’m sure,” you force out, your eyes still glued to Frank. “It’s just…”

“Just…?” Cassie prompts, then follows your gaze. A few seconds of heavy silence pass between you before the pieces click into place. “Oh.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Oh.”

She clicks her tongue. “So that’s why you submitted a last minute application for a fellowship in Philly.”

You can’t deny it. Not when you know she’s right. Not when you’re staring right at him with every feeling you’ve been trying to bury since the very first time you kissed him bubbling to the surface.

“I really fucked things up, Cass.”

You finally look away from him, your eyes burning with the threat of all of the unshed tears that you’ve refused to let spill for the last month.

“Between you and Langdon?” She asks gently.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I completely shut down the second things started to get real. He told me how he felt and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I feel the same. I just ran like I always do and…”

“And now you’re thinking about running to Philadelphia.”

Again, you can’t even deny it. Not in any way that would be halfway convincing.

“Temple would be a great opportunity,” you mumble instead, looking down at your shoe.

Cassie purses her lips. “It would be,” she agrees. “But moving five hours away isn’t going to magically erase your feelings. You have great opportunities here, too. And I don’t just mean peds.”

She nods in Frank’s direction. You glance back over to where he still stands chatting with the EMS worker. At the same moment, he looks up and his blue eyes meet yours.

You exhale, hoping that he doesn’t have a hidden talent for reading lips. “I don’t know if he even wants to talk to me at this point.”

She snorts. “Please. If the way he’s been moping around like a dejected puppy for the last month means anything, then you have nothing to worry about.” She pauses. “Look, if you really want to go to Philly, then I’ll help you pack. But if you’re gonna go, go for the right reasons. Not because facing your feelings scares you more than the thought of moving three hundred miles away.”

You hate that she’s right. But not as much as you hate the fact that you know she’s right, and still might take the easy way out, anyway.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

What hurts Frank more than anything is that he doesn’t hear the news directly from you.

He isn’t supposed to hear it at all, actually. He only finds out because he happens to be standing a few feet away at the nurse’s station, and Victoria’s voice carries.

“I heard about your fellowship offer from Temple,” Victoria practically sings. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. Internal medicine, right?”

Frank doesn’t even look up from his tablet at first. He isn’t sure who Victoria is talking to, but he has no reason to believe it’s you. You didn’t apply to any fellowships in internal medicine. You’ve always been interested in going into emergency pediatrics—

“Oh—” Your nervous laugh causes Frank’s eyes to shoot up. Your back is to him, so he can’t see your facial expression. “Yeah, thanks,” you tell Victoria, your voice an octave higher than it typically is.

He doesn’t register the rest of the conversation because of a shrill ringing in his ears that makes him bolt to the restroom.

It’s been one month since his last legitimate conversation with you, and now you’re moving to Philadelphia? For a fellowship in internal medicine, which you’ve never expressed interest in during all the years you’ve worked together or months you slept together?

And you didn’t even tell him yourself. He heard it from Victoria talking so loudly that patients in fucking triage probably heard the news.

Not that you owe him anything. Of course you don’t have to run your life decisions by him. He was just blindsided is all.

Blindsided, and more devastated than he probably has any right to be.

He wishes he could be as happy for you as Victoria is. But no matter how much Frank works on himself, no matter how much time he spends in therapy or how many self-help books he reads, he’s always been a selfish man when he’s in love.

But you aren’t his to be selfish over. He knows this. He’s painfully aware of it every time he sees you at work and every time he feels your absence when he’s alone at night.

So when he sees you walking to your car in the parking garage after work that night, he tries to do the right thing even though it feels wrong.

“So, Philly?”

You come to a halt beside your car, slowly turning around to face him. You purse your lips in the way that Frank knows that you normally do when you’re nervous, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

“You heard about that, huh?”

Frank stops a couple feet away from you, one hand on the strap of his backpack and one crammed in his pants pocket. “Yeah, Javadi doesn’t exactly whisper.”

“Ah,” you breathe. Then, with a small laugh, “No, I suppose she doesn’t.”

An awkward beat of silence passes between you as it dawns on Frank that this is damn near exactly where he stood months ago when you first kissed him. The realization makes his gaze flash to your lips.

God, what the hell is he doing?

He clears his throat and starts to take a step back. “Well, I just wanted to say congratulations. Temple will be really lucky to have you—”

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” you interject quickly, the words nearly running together. “I just found out yesterday so I…I don’t really know what I’m going to do yet.”

Frank hopes that his face doesn’t show the sudden relief he feels to hear of your indecision.

“But I’m sorry you found out that way,” you add in a smaller voice, not meeting his eye. “I was going to tell you, once I made a decision.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says softly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here.” He pauses and adds the words that taste like bile when they leave his mouth. “Even if it’s not with me.”

But goddamn, do I wish it was, he thinks.

A storm of different emotions flicker across your face in the span of about two seconds. For one of them, Frank thinks you might step toward him.

But it’s just wishful thinking, or maybe the shitty parking garage lighting.

“Thank you, Frank.”

Anything else he could possibly say would be solely for his own benefit, so he nods.

And he doesn’t want to risk ruining the moment, knowing there’s a chance that he may not have many more with you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The words on the screens in front of you bleed together.

The email you received yesterday morning from Temple University Hospital is open on your laptop screen. The iPad in your hands displays UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh’s website.

You’ve scanned and scrolled as if the answer you’re searching for will appear in bold letters across one of the screens, but since you got home from work a few hours ago, the only decision you’ve succeeded in making is chamomile over peppermint tea.

You thought taking a hot shower might help you clear your mind. All that resulted in was remembering all of the times that you ended up at Frank’s or he ended up at yours after work and you’d shower together, washing off the long day with your hands and lips on each other the entire time.

After cutting your shower short, you figured eating something other than a protein bar would help you gain at least a little mental clarity - but then you opened your fridge to see leftover takeout from the Italian place down the road that you know Frank likes, and completely lost your appetite.

The following hours weren’t much different.

Put on body lotion - remembered how much Frank loved the smell of it. Turned on music - the first fucking song that played on shuffle was by an artist that Frank introduced you to. Searched through a pile of laundry for a cardigan - found a t-shirt Frank accidentally left at your place over a month ago that you can’t bring yourself to give back to him.

He’s still everywhere. It’s been a month and he’s still occupying spaces that he hasn’t been in weeks. In your apartment and in your brain and in your heart.

And to top it all off, the words that he had said to you in the parking garage tonight won’t stop replaying in your head.

I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not here. Even if it’s not with me.

But what if it is? What if it is here? What if it is with him?

You sigh, rubbing your eyes, but it does little to improve the quality of the words on the screens in front of you. Maybe, if you put on your reading glasses, everything will become clear to—

Your hand freezes on a piece of paper in your bedside table drawer as you’re searching for your glasses.

A bright blue, wrinkled sticky note. You don’t even have to flip it over to remember what it says but you do, anyway.

Stop overthinking. You made the right call. You always do.

Also, stop scowling.

Frank’s handwriting. He’d scribbled the words, crumpled the paper up, and flicked it at you across your desks while charting after a particularly brutal trauma that he knew you were beating yourself up over.

It had been the first thing to make you smile that whole day. It was a reminder that you desperately needed at that moment. And it was from Frank. Of course you kept it.

And now here it is. At the exact moment you so desperately need that reminder once again.

Stop overthinking.

So that’s exactly what you do. You stop overthinking, and do what you should have done a long time ago.

He’s probably already asleep, but you put on your shoes.

There’s a voice in the back of your mind telling you that you’re probably too late, but you grab your car keys and make the short drive to his place.

And there’s a tight ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach that begs you to turn around, but you raise your hand and knock on his front door.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Frank is convinced that he must be dreaming.

He didn’t actually hear a knock and open his front door to you standing outside at midnight.

There’s no way this isn’t his subconscious playing some cruel joke on him. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve appeared in his dreams, but it is by far the most realistic he’s had. He can feel the chill of the night wind as it blows the familiar scent of your body lotion in his direction and it is all so, so lifelike.

It doesn’t register that he is very much awake and you are very much here until you speak.

“Shit.”

It’s the first word out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you huff. “Are the kids here right now? I hope I didn’t wake them up. I didn’t really think this through. I just got in my car and drove here before I could chicken out because I’m tired of chickening out and—”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, stepping over the threshold of his doorway. He almost reaches out and touches you, but stops himself at the last second.

You’re here. You’re actually fucking here right now. It’s the middle of the night and you’re in your pajamas and slippers and he has no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re here.

“What’s going on?” He asks gently, unable to keep obvious concern from his tone. “It’s…after midnight. Is everything okay?”

You nod. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry to freak you out. I just…I told you that I was going to tell you whenever I came to a decision.”

Frank stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. You did say that…approximately five hours ago.

The shock and the hope he had initially felt upon realizing that you’re standing on his front porch is quickly replaced with dread at what you might say next.

He swallows, his voice rough. “So…you made a decision, then? About Philadelphia?”

Another nod, followed by a smile that he can’t quite read. “Philly sounds great. I mean…the Eagles, the Liberty Bell…cheesesteaks.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “And the internal medicine program at Temple would be a really great opportunity.”

Frank drops your gaze, bracing for what surely comes next.

“But Philadelphia does not have the guy that I love.”

His eyes shoot back up. You’re staring at him, eyes wide and closer to tears than he thinks he’s ever seen from you. Before he can speak, you take a step closer and he forgets how to breathe.

“It doesn’t have you.”

Frank knows it defies all science and logic, but he swears the entire city freezes around you two right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt before his brain has a chance to catch up. “Frank, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out on you like I did. I shouldn’t have shut you out, I shouldn’t have taken this long to get my head out of my ass—”

“Hey—” he tries gently, but you’re on a roll now.

“—and I should have told you that you were right. It wasn’t just sex to me, either. I don’t think it ever really was. And I get it if I’m too late. I get it if you can’t give me another chance. But I’m not going anywhere, I’m done running away from what I feel, and if I have to prove every day that I love—”

That’s it. He won’t listen to another word.

Not that he doesn’t love the sound of them coming from your lips because goddamn, he does. Every word, every apology, every promise you’re willing to give, Frank will take.

But he can’t just stand here and watch the way your hands are starting to shake and listen to your voice begin to tremble when every part of him that has missed you for the last month screams at him to pull you close, so that’s exactly what he does.

It only takes a fraction of a second for you to process that his lips are moving against yours.

Your hands fly to his hair, his own dropping from your face to your waist to pull you flush against him. You gasp into his mouth, a pretty noise that Frank is happy to swallow down. It takes no time at all for the kiss to turn fervent, a clash of tongue and teeth that makes him grateful that it’s the dead of night and all of his neighbors are asleep.

“—you,” you finish when you reluctantly break apart, your breath warm against his lips. “I love you.”

The three words are everything he’s been waiting to hear since the first night you kissed him. He just didn’t know it at the time.

“I love you, too, baby,” he murmurs low. A smirk forms on his kiss-swollen lips. “It is okay that I call you that now, right?”

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half sob at the words. You grab his face in your hands and pull him down again for one more kiss, this one shorter but just as sweet.

“Please,” you sigh, smiling up at him. “Because you weren’t wrong about the effect it has on me.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

thank you so much for reading. if you comment/reblog i love you forever n ever 💗💗💗

[mallowwblossom]

I ain't even searched smut I only typed "x reader" — why am i getting flooded with porn😭

[notzoeysblog]

me when tumblr refreshes while i’m reading so now the fic is lost forever

[peppepoei]

How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst

[thatfictionalwh0re]

How I look at the invisible camera when I specifically look up angst, but all I see is smut

[saccharinespring]

WHITE TRASH WEDDING

Part Two | Part Three

PAIRING: Dennis Whitaker x Reader WORD COUNT: 11.3k SUMMARY: You trapped him in a lie, the merciful thing to do is let him go. (You and Dennis marry young to save you from the punishments of a teen pregnancy. You believe you are doing the best thing for him when you leave.)

CW: teen pregnancy, wedding, heartbreak, angst, happy ending(?), reader has a child (not with Dennis)

read on ao3 | masterlist

Dennis Whitaker saved your life. This is a fact.

Growing up in a conservative family as the only daughter after four boys you were the baby, the angel, the girl who could do no wrong. Your mum loved dressing you up in the pink frills and your dad refused to let you lift a finger. You were spoiled with love, however conditional it was.  

Of course you had to play your part; no boys, no parties, good grades and church every Sunday. You were trapped in an ivory tower that you didn’t want and you found yourself throughout your teenage years testing the waters. Sneaking out at night to meet up with your friends, drinking in the back of trucks while stargazing, building bonfires and running when you saw the police lights coming. You weren’t the little girl your dad cried over when she took her first steps, or the beautiful debutante dressed in white. You were a rebel. A secret disgrace to your family.

Throughout it all you had Dennis. Dennis who picked you up when you were too drunk to get home, who helped you when you forgot your homework, who told you his desire to be a doctor and held your secret of wanting out of this life. Dennis was a light at the end of the tunnel, your best friend (maybe something more but you never crossed that bridge).

Dennis was the first person you told when you discovered you were pregnant. 

It was an accident, as it always is for any 17 year old, a fling with a guy who told you he loved you and while he didn’t listen when you tried to show him your truth, he did call you pretty and that’s all you needed back then. 

Dennis was the one to hold you as you cried, your life was ruined. You knew if your parents found out you would be kicked to the curb, a pariah in this small town you hated to call home. He stroked your hair as you panicked and squeezed you tight when you couldn’t hold yourself up. Dennis was a kind man, and it was that kindness that led you to a solution you never dreamed of.

“Marry me.”

It wasn’t a question or a declaration of love. It was a simple statement. You knew what he meant by it. It wasn’t uncommon in your town for people to marry young, there were more highschool sweethearts surrounding you than any cheesy romcom could hope for. You and Dennis were best friends, your parents had been planning your marriage since birth so it wouldn’t be surprising. It was an out. A way to guarantee that your parents wouldn’t abandon you.

All you could do was stare in his eyes as you processed what he had said and then you said okay. There was no big kiss, no fireworks, no ring. Just two young kids who were trying their best to look after each other. 

When you told your parents they were over the moon, they couldn’t believe that you had finally come to your senses. You didn’t mention the baby bump and they didn’t question the fact you were still in high school. All they cared about was you finding a good man to look after you. 

The wedding came quickly. Dennis couldn’t afford a ring so he had to use his Grandma’s wedding ring, it was too big and not really your style. You wore your mother’s wedding dress, the pristine white lace and fluff covering the small bump that was beginning to show. There was a level of irony with it that you knew Dennis would appreciate.

You moved in with Dennis, a small barn on his farm that he had made up for the two of you. You had shared beds before, study sessions that turned into sleepovers were an often occurrence for the both of you. You played the part of a good wife (despite the fact you were a terrible cook and were messier than Dennis most days) and when the news broke that you were pregnant nobody was surprised. Congratulations were given to you and Dennis and you felt the guilt begin to creep in.

You didn’t mean to trap him with a kid, one that wasn’t even his. You thought about his dream of becoming a doctor, wanting to help people. You had taken that away from him. Sure it was his idea, but it was you who had said yes.

Your girl was born in the middle of spring, just after Dennis had graduated. You had dropped out of school once the news broke, so you tried to smile through the pain of watching Dennis walk across the stage you were meant to walk across. He had held your hand through the birth and cried with you when she was finally in your arms. You were thankful he was there but you couldn’t stop the feeling that this was just another way you destroyed his life. 

You named her Phoebe. If anyone asked you would say that you chose it because it meant bright and pure. You had only told Dennis that she was named Phoebe because of Charmed.

Dennis went to the local community college as you looked after your girl. You tried your best to ease the stress of a new born for him but despite it all he helped you. He would force you to sleep as he woke up in the middle of the night to feed her, playing with her while you had your first shower in weeks. He was your rock, and you were his anchor. Dragging his future down with every day you stayed together.

You don’t know when you decided to leave, but once the thought entered your brain you couldn’t escape. If you left you would give Dennis his freedom, he could move across the state like he originally planned and become the greatest doctor in the world. No teenage mother holding him back. 

You found your opportunity when Dennis had to leave for two nights for a family wedding in the next town over. You told him you couldn’t come as Phoebe had a slight cold and he tried to argue that he should stay as well, but you had convinced him to go. To take a break from the world you dragged him into. 

The moment he left you packed your bags. You didn’t have that much money, being a full time mother at 18 does that to a girl, but you scrounged what you could. You had enough to get you a couple nights in a motel out of state and you would figure it out from there. You strapped Phoebe in the car, bags piled into the trunk and you took off. You left a note, something simple to explain your absence. You didn’t want to hold him back from the greatness he was going to achieve. You thanked him for his kindness and then, with assurance you would never see him again you told him you loved him. Not the best friend type of love but the soulmate level type of love.

It had snuck up on you, and you would be lying if it didn’t play a part in your escape plan. You couldn’t imagine loving anyone the way you loved Dennis, and that’s why you knew you had to set him free. It was selfish. You had borderline tricked the poor boy into marrying you and raising a kid that wasn’t his, you couldn’t force him to stay with you and play house just because you had fallen in love.

The first few months were a struggle. It was like Phoebe could sense that somebody was missing, despite the fact she was only 6 months old, and no matter how hard you tried you could never get her to properly rest. You had driven far from Nebraska, making your way to the east coast. You had an aunt out that way, somewhere in Boston. You hadn’t heard from her since you were a child, your mother having cut contact with her when it was discovered her long term roommate wasn’t just a roommate.

You didn’t call ahead, just appeared on her doorstep, baby on hip and fear in your eyes. You were lucky that she had taken you in without a second thought. She made space for you and Phoebe in the spare room and let you explain to her why you were here. The marriage of convenience, the guilt of trapping the man you loved with a child he didn’t want and the fear of being stuck in the same role every other woman around had been forced into.

Your aunt never told your mother you had arrived, things between them were ruined beyond repair and you couldn’t deal with the disappointment your mother would throw in your face when she found out the truth. Dennis had tried calling you multiple times and eventually you disconnected your phone and got yourself a new number. You knew it would hurt him but you also knew it would save him in the long run.

The years went by and slowly you built up new foundations. Your aunt’s girlfriend was a social worker and helped you get your GED and return to college while your aunt helped care for Phoebe. You found yourself with a passion to help people like yourself, young mothers left without any care and soon you were a part time social worker. Your aunt’s girlfriend was kind enough to get you a job in her company.

You found a new sense of peace, you still missed Dennis and you refused to date anyone. Life was too busy between school, work and raising Phoebe. You wanted to be present in her life despite it all, wanted to give her the unconditional love you never received.

You were 23 when your aunt got sick. Phoebe had just celebrated her fourth birthday and the three of you had surrounded the young girl, singing happy birthday as the candle melted wax into the chocolate cake. The next morning you found your aunt unconscious on the kitchen tiles and before you knew it there were flashing red and blue lights outside your small home and your aunt was taken to the hospital.

Stage Four Breast Cancer. 

That’s all you can truly remember, the months of sickness blurring together. Your aunt’s girlfriend had quit her job to care for your aunt full time and you picked up double shifts to pay for the treatment. Phoebe spent most of her days in day care and when the nights came you held her close to your chest as she slept. For the first time in years you prayed. Prayed for your aunt to get better, for Phoebe to be safe, for your peace to return.

After almost a year of treatments your aunt passed away. Stuck in an emergency room, your aunt’s limp hand resting in her girlfriends as Phoebe sat on your lap. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know the woman who helped raise her wasn’t going to come home. You held her tight while you tried not to cry. 

The next day you celebrated Phoebe’s fifth birthday. It wasn’t a big celebration, just you and Phoebe. You had taken her to the nearby park, giving your aunt’s girlfriend the space to grieve in their shared home. You bought a small cake from the bakery on the corner of the street and sang happy birthday under a bright sky. It felt silly for the sun to be shining when your world was being torn apart. 

Your aunt had left you and Phoebe more money than you knew what to do with and the house to her girlfriend. You knew she had been well off but it wasn’t until the money hit your bank account did you truly understand. Your aunt’s girlfriend had sat down with you, told you she was going to sell the house and move back to Pittsburgh, where her family was.

She gave you options, you could buy the house under market value and continue living in Boston or you could come to Pittsburgh with her. Just because you weren’t related by blood didn’t mean you weren’t her family and she wanted to help you. It wasn’t a hard choice, you had already begun to feel haunted in the house and you needed a new beginning.

By Phoebe’s sixth birthday the two of you lived in a spacious apartment, next door to your aunt’s girlfriend who babysat as you began working full time. You would pick Phoebe up from school when you finished early and listen to her talk about the new friends she had made and how she read a whole book by herself. Despite the fact she wasn’t biologically his you couldn’t help but believe she got her intelligence from Dennis.

It wasn’t easy but with time you made Pittsburgh your new home. You made friends with other mothers from Phoebe’s school, you had a regular cafe that knew your coffee order by heart and despite the fact you were grieving your aunt (and still grieving the memory of Dennis) you found a new happiness. Your aunt’s girlfriend introduced you to her family and soon you found yourself going to family dinners every week, her brother became your brother, her mother was your mother. There were no expectations from you, just the love and care you had been craving since you were a young teenager. You couldn’t have been more grateful for the life you had.

The nights were harder, the regrets from your younger years filling your brain as Phoebe slept in her own bed, no longer could you hold your girl tight to fall asleep. You were alone. You thought about dating again during those times but every time you downloaded the apps you froze. You didn’t want to date just anybody. You wanted Dennis.

You wondered what he was doing with his life more often than not, constantly reminded of him every time a client called you by your last name. You thought about changing it from Whitaker when you had left originally but selfishly you wanted to keep a part of him. Something that ties you and him together. You had hoped he became a doctor and hoped he got out of Broken Bow. 

You didn’t expect to see him again. Especially not in the Emergency Department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre.

It was just past 9am when you had gotten the call from Phoebe’s school. She had an accident, fell off the monkey bars and landed on her arm. The ambulance had already taken her to the ER and before the phone call had even finished you told your boss you needed to go and you were out the door. It took you five minutes to get to the ER and it took you another two minutes to reach Phoebe’s side.

You noticed the dried tears on her face and her arm cradle to her chest as she lay on the hospital bed. There was a nurse in the room, older than you with dark hair braided to the back of her head. She introduced herself as Princess and told you that a doctor would be in soon to discuss Phoebe’s condition. She leant down to Phoebe and told Phoebe how brave she was before leaving the room, patting your shoulder as she left, as if she knew you needed a grounded force to keep you from panicking.

You held Phoebe’s good hand and asked her to explain what happened, and despite what you are sure is a broken wrist she tells you how she tried to do a flip from the monkey bars.

“Phoebe, my beautiful girl, why would you try and flip off the monkey bars?” You held back your initial anger, or more accurately your anxiety, not wanting to stress your poor girl any further.

“Derek told me I couldn’t. He said girls are scaredy cats.” She spoke in an almost whisper and a part of you had to hold back the laugh building in your throat. Of course. Of course your brilliant girl was trying to prove a point. She had more gusto than you ever had at her age.

“Well, I am proud of you for standing up for women’s rights but putting yourself in danger isn’t the way to do it.” You tried your best to scold her, but part of you was proud. She was strong.

“I’m sorry.” You could see the tears pick back in her eyes, and you pulled yourself closer to her, hand petting her head, you tried to ignore the fact this was the exact move Dennis would do to calm you down as well.

“It’s okay Pheebs, we all do silly things sometimes. I just want you to be safe.” You brushed the tears from her wet cheeks. “Next time Derek says something like that I want you to tell a teacher okay, no more trying to be the next Spiderman.” 

Phoebe let out a small giggle at the mention of her favourite superhero and snuggled herself closer to you. Her hand began to play with the chain around your neck, a trait she had picked up as a kid. 

The curtain to Phoebe’s room slid open and a man came through, tablet in hand. He was tall with dark hair and a scruffy beard. He was older, at least 20 years your senior and before he had spoken he had shut the curtain again. Not before you got a glimpse of the ER floor, and the gaggle of nurses and doctors all looking your way. 

“Hi there, you must Mrs. Whitaker?” The doctor questioned and you nodded as he pulled a stool over to sit on the other side of Phoebe. 

“I’m Doctor Robby, this is your daughter Phoebe?” You nodded once again, sitting up straighter, still not letting go of Phoebe.

“Yes, hi, thank you.” The words rushed out as you looked down at Phoebe, she had pulled from your grasp slightly, never one to shy away from a new person. She was brave like that. You gave her a slight nudge, a small indication for her to say hello as well.

“Hi Doctor Robby.” Phoebe offered a small wave to the man and he smiled back.

“Now Phoebe, I heard you got into an accident at school correct?” Phoebe nodded, a proud smile coming back to her face.

“Yeah, I was showing Derek that girls are better than boys.” Doctor Robby let out a laugh and a small shake of his head at the young girl's words and you couldn’t help but smile with pride as well.

“Well I am sure you proved your point, do you mind if I have a look at that arm though?” Doctor Robby was careful in his movements once Phoebe had nodded in approval. Her arm was swollen and already turning a dark shade of purple and green. You saw her flinch as he twisted her wrist slightly before returning her arm back to her chest.

“Do you feel any pain in that arm Phoebe?”

Phoebe nodded her head before she answered the question. You were glad you had raised her well enough that she was able to speak up for herself, and that Doctor Robby was treating her like a real person, and wasn’t just speaking to you.

“When I move my hand it feels bad.” Doctor Robby nodded at her words before he stood up.

“That’s not good but don’t worry we can make it better.” You felt Phoebe relax at the thought of the pain easing up. “We just need to take some photos of your arm to find out where the pain is coming from.” “Photo’s? How can a photo know where pain is?” Phoebe questioned, directing it more to you than to Doctor Robby. You smiled down at your girl.

“It’s a special photo machine.” You began to explain. “It looks inside and shows where the pain is inside your arm.” Doctor Robby nodded as he began to tap away on the tablet.

“Exactly, we use what is called an X-Ray machine and it can see through your skin and into your bones.” You saw Phoebe’s eyes open wide with that idea, you could tell her liked it better than your explanation. “If there is a break in the bone it causes pain, like what you are experiencing.” 

“Like Superman eyes?” Phoebe asked and both you and Doctor Robby let out a laugh. 

“Exactly like Superman eyes, now you sit here with your momma and one of my friends will come get you for the X-ray.”

Doctor Robby gave a small nod before opening the curtain again, the eyes of the doctors and nurses still looking towards you, before leaving and shutting the curtain behind you.

Robby gave a look towards the central station, where his team were congregating.

“Don’t you all have jobs to do?” 

Suddenly the group scattered, mumbling under their breaths to each other. There were two questions floating around the floor. Who were you? And why did you have the same last name as Dennis?

Robby walked over to Dana, handing her the tablet where the x-ray order was put through. The blonde nurse simply gave him a small look, one that asked the questions everyone was thinking.

“It’s a coincidence I’m sure.” Robby spoke, arms resting on the nurses station.

“I didn’t ask.” Dana replies, knowing that she didn’t need to for the question to be there.

“If there was any relation I am sure Dennis would have told us.” Robby replies. His mind couldn’t help but wonder though. Phoebe didn’t look like Dennis, in fact she looked like a carbon copy of you. You weren’t wearing a ring either, but didn’t correct him when he had called you Mrs Whitaker. Plus Phoebe was 8 meaning Dennis would have had to have her when he was seventeen, there’s no way he would have completed medical school with an infant.

As if sensing people were talking about him Dennis appeared in the ER, coming back from upstairs where he was helping and patient to the OR. He noticed the stares immediately, the way Princess and Perlah were whispering in tagalog under their breath as they stared at him. It took less than 30 seconds before Trinity Santos appeared next to him, eyes ablaze.

“Do you have a kid?” The question was direct, something to be expected from Santos. The two of them had been living together for 6 months now and she was one of the only friends Dennis had in this new town. He couldn’t help but be stunned nonetheless.

“W-what?” He barely stuttered out as he continued to the central station. His mind drifted briefly to the young girl he held in his arms hours after she was born and your sweaty face wrecked with tears. He didn’t dwell on the thought long, he learnt over the years that dwelling was only breaking his heart.

“I mean it would be insane if you did, even more insane if you did and didn’t tell me about it. Honestly I didn’t expect you to be the dead beat dad type.” Santos continued talking as the two reached the nurses station, where Robby and Dana were watching the two young doctors.

“I’m not a dead beat dad.” Dennis spoke, rushing over his words in defense of himself. He wasn’t the one who left Phoebe. You were the one who left him.

“So you do have a kid?” Santos questioned, grabbing a tablet from the desk to check on a new patient.

“Where would you even get an idea like that?” Dennis asked, disbelief was evident in the tone. His eyes were already scanning over the board looking for the next patient. It was only then when he stopped.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away as he re-read the words over and over again. Phoebe Whitaker. It was no mistake. Surely it was his Phoebe.

“There’s a young girl with a broken arm, last name Whitaker.” Santos replied, looking up from the tablet only to notice Dennis’ gobsmacked look. She paused as she took in Dennis, the way his hands were slightly shaking and his breathing getting heavier.

“Dude are you alright?” She placed a hand on his shoulder and as if it was made of fire he shrugged it off before running over to where you were sitting with your daughter. Completely unaware of the reunion about to occur. Santos simply shared a glance with Robby and Dana before following Dennis.

The curtain opened with more force than you would think necessary and you looked up from where you sat with Phoebe, discussing which Superhero would be the best doctor, eyes catching blue one. Familiar. Eyes that made you feel 17 again.

There was silence as you took each other in, both too shocked to speak. 

Before you even had a chance to say a word a figure appeared behind Dennis. She looked around your age, maybe slightly older and she wore the same scrubs as Dennis. Her hands came to rest on his shoulder and didn’t even take you in before she started talking.

“Yo’ Huckleberry what’s going…” Her words trailed off as she took in the scene in front of her. The way your eyes were wide, almost as if you were afraid and the way Dennis was just staring back, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Maybe I should come back at a better time.” She was gone before she had even finished speaking, the curtain still wide open for the whole floor to witness whatever was happening here.

“Are you Doctor Robby’s friend?” Phoebe spoke, completely unaware of who was standing in front of her. Unaware of your heart beating in your chest like it was going to burst. Unaware of the complete breakdown Dennis was on the verge of. 

As if her voice was some sort of alarm waking Dennis out of a deep sleep, he closed his mouth and finally tore his eyes away from yours. He couldn’t ask right now, not when the girl he claimed as his daughter was staring at him. He felt the anger, the anxiety, the sadness and the small part of joy that you were here swim around his head. He couldn’t. He had to be professional.

“I am, I’m Doctor Whitaker.” Phoebe’s eyes widened with glee, it was the first time she had ever met someone with her last name.

“That’s my name too!” She exclaimed, staring up at you, as if this was the most amazing discovery to ever exist. You gave a small smile back, not quite reaching your eyes and you tried to wrap your brain around what was in front of you. Dennis. Your Dennis.

“Oh really? That’s so cool!” Dennis spoke, you could hear the nerve in his voice and you watched as he took her in. She was grown now, the last time he had seen her she was still bald and drooling. Her eyes were the same, much like yours though they held a shine that you lost years ago.

“Yeah Mumma, isn't it cool?” Phoebe asked, her head turning towards you and you swallowed, trying to find any words to say. They alluded to you, leaving you to nod once again, opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water. You avoided Dennis’ gaze as he looked towards you again. 

That familiar feeling of guilt creeped back in, the same guilt that made you leave. The guilt that made you change your number and cut off all ties to home. The guilt that has been haunting you ever since you were seventeen years old and married your best friend.

“Are you taking me for my X-ray?” Phoebe asked and Dennis stuttered. He didn’t even realise the way Phoebe was cradling her arm to her chest. Despite his better judgement he felt that protective flair that he first felt eight years ago rear its head again. The feeling of needing to save the young girl.

Before Dennis had a chance to answer, Doctor Robby returned. He cleared his throat, as if trying to break the tension and behind him stood Princess, tablet in hand.

“Unfortunately Doctor Whitaker has to help another friend of mine, but Princess here is going to take you and your mumma instead.” You thanked whatever God existed that you didn’t have to interact with Dennis any further, and cursed them at the same time for cutting your reunion short.

You wished you could pull him into your arms and apologise for everything you did. You wished you could kiss him silly and share everything that had happened since you left. You wished you could run away and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

“Yes, sorry but I promise to come back, you can tell me more about where you got your last name from.” You felt your throat close up at the idea of Dennis returning, of speaking to Phoebe like they were best friends. Dennis left the room, Doctor Robby following close behind as Princess walked over and helped direct you and Phoebe towards the X-ray room.

The X-ray itself was quick and before you knew it, you were sitting back on the hospital bed as Phoebe complained about being hungry. Princess shooed you off as you asked if she could watch Phoebe while you went to get a vending machine snack and you felt grateful for the slight respite.

Standing in front of the vending machine you let yourself feel the panic you were desperately trying to conceal. Dennis was here. Dennis saw you. Dennis saw Phoebe. Dennis knew you were here. You stared blankly at the row of chips, the five dollar bill crumpled in your hands. The ER around you kept moving fast but you could still feel people slow and stare at you, you knew they were questioning what the hell was going on between you and Dennis.

You shook your head before inserting the money and punching the keypad before a packet of cheetos fell to the bottom of the vending machine. You bent down to pick the packet up and when you stood back up you noticed him. He stood next to you and despite the closeness you used to share you noticed the distance he put between you. You couldn’t run from this.

“Dennis.” You acknowledged. There was no reply, just a blank stare, as if he was trying to read you.

“What are you doing here?” There wasn’t malice behind his question, but there wasn’t any kindness either. Just confusion, and maybe some hurt but you ignored that.

“I live here.” You wanted to tell him the whole story. The guilt you feel for trapping him and ruining his life. The months you spent stressed over a newborn living in Boston and meeting your aunt and her death and the new family you found. But you couldn’t. Couldn’t explain to him why you left.

“Since when?” Dennis took a step closer. Not enough to close the gap between you but as a sign of peace you assume. You felt your heart break as you realised that he was still the kind and caring guy you left. The same guy who saved you from ruin at seventeen. The same guy who was ready to raise a family with you and give up all of his dreams.

“A year or so.” There was a pause as neither of you spoke. “I should get back to Phoebe.” 

And like that you ran off, darting around the boy you loved and back to your beautiful girl. The one thing in this world you had no regrets about. You didn’t look back. Didn’t see the way Dennis reached out for you before being called to help with another trauma. The way his eyes held eight years of hurt and confusion.

The X-ray came back an hour later. An hour of you noticing Dennis everywhere you looked. It confirmed Phoebe had a small fracture on her wrist. The doctor who called Dennis “Huckleberry” helped wrap Phoebe’s cast. She introduced herself as Doctor Trinity Santos and you noticed the way she examined you and Phoebe, trying to understand the connection you had to Dennis.

“So… Do you know Doctor Whitaker?” Doctor Santos asked as she placed a pink trip on plaster around Phoebe’s arm. Thankfully Phoebe was unaware of the question as she talked to Princess about why pink is the best colour in the world. You chewed on the question, unsure how to answer. These were Dennis’ coworkers. You had no place divulging his history to them. Clearly he hadn’t for a reason.

“We uh… we went to the same highschool… back in Broken Bow.” You felt the words tug at your throat. It felt silly. To reduce the connection you had to simple high school acquaintances. 

“Were you like cousins or something?” Trinity glanced up at you, and it felt like a punch in the gut. “Just because of the same last name.” 

“No uh… not cousins.” Your tone reflected that you would really rather be done with this conversation and thankfully Trinity had just finished up wrapping Phoebe’s cast.

“All done superstar.” Trinity smiled at Phoebe and she looked towards her cast, moving it around you could see a smile stretch across her face.

“This is so cool!” Trinity chuckled at your girl's excitement and stood up from the stool she was seated on.

“Now remember, you can’t get it wet for six weeks otherwise its powers won’t work.” Trinity warned and Phoebe nodded. Deadly serious. You had managed to convince Phoebe earlier that the cast would give her super strength in order to get her to agree to have it put on.

“No water.” Phoebe repeated, before snuggling back into your side. The two of you had been at the ER for a few hours now and it was well past lunch. You heard her stomach grumble at the lack of substantial food and you smiled down at her.

“Should we get some food… maybe pancakes?” Phoebe’s eyes lit up as she sat up, her head nodding in excitement.

“Pancakes!” She shouted and you laughed. There were moments like this when you felt the envy creep in. You knew it was silly to be envious of a child but you couldn't help but miss having that sense of childlike excitement. You were always brought back to the memory of your mother scolding you, telling you little girls need to be polite and quiet. You never wanted Phoebe to be dimmed like that.

“Lucky girl.” Trinity commented, a small smile on her face as she looked between the two of you. She could tell how much love you had for her, and how much love Phoebe gave back. She knew what it was like to grow up in a family who didn’t share that.

“I think I’m the lucky one.” You reply, placing a hand on Phoebe’s head before messing up her hair. She let out a noise of annoyance before swatting your hands away. Now that her arm was fixed and the promise of pancakes were made, her need for you shrunk. You could tell she was slowly getting closer to the age where it wasn’t cool for your mum to be your best friend, and you dreaded it.

“This has all the after care instructions you need, and you can come back in six weeks and we will remove the cast for her.” Trinity said as the Princess handed you a packet of papers. You nodded as you slipped off the hospital bed before giving a hand to Phoebe.

“Thank you, for everything. She was in amazing care.” You place a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder as you get ready to leave.

“Thank you Doctor Santos.” Phoebe says, eyes bright. “And thank you Nurse Princess.” You smiled as your kid spoke. It was hard to be proud of her at every moment, you knew you were raising her right despite all your mistakes.

“Our pleasure.” Doctor Santos replied before leaving, Princess trailing behind her. You noticed the two of them glance back at you as they walked towards the nurses station, muttering under their breaths.

“Mum, what about Doctor Whitaker - he said he would come back?” Phoebe questioned as you packed up your bags and moved her towards the exit.

“He’s probably busy, Pheebs, I am sure we will see him when we come back.” You hurried through the ER. You really didn’t want to run into Dennis, and you were only slightly hoping that he would have the day off in six weeks. You heard Phoebe protest slightly at leaving without saying goodbye to everybody but continued to push her through the exit and reminded her of the pancakes that were awaiting her.

You gave one look back towards the ER and it was easy to spot him. He stood near the room you were just in, eyes scanning around for you. It hurt to disappear on him again but you couldn’t put yourself through it. Not when Phoebe was with you. You turned your gaze away before you were caught and hurried off. 

Dennis looked around the room he swore you were just in, the bed still crumpled from where you sat on it. He let out a frustrated sigh as he realised you had left before he got a chance to speak to you. Properly speak to you, to ask you every question he had been asking the void since you left.

He couldn’t believe it. You were here, in Pittsburgh, with Phoebe and you still went by Mrs Whitaker. You looked older, not in a bad way, just older, dressed in a business casual outfit that let him know you were working now. He had dreamed about seeing you again, about finding your address and showing up at your door. He would forgive you for leaving after you apologise for leaving and he would ask you why you didn’t stay before telling you he didn’t need the answer. 

He would tell you he loved you too, long before you knew you loved him. That he loved you since you were kids and your parents joked about the two of you getting married. That he loved you even when he could see you slipping into the deep end with every bottle of alcohol you drank and exam you missed. He loved you through your best and your worst and he continued to love you, even when you broke his heart.

He would tell you that it didn’t matter to him that Phoebe was biologically his, he loved her as if she was. He wanted to be there through all her firsts, sing happy to her and take her on Daddy Daughter Dates. He wanted to buy the two of you valentines day gifts and shower you both with love that you deserved. He wanted that life with you, he didn’t care if he never ended up a doctor if it meant you were with him.

Eight years of ruminating, anger and hurt. Eight years of replaying everything in his head, trying to find where he went wrong, where he pushed you away. Eight years of constantly trying to check up on you, searching your name in every search engine and social media site, messaging old high school friends and your family. Eight years of loving you despite it all.

By the time his shift came to an end everybody was walking on eggshells when he came into a room. He didn’t tell anyone anything, not even sure how he would explain what that was, but they all knew. They knew the two of you were more than high school acquaintances and that the little girl you held in your arms was important to Dennis. It was this knowledge that led Trinity dragging Dennis to the local bar once they had clocked out and buying him a drink far stronger than his usual order.

“So…” Trinity’s unsaid question lingered in the air. There were other doctors and nurses at the bar, being the closest one to the hospital it made sense. The two of them were sitting in a booth, far away from keen ears.

Dennis could only shrug as he skulled the drink, it burned his throat in a way that he would usually hate but now gave him a sick sort of pleasure. Silence creeped over the two unlikely friends, as Trinity waited for Dennis to crack. She didn’t want to push him too far but she needed to know what the hell was happening with her friend.

“She said you were high school acquaintances." Dennis couldn’t help but scoff, hurt by the indifference you seemed to feel. As if what the two of you shared were just a fleeting phase for you.

“We were married… or are married? I don’t know at this point.”

Trinity choked on her drink at Dennis’ revelation and couldn’t help but slap her friend's arm, watching him pull back a whine on his lips.

“What the fuck was that for?” Dennis said, rubbing his arm. It didn’t hurt bad but the shock was enough to wake him from the sleep he had been in since you left the hospital.

“You’re married and you never thought to tell me? YOUR BEST FRIEND?” Trinity couldn’t help but shout as she slapped Dennis’ arm once again, ignoring the way he pushed her away.

“It’s not that simple okay, it wasn’t like that.” Dennis picked up his empty glass and watched the ice melt before motioning to the waitress passing by to get him another one.

“I mean to me it screams white trash wedding, knocked up young and married quick.” Trinity spoke, taking a casual sip from her own drink. To anybody else the words would seem harsh but Dennis knew her better by now, she was concerned for him. Dennis shrugged as he tried to find the words.

“Kind of - I mean yes and no. She was pregnant and we did get married young but we weren’t together.” Trinity didn’t speak as Dennis’ second drink was slid in front of him, she was honestly a bit confused by his words. What on earth did he mean they weren’t together - he was the father of that child.

“She was my best friend ever since we were young… When we were seventeen she was struggling I guess, going out every night, drinking with strangers. I was always there for her though, picked up her late at night, snuck her into my house so her parents wouldn’t know.” Dennis paused. He hadn’t told anybody about the two of you, sure his family knew you were married and then you left but nobody knew the truth.

“Anyways she was seeing this guy I guess and he got her pregnant before leaving town.” Dennis chose to ignore the way Trinity was looking at him, like she pitied him. “She came to me before anybody else, crying her eyes out. I had never seen her like that. I knew her family were strict, the kind of parents to plan a future for her before she had been born. I knew they would kick her out, she knew it too.”

Trinity felt her heart snap in two as she watched Dennis explain your history, she could feel herself pity the younger version of you but couldn’t understand how you ended up here. How the two of you parted.

“So I did what any boy who was in love with his best friend would do, I proposed.” Trinity let out a scoff at Dennis’ words, she knew Dennis so she wasn’t truly surprised at his actions, but she couldn’t help but judge. He was seventeen and stupid.

“Yes, obviously the only logical answer.” Trinity butted in, sarcasm rolling off her tongue. Dennis could only huff out a small laugh, he had enough space and time to be aware of how dumb he was back then.

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Dennis defended, pushing Trinity slightly. She just rolled his eyes and gave him a stare for him to continue.

“Well she said yes and within a few months we were married, living in a barn on my family’s farm. She dropped out of school once she couldn’t hide the pregnancy anymore. I graduated before going to a local community college.” Trinity raised her eyebrows with this information, she knew she shouldn’t be that shocked that there were still towns where it was normal for women to give up their education for children, however she couldn’t help but feel anger raise in her. Why did you have to give up your life while Dennis continued to get an education?

“So she has to stay on a farm, with a family that wasn’t hers, a husband that wasn’t really a husband and raise a kid she had on accident?”

Dennis paused at Trinity’s words, the drink he raised to his lips placed back on the sticky tabletop. He had enough time to think about why you left, he knew you always wanted more than that life, he had already thought the words Trinity spoke more times than he could count.

“Basically.”

There was a lull in the conversation, as the two friends took in the information that was shared. Trinity wanted to help Dennis, give him words of affirmation to help him through this funk but for the first time she was speechless. She didn’t know what to say to fix the hurt he was clearly going through.

“So she left you?” Trinity questioned, breaking the silence.

“I was a couple towns away for a family wedding, I was going to stay with her and Phoebe but she forced me to go, to take a break. By the time I returned she had packed up and left, took Phoebe and my car and left a letter.” Dennis slammed the second drink before pulling out his wallet. It was stupid that he still had it. That he still carried out the last piece of you he ever had before you left him. To hold onto the first, and last, time you ever told him you loved him. He handed the weathered page to Trinity, and she paused before opening the folded paper.

Trinity scanned the words written on the page, your hand writing was messy but had the same flourish as it did on the forms you completed in the hospital earlier. She read over your thank you and how you didn’t want to hold Dennis back. She read your declaration of love and she felt her heart drop, imagining a young Huckleberry reading this letter after returning from somebody else's happy ever after.

“Fuck.”

It was the only word Trinity could find to describe the situation and Dennis just nodded.

“Fuck.”

The two sat in silence for a while longer, the letter being folded back and slipped into Dennis’ wallet again. They had finished their drinks before paying their tab and leaving together. There were no words spoken, nor further explanation. Trinity understood. She understood that Dennis loved you, and you loved him. That you were two kids in a tough situation, both of you trying to make each other’s lives easier. That eight years of separation and growth doesn’t change the feelings held at seventeen. 

Trinity understood that Dennis was heartbroken all over again, and instead of offering words of comfort she simply took his hand in hers and walked. They walked the entire way home, despite the 20 minute commute in the dark being unsafe. They walked into their shared apartment, hands clasped together, only letting go when Dennis pulled away, slinking off to his bedroom and shutting the door. That was all that could be done.

You were unable to sleep. It had been six weeks since your trip to the ER with Phoebe and now you had to return. You had taken the whole day off work, despite the fact Phoebe was adamant she wanted to go back to school after getting her cast off. It was a gym day and she needed to beat Derek in a game of field hockey. So despite your best efforts the night before you were unable to sleep, thoughts plagued by the blue eyes you had been running from for eight years.

You arrived at the ER early, at Phoebe's request, and despite the fact you know it takes hours for non-urgent cases to be processed you were moved to the back room within the hour. You felt your anxiety spike as Princess led you towards the bed Phoebe had sat in last time, this time you take your place on the stool beside her. She didn’t need to be held for this. Princess let you know that Doctor Santos would be looking after you again today and you just gave her a polite smile and nodded before she left.

Doctor Santos appeared within seconds, as if she had been waiting for you since you arrived. She had a smile on her face, one that seemed too tight and too fake. You questioned if Dennis had said anything to anybody since you were last here. You could feel your anxiety pick up further, the idea of an entire ER department hating you for abandoning a sweet boy weighing on your chest.

“Hi there Phoebe! You ready to remove that cast?” Doctor Santos questioned and Phoebe just nodded.

“Yes please, I didn’t get it wet or anything but it was really itchy so I did stick a pen under it.” You could help but laugh with Trinity as Phoebe professed what she believed to be a sin. You had already told her that the Doctors said it was okay to scratch under the cast but despite it all Phoebe swore it was an illegal act.

“Good work Phoebe. It’s okay to scratch under the cast though so you don’t need to stress.” Trinity spoke as she got the tools out to remove the cast. Trinity then explained to Phoebe how she will use the saw to cut the cast before prying it apart with large metal tongs. She didn’t hesitate to demonstrate on her own skin how the saw won’t cut Phoebe, but there will be some noise. You couldn’t help but smile as Trinity took care of Phoebe, she was a natural with kids. 

There was a small part of you that wondered if maybe her and Dennis had something going on, remembering the way she called him Huckleberry and questioned your relation to him. It stung you more than you thought you would, and you rubbed at your heart as you felt a pang. It was silly, you left Dennis. You had no claim over him or his love life.

It took about five minutes before the cast was removed, and Phoebe begged to keep it. She explained she was going to take it to school and show it off after she beat Derek at field hockey. Trinity simply laughed and handed the cast to her before explaining to you that Princess would return with the discharge forms.

“Are you sure you want to go to school today, Pheebs?” You questioned, you knew the answer already but you couldn’t help but try and snag some extra time with your kid.

“Yes Mum, I already told you.” You rolled your eyes at the sassy tone Phoebe took with you. That will be a problem in the future you could already tell, but at the age she was now it was still cute to you, like a kitten trying to scare a lion.

“Okay, I was just checking, sorry I want to spend time with my beautiful daughter.” You surprised Phoebe as you started smothering her in kisses, wrapping her up in your arms as she tried to escape.

“Ew mum stop it.” Phoebe pushed your face back with a laugh and you finally relented when you saw Princess return, tablet in hand. She instructed you on what you had to sign before discharging and within a few minutes you were all done, Phoebe’s school bag in hand.

“Thank you once again, Phoebe and I are very lucky to have such amazing medical staff so close to us.” You say to Princess and she just waves you off.

“It’s our job, we’re happy to help.” You just smile and nod before directing Phoebe towards the exit once again. You pass by Doctor Santos who didn’t notice you, busy speaking quietly into the phone. You don’t pick up much but you were certain that you heard her murmur Dennis’ name.

You tried not to give it a second thought as you started the car, double checking that Phoebe was buckled in. You were grateful her school wasn’t too far from the hospital so you had managed to drop her off before lunch had started. By the time she was signed in and the doctor's note handed to the front office you barely had time to tell her goodbye before she rushed off to her class.

It wasn’t until you returned to your car you realised you had a day off. The first day off in years, sure you had moments where Phoebe was babysat by your makeshift family but you were always working late during those times. You tried to think of what you could do. The house was clean after the usual Sunday deep clean you do with Phoebe, dinner was already cooked and your work was slow at the moment, no need for you to waste a day off going back.

You were ripped from your thoughts by your phone going off, you couldn’t help but laugh. Of course there was always something to distract you. You answered it after the third ring, not checking the ID assuming it would be from your work.

“Hello is this Mrs. Whitaker?” You paused, nobody you knew called you Mrs. Whitaker, always referring to you by your first name.

“Uh yeah, can I ask who is calling?” You felt your palms get sweaty, anxiety peaking once again. Thoughts ran through your head of who it could be. Maybe your aunt’s girlfriend got into an accident or maybe somebody from your home town tracked you down?

“This is Perlah from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, you were here earlier I believe with your daughter Phoebe Whitaker?”

“Yes, is everything okay?” You were sure Perla could hear the panic in your voice, despite the fact you had just witnessed your daughter go to class and you were still sitting in the school parking lot. There was the irrational part of you worried that something had happened.

“Oh yes, everything is fine. We just missed some information for the discharge and we were hoping you could return just to complete them?” You furrowed your brows, you were pretty certain you had completed everything Princess asked you, and why would you need to return?

“Is there any way you could send me the documents to complete? Surely I don’t need to come back in?” You were really hoping you didn’t. You were grateful enough you managed to avoid Dennis this time, you doubt you would be lucky the second trip.

“Um…” You could hear a slight muffle over the phone as Perlah spoke to somebody else, you couldn’t quite make out what she was saying before she had returned. “Unfortunately due to privacy reasons that won’t be possible, it will have to be in person.”

You felt a sigh escape your lips before you could stop yourself, and you let your head lightly slam into the headrest. You took a beat before replying.

“Yes of course I understand, I will be there soon.” Perlah thank you, explaining that once you arrive just go straight to the front desk and let them know you are there. You mutter a goodbye before hanging up the phone.

Your heart felt heavy in your chest, as if it was pressing against your lungs. You tried to take a few deep breaths, each other coming out shakier than the last. You made eye contact in your rearview mirror and allowed yourself five seconds of panic before sucking it up and making your way back to the ER, thoughts of Dennis still on your mind.

Lupe recognised you as you made your way to the front and gave you a smile before pressing a button. The door next to the front office space opened up and to your surprise Trinity stood there, tablet in hand and a large smile on her face. You expected it to Princess considering she had originally discharged you but you made your way over to the doctor nonetheless.

“Hi Mrs Whitaker! Sorry about this.” Trinity began as she guided you towards the nurses station and you just waved her off. You wanted to get out of here as quickly as you can, the fear of running into Dennis growing every second.

“All good, I get it - so where do I need to sign?” You questioned, hands making a move for the tablet in Trinity’s hands. Before you could grasp it, she moved it from your hands.

“Oh um… This is the wrong tablet, sorry it’s for a different patient.” Trinity was rambling, you could tell. You noticed the way her eyes glanced around the room as she backed away from you a little. “I’ll grab the other tablet now, be right back.” She was gone before you could respond.

You found yourself tapping your fingers at the nurses station while you waited, you could see Princess standing next to another nurse pretending to work while staring at you. You tried to brush off the stares as you felt sweat begin to pool on the back of your neck. You felt like an animal at the zoo, everybody staring and watching, waiting for you to do something. They must know. God they must hate you.

You could feel your breaths get shallow once again and you willed yourself to calm down. It was ridiculous to have a panic attack in the middle of the ER, these doctors and nurses didn’t need you to make a scene. Maybe you should leave, get some fresh air. Tell them that you will have to come back another day, and never return. You could runaway, sure Phoebe is set up here but she’s a good kid and could make friends anywhere, somewhere sunny where Dennis isn’t.

You didn’t notice your palms shake, or the fact you had closed your eyes and were swaying slightly. You didn’t notice an arm wrap around your shoulder as someone directed you away from the lights and noises and the stares. You tried to calm your breathing but it only got away from you, tears were pooled in your eyes and you allowed the person guiding you to push you onto a chair? Maybe it was a hospital bed. You couldn’t tell.

“I need you to breathe okay.” You know that voice, and despite his best efforts your breath picks up faster.

“Okay follow me, breathe in-” You hear him count and you try to follow his steps as he tells you to breathe out. You know about box breathing, you know it works - you have used it on clients in the past, as well as yourself back in the day.

It takes a few sets but soon your breath is slowed, however the panic doesn’t dissipate. You’re afraid to open your eyes, to see him standing in front of you. You hate that he helped, that despite everything he saw you were distressed and swooped in like he always would.

“Can you open your eyes for me?” You wanted to shake your head and say no but as if your body was back to seventeen, and knew that Dennis was safe they opened anyways.

You blinked the last few tears away and soon the blurry vision of Dennis washed away. He was there, in front of you. Concern written all over his face. You were in a private room, the blinds pulled down and the lights off. You were sitting on top of a hospital bed and Dennis was here. He wasn’t wearing scrubs, just plain jeans and a hoodie you swore he had when he was younger.

“What happened?” Dennis questioned and you could only open your mouth, the words dying on your tongue. He didn’t fill in the silence, didn’t try to speak for you. Just watched as you tried to find the words.

“They needed me to fill out the discharge paperwork… everyone was staring.” You paused. It sounded silly. “I just panicked I guess… I was afraid to see you.” You saw a look of hurt flash across Dennis’ face before it was replaced with a look you were sure he used as a doctor. The kind of look that made you feel safe, like he saw truly saw you.

“You were afraid to see me?” Dennis stood up taller, the hands that were itching to reach out to you shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked young like this, like he was still a scared kid trying to do right by everybody. It broke your heart.

“I don’t want to hurt you or make it difficult for you at work. I’m sure people are already questioning you about me.” Dennis couldn’t hide the scoff he let out. 

“You didn’t want to hurt me? As if leaving in the middle of the night with my kid wasn’t hurtful?” 

You hated this. You hated the way he looked at you, as if you were some stranger. As if you had no right to care about his feelings. You hated the fact he called Phoebe his, and the fact that he still came to your rescue.

“Dennis…” You didn’t know what to say. There was nothing you could say to ease this. You didn’t really think about the hurt you caused to Dennis after you left, you were sure that he was better off without you. 

“You left me.” Dennis tried to calm himself. He wasn’t angry, well he was, but more than that he was confused. He was confused over his feelings for you, wanting to hate you but also he couldn’t be happier you were here. You had no chance to respond before he spoke again.

“You left me with a note. You didn’t answer your calls, didn’t even tell me you were okay.” Dennis shook his head before sitting down on the stool in front of you. You watched as ran a hand over the back of his neck, a trait you hadn’t seen him have before. It reminds you of the time you missed, of how much he has grown. How different he is while remaining the same.

“I couldn’t” Dennis scoffed again, his eyes finally looking up at yours. You felt that pull, the kind that happens when you're staring into the face of the person you love, that makes you want to fall apart in their arms.

“I didn’t want to hold you back. You had already given up your scholarship to go to community college for me and you and I both knew you would never have gone to med school as long as I was there.”

He wanted to argue with you, tell you that you couldn’t have known that. That you didn’t get to decide what his future would be. He knew the truth, he knew that you were right. He had already talked to his parents about switching his major to theology, moving towards religious studies, maybe becoming a teacher. He also knew he wouldn't have cared if he wasn’t a doctor. He would gladly give it all up to be with you and Phoebe, help raise her.

“That wasn’t your decision to make.” 

The words hang in the air. You feel the guilt you had been running from creeping back in, the same guilt that haunted your house as a child, that followed you into the back of some guys' pickup truck, pants discarded in the ground. The guilt that slept in between you and Dennis back in the small barn you called home at seventeen.

You knew now he was right. That you could have stayed, you could have found a different type of happiness with Dennis. You wouldn’t be free like you are now and you would be bound by family obligations that you escaped when you. But you would have Dennis, and you understand, now more than ever, that Dennis is enough. He was more than enough. He was everything.

“I’m sorry.” 

It doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t undo the pain. It doesn’t explain why you did what you did. It just is. A simple apology, long overdue. 

“I’m sorry too.” 

The two of you sat, quiet. You glanced at his face every so often, only to catch him already looking at you. Neither of you speak, not quite knowing what to say or where to go from here. Thankfully that decision is taken off both of your shoulders as the door opens, Doctor Robby’s face appearing in the doorway.

“Oh.” He was clearly shocked to see the two of you here. “Whitaker, today is your day off. What are you doing here?” Dennis turned to the door, jumping off the stool.

“Sorry, I was just helping out an old friend.” A look is shared between the two doctors before the door is opened wider.

“Maybe take it outside. This is an ER, not a therapist’s office.” The words sound harsh but there is a softness behind Doctor Robby’s tone. He’s giving you two an out. 

Without much discussion you jump off the bed before creeping past Dennis and Robby, you know Dennis will follow you. A few steps behind, to give you the space you always desired, but the knowledge that he isn’t gone. The two of you walk out into the parking lot and you don’t turn around until you reach your car. He’s there, like you knew he would be.

“We should talk… about it all.” It isn’t a question, there’s no choice for you to decline.

“We should.” It’s an olive branch. A white flag. It’s surrender. 

Dennis just nods before pulling out his phone, you take it from his hands - careful to avoid his fingers - before you type your number in. You send yourself a text before handing it back. Your way of letting him know you weren’t going to disappear.

“I missed you.” It should be comforting, but it stings as the words hit you. You can feel tears beginning to prick your eyes once again.

“Me too.” 

You pulled your keys from your purse and unlocked your car, the beep breaking whatever spell had been cast over the two of you. You don’t make a move to open the door, just continue to stare at Dennis. He hovers, like he is afraid that if he turned around you would disappear once again. 

You’re the one to make the first move, hand opening the car door and stepping behind it. There are no more words to be said at this moment. Dennis blinks, once, twice, before giving you a small smile. You return what you can, and then he turns around and walks away. 

You don’t move, don’t enter your car, just continue to watch him as he walks off. He fights the urge to turn around, to cement you into his reality, he just walks. It’s not until he is out of your eye sight that you feel your breath return to your chest, and your muscles relax. You slid into the front seat of the car and will your hands to stop shaking before pulling out of the car park and returning home.

a/n: Hello! I am addicted to the Pitt and couldn't get this idea out of my head. Loosely based off of "White Trash Wedding" by The Chicks. Also I am Australian so apologies if my understanding of America is very bad... I also haven't written a fanfic in like three years nor have I edited this so please enjoy LOL!

[orchidocs]

bf! dennis whitaker x gf! reader texts

synopsis: a small collection of texts between you and your boyfriend/coworker dennis

contents: suggestive content (mdni !!), cursing, jealousy, small injuries, mention of future parenthood, attempted humor, (slight toxic dennis in one scenario @tequilai has planted a seed in my brain and it is growing)

a/n ᯓ★: omgee hey guys sorry for the drag finals have crept up on me and I've just been trying to make it by </3 but this is my last week of classes and then I'm finally free so hopefully I can start posting a bit more consistently 😵‍💫 until then I hope you guys enjoy this update 😼

[sapiensecrets]

bad omens - frank langdon x f!reader

we go ‘round again, we jump back in bed, that’s what you do when you love somebody.

pairings: frank langdon x ex!reader cw/tags: no use of y/n, swearing, a LOT of infidelity (from both frank and reader) and arguing. eventual orthopedic surgeon!reader, discussion and depiction of drug use/addiction (specifically amphetamines - AU where frank is addicted to speed instead of benzos), angst without a happy ending, implied and lightly explicit smut. mention of urgent care and antibiotics (brief depiction of reader having pneumonia, including coughing, fevers, medications, dizziness). use of nicknames for reader (peanut and baby from frank). reader did not do her residency at PTMC. reader wears heels and makeup one time, but other than that there are no physical descriptions. wc: 12.1k inspired by bad omens by 5sos masterlist

Frank Langdon is, unfortunately, the love of your life. 

Even if you don’t want him to be. 

Even if you’re not his. 

April, 2014

You know Frank is wearing himself thin. 

Between co-captaining the football team, classes, volunteering, studying—it’s all starting to take a toll, especially after he failed a midterm two months ago. You’ve tried to tell him that almost everyone fails a test at some point in university, but it hasn’t helped, and he’s only ended up throwing himself into things harder. 

You aren’t much better off, but you’re able to keep up with things in a way that he isn’t. Both of you are running on caffeine and delusion, praying that you’ll finish up with the semester before the consequences of your actions catch up to you. 

Frank’s taken a different route, sick of constantly coming second place to you, the resentment starting a fire underneath him that he has no way to sustain. You’re graduating a year early, for godsake, and he can barely handle the typical course load. He’s pulling all-nighters constantly, barely eating, and he almost never comes home to your shared apartment anymore except to shower and grab food after a multi-day study session at the library. 

As far as you can tell, it’s working. His grades are up, ‘hundreds’ stacking up in all his courses, almost completely correcting the dip from the failed midterm. You’re more than proud of how he’s turned things around, but you don’t know how much longer you can survive with the version of him that you’re getting. 

He’s irritable—snapping at you over every little thing, cancelling plans with his friends, getting into fights on the field. He disappears for days at a time, always coming back run down, claiming to have spent his time studying or ‘disconnecting.’ When he is around he’s restless, practically bouncing off the fucking walls, making it impossible for you to focus. Despite that, you’re worried, so you agree to any opportunity you have to keep an eye on him, including a study session with him and some of your friends. 

You’re scattered across various tables and seats in the library, all of you completely focused on whatever task you’re trying to finish before turning in for the night. You squint at the textbook in front of you, highlighting an important line, rubbing your eyes when your vision starts to blur. It’s already midnight, but you told yourself you wouldn’t go home until you finished this unit. 

“Fuck me, I need to take a break,” Frank says, pushing his chair back and standing up, stretching his arms above his head. “You want anything from the vending machine?”

You don’t answer right away, forcing him to poke your shoulder a few times. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you want anything to eat?” He asks. “I’m gonna’ go grab something.”

“Oh, no, I’m okay,” You say, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

He leans down, kissing your forehead, walking off to the stairs and disappearing. Now that your focus has been broken, you feel the familiar twinge of a headache blooming behind your eyes, and you reach down into the front pocket of your backpack, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen. 

You unscrew the cap, tipping the bottle upside down, only for nothing to fall into your hand. You frown, shaking it a few times, groaning once the realization hits that it’s empty. 

You don’t hesitate to grab Frank’s bag, hoisting it into your lap and sifting through it’s contents. You spot a bottle of something at the bottom, and you reach down for it, pulling it out and turning it over in your hand, reading the label. It’s acetaminophen, not ibuprofen, but it’ll have to do if you want to get through this final chapter. 

You dump two pills out, grabbing your water bottle, moments away from tossing them into your mouth when you actually get a glimpse of them. They don’t look like any acetaminophen you’ve ever seen, making your brows furrow. You flip one of the pills over, revealing a crooked imprint code, but you’re certain that this isn’t any kind of painkiller you can buy at a pharmacy.

It’s not his vyvanse, either. 

You tuck one of the pills into your pocket, throwing the other one back into the bottle and replacing the lid. You put the bottle at the bottom of his bag, then drop his backpack onto the floor just as he comes back up the stairs. He gives you a bright smile, setting your favourite chocolate bar on the table. 

“Figured it couldn’t hurt,” He says, taking his seat beside you again. You swallow, nodding, forcing a tight-lipped smile. 

“Thanks,” You say. “I was actually gonna’ head home, are you coming?”

“Shit, really?” He asks, tilting his head a little. “I wish I could, but I should really stay. I’m fucked for this final if I don’t.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll see you in the morning, then?” You ask, already packing your things up. 

“Probably not,” He says. “I need to get at least twelve hours in tomorrow, I was gonna’ leave pretty early.”

You nod, fingers ghosting over the outline of the pill in your pocket. “Can you wake me up when you get back, say goodnight?”

“Sure, yeah,” He says, already distracted by his work, jotting something down in his notebook. “See you at home. Love you.”

You don't even take your shoes off once you're home, just sitting on the floor by the front door. You fish your phone out of your pocket, snapping a picture of the orange pill and pasting it into the search bar. You watch the browser load for too long, then similar pictures start popping up. You click on the first one, looking at the article name that sits below it.

Amphetamine Addiction and Withdrawal - Statistics, Warning Signs, and More

Your mouth goes dry.

You thought it would end up being naproxen or something, not an illegal stimulant.

Things start to click into place as you think about everything that's happened over the past few months—the not sleeping, barely eating, the irritability—it's all because he's been high.

You don't get any sleep that night, and Frank never comes home. You don't see him until the next day, long after the sun is set.

“Hey, peanut,” He says, closing the door softly, kicking his shoes off and tossing his bag aside. “Sorry I didn’t wake you up last night, you just looked so peaceful, I didn’t wanna’ interrupt.”

Your stomach twists, nausea curling up and taking hold of your chest. You close your laptop, tossing it onto the couch beside you, shaking your head. 

“Why are you lying?” You ask, getting to your feet, folding your arms over your chest. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, trying to smile, but you can see the panic in his expression. “I got back late, you know-”

“You didn’t come home,” You interrupt. “I was up all night, waiting for you.”

He sighs, coming farther inside. “I didn’t know you were waiting, you should’ve texted.”

“I shouldn’t have had to,” You counter, shifting on your feet. “Do you have anything you wanna’ tell me, Frank?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No, what? Do you think I’m cheating on you or something? Because I swear I’m not, I was at the library all night, Jonah can back me up-”

“I don’t think you’re cheating on me,” You clarify. 

“Then…what?” He asks. “No, I don’t have anything to tell you, babe.”

“Really?” You push. 

“Yeah, really.”

You reach into your pocket, pulling out the pill, holding it out towards him. Obvious recognition passes over his features before he feigns confusion. 

“What is that?” He questions. 

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, folding your fingers back over the pill and dropping your hand to your side. 

“I found a bottle of these in your backpack last night,” You explain. “I didn’t know what it was at first, but then I did some research. Fucking speed, really?”

“What bottle, babe?” He asks. “It’s not mine, whatever it is.”

You hum with frustration, gesturing to his bag. “Show me your bag, then.”

“Seriously?” He says. “You don’t trust me?”

“You really expect me to believe that someone put a bottle of speed in your backpack without you realizing?” You ask. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“I obviously don’t think you’re stupid,” He argues. “But yeah, I expect you to trust me after six years of knowing me.”

“You lied to my face two minutes ago,” You say. “Completely unprompted.”

He huffs. “That was so you wouldn’t worry about me staying up all night.”

“Show me your bag, Frank.”

“No,” He says. “That’s insane, come on.”

You click your tongue behind your teeth, sucking in a breath, shrugging.

“You’re being ridiculous,” He says. 

“Frank, whatever this is? We can deal with it,” You say. “Just…stop lying, okay? Please.”

He purses his lips, leaning over and picking his backpack up, handing it to you. You rummage through the contents until you find the same acetaminophen bottle, unscrewing the cap and peering inside, seeing the same orange pills you saw last night. He doesn’t say anything, he just stands with his hands in his pockets, his anxiety palpable.

“I’m right?” You ask, putting the lid back on. “It’s speed?”

“...yeah,” He says, looking down at the floor. You nod, trying to get yourself to think rationally, but you have no idea what to do here. 

“Okay,” You say, moving towards the couch. “Come on, let’s sit for a second.”

You ask him a million questions. How long, how much, why? His answers come slowly, a part of him still wondering if he can shield you from this for a little while longer, but you don’t leave any room for half-truths. He truly hesitates when you ask him if he’s tried to stop. 

You watch his adam’s apple move when he swallows, his eyes averting to his hands, which twist around each other as he toys with his fingers. 

“No,” He finally says. “I was going to the second the semester was over, I swear. It was just to keep up with school.”

“Right, I get it,” You say, reaching for him, trying to ignore the bottle that sits on the coffee table. “You’ve had a rough couple months. But this was not the solution, Frank. You could’ve talked to me, or your advisor, or your profs—there were a lot of steps to take before you started using drugs.”

Your tone isn’t judgement or condescending, it’s realistic. You’re trying to remind him that he has other options. 

“This seemed easier,” He says. “And more effective.”

“I mean, it probably was,” You agree. “But it’s dangerous, baby.”

“No, I know, you’re right,” He says. “But I’m not out of control or anything, I can stop whenever I want.”

You straighten, signalling that he’s said the wrong thing. He grimaces, hating the way the line sounds coming out of his mouth. 

“Most people who say that can’t actually stop whenever they want,” You counter. 

“Those people aren’t me,” He says. “A lot of people use it, and they’re all completely fine. I just needed something short-term.”

You take a deep breath, tangling your hands with his own, the action making his pulse spike. He sighs with relief, leaning closer to you, squeezing your fingers tightly. 

“You need to stop,” You say, not leaving any room for interpretation. “This is—this isn’t okay, Frankie.”

“It’s not, it’s so far from being okay,” He repeats. “I’ll stop, I’m done. Starting right now.”

He makes a point of flushing the pills down the toilet, but it doesn’t feel as final as it should. Something heavy sits over both of you—an omen of what’s to come. 

October, 2014

Frank’s voicemail plays in your ear for the sixth time. 

You call again, kicking a rock with your heel-clad foot, sending it into the dirt beside the sidewalk. 

“Hey, it’s Frank, leave a message-”

You close your eyes, jabbing your finger against the ‘end call’ button, shoving your phone back into your purse. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the past six months have made that exceptionally difficult. 

The summer had been great, with you graduating and the two of you taking a short vacation before you started medical school in July. Then September rolled around, and Frank jumped back into everything, needing to keep his GPA up if he had any hopes of following in your footsteps. You had tried to get him to take a lighter course load, but he had refused, claiming he would be fine.

You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining things when the tell-tale signs started up again. Him picking fights over stupid shit, long stretches of time where you don’t know where he is, a level of sleep that isn’t congruent with survival for most people. 

Or, at least, for anyone who isn’t abusing stimulants. 

You asked a million times if he was using again. He said no, promised that it was just because of school and that he’d be back to normal once the two of you could go home for the holidays. 

But now, standing outside your favourite restaurant an hour after your reservation, on your seventh anniversary, with no sign of him solidifies your worst fears. 

You blink back tears, checking your phone again, still seeing nothing. A family of five walks by you, the youngest daughter saying something about how pretty you look to her mom, which only makes your heart hurt more. You’re about to give up and go home when a car pulls up in front of you, the passenger door opening hastily. You step back as Frank clambers out, shouting goodbye to his friend and slamming the door shut. You flinch, putting more distance between you and him when he turns around. 

“Hey, baby, I am so sorry,” He says, walking over to you, setting his hands on your cheeks. You turn to the side when he leans in, forcing him to kiss the corner of your mouth, making him frown. “I know, I’m so fucking late, practice was insane and I’ve got that assignment due on Friday, I lost track of time.”

You look at him. His irises are practically invisible. 

“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” You say. “No call, no text, no nothing, Frank.”

He frowns, grabbing both your hands. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m the worst. Maybe we can still get a table? I’ll go ask-”

“Don’t bother,” You say. “I’m not having dinner with you when you’re high out of your fucking mind.”

“What?” He asks. “I’m not high, come on, I told you I’ve just been busy. I haven’t been using, I swear.”

You shake your head, laughing a little despite yourself, pulling your hands out of his. “Is this all you’re ever gonna’ be now?”

His brows furrow. “What do you mean? Busy? No, of course not. I’m almost done undergrad, and then we’ll both be in med school, but that’ll be a different kind of busy. We’ll be back to normal.”

“I keep waiting for things to change,” You say, barely digesting his words. “I keep waiting for you to stop lying.”

“Baby, I’m not lying.”

“It’s always…this,” You continue. “You fucking up and trying to convince me you didn’t.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” He argues. “I know I fucked up, I should’ve been here on time, I know.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten high,” You whisper, tears piling in your eyes. “I don’t…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Are you joking?” He asks. “It’s one fucking night, come on-”

“You still won’t admit it?” You ask. “All I have ever asked of you is that you tell me the truth. And you have failed over and over again.”

You step back when he reaches for you. 

“I love you, but I can’t keep putting up with this,” You say, not bothering to wipe away the tears that drip down your face. “Get your shit together, please.”

January, 2015

The party isn’t anything huge, just yours and Frank’s main friend group, which is enough people to fill a room. You had been hesitant to go at first, still trying to keep your distance from him, but your best friend practically dragged you there after letting you mope in bed for the past three months. 

It starts off fine, but it quickly takes a turn for the worse a couple hours in. Luckily, you’re on your fifth drink by the time the door opens, revealing Frank and a petite blonde girl some time after eleven. 

“Hey, look who it is!” One of your friends exclaims, pushing himself off the couch and over to the door. “We were starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”

You pull your phone out of your back pocket, taking a swig of the drink you’re holding, trying to seem remotely busy as people move to greet him. 

“Who’s this?” Someone asks, making you glance over, seeing the woman standing just behind him. You feel your chest tighten when he beams, wrapping an arm across her shoulders. 

“This is Abby,” He says. “We met a couple months ago.”

People start introducing themselves, tossing out names left and right, clearly overwhelming the poor girl. Someone eventually gestures to you, saying your name, and you see the way Abby’s face changes. Her smile drops a little, but she still gives you a wave. 

“Nice to meet you,” She says. “Frank’s told me a lot about you.”

“Yeah, bet he has,” Someone mutters, making the group laugh. Frank joins in, tightening his grip on Abby, desperately trying to get you to look at him. You avoid his eyes, downing the rest of your drink and standing up, giving her the most genuine smile you can muster. 

“Wow, I love your jeans, you’re stunning,” You say. “Frank’s a lucky guy. How’d you meet?”

You hear someone murmur something like ‘wow, very mature’ as you guide her into the living room, asking if she wants something to drink. Frank’s best friend, Jonah, slaps a hand onto his back once the two of you are out of earshot. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, making Frank scoff. 

“Don’t start, man.”

“No, seriously, what’s your problem?” He pushes. “What happened to trying to get her back?”

“I never said I was doing that,” Frank argues. 

Jonah gives him a disapproving look, one that Frank isn’t sure he’s ever seen from his long-time friend. 

“You’re an idiot,” He says. “Bringing a new girl here like this, when you knew she’d be here too? That’s pretty selfish, man.”

“It’s not that serious,” Frank says. 

“That’s the problem, dude,” Jonah says. “It should be that serious.”

Meanwhile, you rummage through the fridge, listing out options to Abby, who’s standing off to the side. 

“I’m good with a beer,” She says, and you pull one out, passing it over before grabbing one for yourself. You crack it open, bringing the can to your lips, taking a sip as you close the fridge. 

“So, Frank told me you’ve known him since you were teenagers?” She says, leaning back against the counter. 

“Oh, yeah,” You say. “He moved into the house across the street from mine, we got pretty close.”

“Right, he says you’re his best friend,” She adds. “I’d really love to get to know you, you know, to see more of his life.”

You hum, taking another sip of your drink. “Yeah, no, for sure. I’d like that too.”

Frank watches carefully as the two of you come back into the living room, trying to figure out if anything happened while you were gone. Abby grins as she walks over, and he smiles back, replacing his arm around her shoulders. 

“She’s really nice,” Abby says, and Frank glances at you for a second before settling his eyes back on her. 

“Yeah, she’s great,” He agrees. He can’t help but feel a little disappointed with how well you’re taking this, almost as though he wanted it to bother you. “You wanna’ sit?”

He catches you on the balcony a few hours later, missing the way you swipe a hand over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. 

“Hey,” You say. “I was just about to head in, balcony’s all yours.”

He grabs your arm as you walk by, stopping you from going inside. 

“I actually came out here to talk to you,” He says. “I was gonna’ tell you about Abby, I swear.”

“Yeah, okay,” You say, sarcastically. “I would’ve loved a heads up that you had a girlfriend before agreeing to come tonight.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” He counters, still holding your arm. You pull out of his grip, exhaling sharply, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie down. 

“She said you called me your ‘best friend,’” You say, putting quotes around the words. “Does she know about us?”

“What about us?” He asks. “That we dated?”

You purse your lips, tears pushing against your throat again, pooling in your eyes. Him summing up almost a decade of history with ‘we dated’ reignites the anger and insecurity that you’ve been feeling for months, and you just want to get out of here and go home.

“Yeah,” You say. 

He squints, shrugging his shoulders up, waving his hand in a ‘sort of’ motion. “She knows we were together in high school.”

“In high school,” You repeat. 

“That’s when it started,” He adds, obviously trying to justify his actions—something he’s been doing a lot of for the past year. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah, no, I was there,” You say. 

He raises an eyebrow. “I know.”

You watch him for a second, trying to read his expression, which use to be easy for you. Now it feels impossible, his face neutral, not letting you in. 

“Is this your way of ending things, like, for real?” You ask, finally voicing what you’ve had on your mind since he showed up. There’s no edge in your voice, the question not meant to hurt him—you just need to know. “Because you could’ve just…said it.”

His face flickers, an unrecognizable look settling on it while he digests your words. 

“No, that’s—that’s not what this is,” He says. “You—you ended things with me, I didn’t realize you and me was still an option.”

“You think I’ve just been checking in with you constantly for the past three months, what, for fun?” You ask. The corners of his lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile, taking the opportunity to try and lighten the mood. 

“I mean, talking to me is a lot of fun,” He teases. A tear slips down your cheek, brows creasing and lips parting in disbelief. 

“Why do you always do that?” You ask, gesturing with your hand before letting it fall back against your leg. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”

“Come on,” He says, exasperatedly. “I’m just trying to keep this from becoming a whole thing, I-”

“God fucking forbid this become a whole thing,” You say, cutting him off. “I almost thought everything that happened between us actually meant something, thank you so much for reminding me that it didn’t.”

“When did I say that?” He asks, more defensive now. 

“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.”

You try to go back inside again, but he grabs both your biceps, holding you in front of him. You refuse to look at him, sniffling as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. He clenches his jaw, swallowing back tears of his own, letting go of one of your arms to tilt your chin up. 

“Everything that happened means so much to me, peanut,” He says. “Why do you think it doesn’t?”

More tears fall, dripping off your chin and onto the concrete beneath you. You suddenly feel stupid, the adoration on his face making you momentarily forget all the times he’s hurt you, all the times he’s lied or said something he didn’t mean, all the promises he’s broken. When you look into his eyes you see the boy you fell in love with staring back at you, genuine curiosity and concern in them. 

“You said ‘that we dated’ like that’s all it ever was,” You explain, finding yourself leaning closer to him. “Making a joke about having fun together when…I’ve been checking up on you to try and hold on to any fucking remnant of you and I because-”

You pause, inhaling involuntarily, a stifled cry catching in your throat. Frank’s face softens more, his grip dropping to your hands, taking them in his own. 

“This is killing me,” You admit, voice shaking. “I only broke up with you because I thought it might convince you to stop using, I—I thought we’d get back together once you got clean, I wasn’t expecting you to move on so fast.”

He sighs, nodding, tugging you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you. 

“I didn’t move on,” He admits. “The whole thing with Abby is selfish and stupid and I absolutely have not moved on, I swear to god.”

You don’t say anything, you just tuck your face into his neck. 

“I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her it’s over,” He says. 

“You don’t have to do that,” You say, voice muffled by his jacket. “She seems really sweet.”

“Yeah, she is, but she’s no you,” He says, holding you tighter. “As long as I have a chance with you then I don’t want anyone else, baby.”

He kisses you, and the hollowness in your stomach starts to fill. 

June, 2015

His phone rings when you’re already in bed, snuggled into his chest, his arms around you. He groans, shifting away, reaching for the object and glancing at the screen. He freezes, making you lift your head, catching sight of the contact before he can hide it. 

Abby ❤️

“Why is she calling you?” You ask, sitting up a bit. “Why does she still have a heart beside her name?”

“I dunno’,” He says. “I must’ve forgotten to get rid of the heart when I ended things.”

His thumb slams against the ‘decline’ button, which for some reason makes you doubt his answer. 

“What if something’s wrong?” You ask, reaching for the lamp, turning it on. “You should call her back, make sure everything’s okay.”

A part of you means it—if she’s in trouble you want to help, but the other part wants to see just how far he’ll take this if he’s lying. 

The two of you never re-established the seriousness of your relationship, but you certainly hadn’t seen anyone else since the conversation you had six months ago, and you were under the impression that he hadn’t either.

He shakes his head, setting his phone face-down on the nightstand. “Nah, I’m sure she’s fine.”

You squint. “Then just call her back, what’s the big deal?”

“No big deal,” He counters. “I’d just rather stay here with you.”

“Well, I won’t be able to sleep unless I know she’s alright,” You argue, analyzing his face, but you know the tells you learned when you were teens no longer apply, his whole charade much more calculated now. 

“Why does it matter?” He asks, a slight edge to his tone. “She has other friends she can call, she’s fine.”

You don’t respond, and he lets himself relax, thinking you’re done pushing. 

“Frank,” You say, forcing him to look at you again. “Fucking call her.”

He rolls his eyes, tossing the blanket off his body and sitting up. “Are we really doing this right now?”

“Doing what, exactly?” You ask. 

“You still don’t trust me,” He says, saying it like it’s unbelievable. “Wow, I honestly thought you were past this bullshit.”

You genuinely laugh at that, burying your face behind your hands. “Oh my god. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Sometimes, yeah,” He says. “This isn’t gonna’ work if you don’t start believing me.”

You’re still laughing, putting a hand over your mouth to muffle it, trying to get yourself together. Frank just stares at you, your reaction sparking fury inside him. 

“Wow, fuck me,” You say. “You’re sleeping with her.”

“That’s insane,” He counters, too quickly, as though he had the line ready. 

“You never ended things,” You continue, mostly just processing out loud, not actually needing him to confirm or deny. “You’ve been seeing her this whole time.”

“I—I did end things,” He argues. “Why would I not have? This is actually so fucking ridiculous, I can’t-”

“Okay,” You say, sucking in through your teeth. “When exactly did you end things?”

“Babe, I swear to you, nothing is going on,” He says. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

He pauses, looking up towards the ceiling, shrugging. “I—I dunno’, after the party.”

You hum disbelievingly. “Does she know that?”

“Yes, she definitely knows that.”

You gesture to his phone. “Then call her.”

He doesn’t move. 

“Why is that so hard?” You ask. “Pick up the phone and call her.”

“You’re turning this into something it’s not,” He says. “I cannot believe-”

“Frank, shut the fuck up,” You say, holding your hands up. “You can either call her, or you can leave.”

“Really? Over this?” He asks, still deflecting. “I’m not calling her, babe, there’s no need.”

“I’m not asking you again.”

He doesn’t move at first, but then he reaches for his phone, pulling it off the charger. You stupidly believe that he’s actually going to call her back, but he slides it into his pocket instead.

“Fine,” He says, grabbing his hoodie off the floor as he goes, stopping in the doorway of your bedroom. “I don’t wanna’ be around you when you’re like this anyway.”

You nod, watching him close the door behind him, the pause before he actually walks off confirming that he wanted that to get a reaction out of you. You wait until you hear the front door close before letting yourself collapse, burying your face in the covers and crying until you can’t breathe. 

December, 2015

You don’t see him until he’s already too close, leaving you unable to force your way through the sea of people fast enough to get away. Avoiding him has been relatively easy for the past six months, considering you’re a year ahead of him, meaning your classes don’t overlap. But here he is, somehow, waiting for you outside your lecture. His hand lands on your backpack, grabbing the loop at the top, shifting himself into place beside you. 

You don’t look at him as you walk through the hall, practically elbowing people as you move, making him have to fight to keep up. He says your name, but you don’t stop. 

“Can you just hang on for a minute?” He finally asks. 

“No,” You say, pushing a door open, stepping out into the freezing cold. He doesn’t have any problem catching up now that there’s no one in his way, and he plants himself directly in your path, making you freeze. You try to go around him, but he sticks an arm out, gently latching onto you shoulder. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” He says. “Just listen to me for a second.”

“Why?” You ask. “So you can lie to me?”

He exhales roughly, shaking his head. “No, so I can tell you the truth.”

You shrug, folding your arms over yourself, shivering. “Fine. Go.”

“Abby and I are done,” He says. You roll your eyes, trying to get away again, but he holds onto you. “Seriously, we’re fucking done, for real. I—I wanted to give it a real shot, you know, make it something that was worth losing you over, but that’s dumb. Nothing is ever worth losing you.”

“I’m glad you figured that out,” You say. “But that has nothing to do with me anymore.”

“What do you mean?” He asks. “It has everything to do with you.”

You sigh. “I have a train to catch, so, I should go.”

“Your train doesn’t come until six-fifty,” He argues. You go still, scoffing, the sound close to a laugh, but not quite. 

“Don’t do that,” You say. “Don’t fucking memorize my schedule like that.”

“I…I didn’t,” He says, then he recalibrates. “I didn’t mean to. I see you take that train five days a week, it just…stuck.”

“Okay, whatever,” You say, shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, your nose tingling in the cold. You inhale sharply, momentarily forgetting that your lungs have been protesting their usual function for the past few days, resulting in you falling into a fit of coughs. He frowns when it surpasses ‘swallowed the wrong way’ and enters ‘I can’t fucking breathe’ territory, stepping a little closer. 

“You okay?” He asks. You clear your throat as you straighten out, nodding quickly. 

“I’m fine,” You say, but it’s clipped, and you dissolve into more rib-shattering coughs immediately after. 

“That sounds like the exact opposite of fine,” He says. “You should sit down.”

The coughing subsides after a few more seconds, and you breathe in carefully, trying not to provoke your airway again. 

“I’m good, it’s just the weather,” You lie. He almost believes you for a second, but then you stumble slightly, making him reach out, grabbing your hips to keep you steady. “I should really get home.”

“I don’t like the idea of you taking the train like this,” He says. “Not by yourself.”

You wave him off. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“And yet I do anyways.”

Your walls splinter—he sees it on your face. 

You realize that the meds you took this morning must be wearing off, because your fever now feels very real, and sweat starts to bead along your forehead and neck. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink a few times, your ears ringing in protest from you still being upright. 

“Come on, I’ll get you home.”

The drive back to your apartment is hazy, but you’re aware of the way Frank holds you as he helps you into the elevator and to your door. You fumble with your keys, dropping them onto the floor. He swoops down, picking them up and selecting the correct one, sliding it into place and unlocking it. 

He follows you in, not taking his shoes off, telling himself that he just wants to make sure you get into bed safely. That goes out the window when you almost knock a lamp over trying to turn it on, movements clunky and disorganized. He sticks his hand out, catching it at the last second, carefully putting it back upright. 

“Have you eaten anything?” He asks, watching you lower yourself onto the couch, cheeks hot and eyes closed. 

“Not really,” You admit. “I haven’t been shopping in awhile, I’ve been surviving off of stale crackers.”

“Well, that just won’t do,” He says. “Let me help you get settled and then I’ll get you something to eat, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” He says. “I want to, so, just…shut up and let me.”

You fall asleep on the couch as soon as you’re done eating, curling into him, resting your head on his chest. He hesitates at the contact, but then he tucks a blanket around you, holding you close. 

He stays like that all night. 

You’re not any better the next morning, in fact, your cough is exponentially worse. 

“We should go to urgent care,” He says, aftering listening to you hack up a lung in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes. “You could have pneumonia.”

“I don’t have pneumonia,” You argue. “I just need to rest.”

“You slept for sixteen hours last night,” He counters. “Now you’re even worse.”

“It’s just because I haven’t taken anything yet,” You say, pulling the cabinet open and grabbing various bottles of medication. 

“Prove it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How?”

“Go to urgent care,” He explains. “They’ll tell me I’m wrong and then I’ll shut up.”

You huff, setting the meds down. “Fine. Let’s go.”

You’re back in his car two hours later, a pneumonia diagnosis on your chart and a bottle of antibiotics in your lap. You’re waiting for him to say ‘I told you so,’ but he stays quiet the entire drive back to your apartment, only speaking to check if you’re warm enough. 

“You were right,” You finally say. 

He hums. “Yeah, but you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

“You don’t want to…rub it in?” You ask. 

“That I was right about you having pneumonia?” He asks. “No, I wish I had been wrong.”

“Me too,” You say. “This sucks.”

“Do you have anyone you can call?” He asks. “Could your mom come take care of you?”

You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“The doctor said someone should stay with you for a few days.”

“I heard,” You say. “It’ll be fine, Frank.”

He hesitates, debating the idea in his head before deciding to bite the bullet. “Let me stay for the rest of the day, make sure you don’t die.”

He expects resistance, but he doesn’t get any. You just shrug, eyes starting to feel heavy again as you lean back into the seat.

“Suit yourself.”

He doesn’t leave that night. 

You spend the next three days together, him cooking, cleaning, and taking care of you while you suffer on the couch, wondering what you did to deserve whatever plague you caught. By the end of the third day you start feeling better, and you can actually get off the couch without any assistance, making him jump when he sees you come around the corner into the kitchen. 

“Jesus,” He breathes. “What’re you doing up?”

You smile, gesturing to your legs. “I can walk again.”

He chuckles. “You never stopped being able to walk.”

“Felt like I did,” You counter. “I feel a lot better today.”

“Oh, good,” He says, but he can’t even hide the disappointment. You feeling better means he has to go, and he’s nowhere near ready for that. “I’m glad, peanut.”

“Thank you for everything,” You say. 

“Yeah, anytime, seriously,” He says. “I guess I should get going, then.”

You look towards the window, shrugging. “It’s coming down pretty bad out there, I’d feel like an asshole if I made you drive in that.”

He follows your gaze, seeing the blizzard that’s starting outside. “It probably won’t last long.”

“So stay until it’s over.”

He tries to find any hint of insincerity in your eyes, but there isn’t any. Instead, he finds desire burning in your irises, the rest of your face completely innocent. He shakes his head, despite the voice screaming at him to jump at this opportunity. 

“Okay, yeah, I’ll stay for a bit,” He says. “You should lay back down, though, wouldn’t want to overdo it.”

You nod. “Will you help me?”

“You just said your legs are working again,” He counters. 

“They are,” You say. “That’s not what I want help with.”

He follows you back to the living room, watching you get back onto the couch, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“Can you hold me?” You ask, softly. His breathing stutters, some sort of affirmation stumbling from his lips. He sits beside you, opening his arms up, letting you lean into him. You don’t wait long before resting your hand over his, slowly pushing it down towards your thighs, towards the place you need him most. 

“You’re sick, we shouldn’t,” He whispers. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I don’t have a fever anymore,” You say, pressing your forehead to his for proof. “I want you to touch me, Frankie, please.” 

You mentally thank his impulsivity when he slides his hand beneath your waistband. Your eyes rolls back as his fingers move in slow circles, drawing a whine out of you. He leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, gently peppering kisses across your skin. 

“I’ve really missed you, baby,” He whispers. “And not just like this.”

You don’t say anything in response. You keep your eyes trained on your ceiling, focusing on how good he feels pressed against you. He kisses your collarbone, desperate for you to just look at him for a second. 

“Baby?”

You hum. 

“Could you look at me?”

You roll your hips into his hands, a soft moan slipping past your lips. “We can talk later.”

You never talk. You just slip back into old habits. 

February, 2017

“My mom called me this morning,” You say, sitting across from him in the cafe you’ve been studying at for the past few hours. “Said her and your mom have basically started planning our wedding.”

Your tone is casual, anecdotal, as though it’s just a funny thing someone said that rolled off your back. Frank raises an eyebrow, smiling a little as he sets his pen down. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “And where will we be getting married?”

You laugh. “I dunno’, I told her were weren’t even engaged yet and she was like ‘oh, I know, but you’ve found each other so many times and been through so much together’ or…whatever. Apparently it’s ‘written in the stars.’”

“She’s not wrong,” He says. “I mean, we’ve technically been together for a decade.”

“Big emphasis on technically,” You say, taking a sip of your coffee, completely unaware of how your words hit him. He tenses, picking his pen back up, spinning it around his fingers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks. You set your coffee down, shrugging, missing the underlying seriousness in his tone.

“Well, we were on and off in high school, and we’ve spent nine months of the last two years broken up, so.”

In your mind, you’re providing context. To him, you’re highlighting the incontinuity that he hates himself for creating. 

“Okay,” He says, and you finally see the pain beneath his expression. You sit up a little straighter, reaching your hand across the table, interlacing your fingers with his. 

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing,” You say. “But, I mean, it’s not as easy as ‘we’ve been together for a decade’ in my mind.”

He nods, his hand loose in your grip, not holding yours back. You frown, squeezing it gently, but he keeps it limp. 

“Frank,” You say. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think about it like that,” He says. “What do you say when people ask how long we’ve been together?”

You shrug. “I usually just say since high school.”

“But you don’t actually believe that.”

“Well, it’s objectively not true,” You argue, starting to get defensive, no idea why he’s fighting you so hard on this. “But they don’t need to know all the…nuance, or whatever.”

“The nuance being me being a drug addict?” He asks. 

You flinch, taking an intentionally deep breath before responding. “That’s part of it, yeah. Do we have to have this conversation right now?”

“Oh, sorry, am I embarrassing you?” He asks, everything about the sentence hitting you the wrong way. It’s too loud, too brazen, too disproportionate for the circumstance. You’re stunned for a second. 

“No,” You say. “That’s not what I said.”

You’re trying to de-escalate, but he doesn’t take the hint. 

“You’re literally telling me to shut up about it,” He counters, leaning away from you, gesturing to the people around you. The tables in the immediate vicinity have averted their eyes, doing their best to ignore whatever the fuck is going on. 

Your heart skips. Something is definitely wrong—this isn’t him. 

“Hey, you’re freaking people out,” You say, as gently as you can, taking his hand in yours again and rubbing your thumb along his knuckles. “Can you just…lower your voice for a second?”

“Why?” He asks. “So people can’t hear how ashamed of me you are?”

“Okay, what is going on with you right now?” You ask, starting to pack your belongings up, desperate to get out of the coffee shop before he can say much else. “You’re—I don’t know what this is.”

“Nothing’s going on with me,” He snaps. “I’m just saying what you won’t.”

“You’re basically yelling at me in public,” You correct. “We should go, talk about this at home.”

“Right,” He says, not moving. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your image.”

You slide your laptop into your bag, zipping it up and setting it on the bench beside you. “You don’t have to come with me, but I’m not doing this here.”

He doesn’t come home that night, but he’s back in the apartment when you get home from classes the next day, all the lights off and him wrapped in a blanket on the couch. You jump when you notice him, gasping and clutching your chest. He lifts his head slowly, face dull and pale, his eyes looking right through you. 

“Hey,” You say, dropping your things and taking your shoes off, kneeling in front of him. You set your hands on his cheek and forehead, frowning. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”

You’re already back up by the time he processes the question, softly padding into the bathroom, running water over a washcloth. You come back out to the living room, looping it behind his neck, brushing a few strands of hair behind his ears. He grimaces, making you stop immediately. 

“Sorry, sorry, is it too cold?” You ask, going to move the cloth, but he grabs your wrist. 

“No, it’s not that,” He says, voice quiet and rough. He clears his throat, then he says your name. 

“What?” You say. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sick,” He says. “I—I’m just coming down.”

You don’t register the meaning behind that for a few moments, and he watches your face change as understanding sinks in. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, removing your wrist from his grasp, setting your hands on top of his thighs. 

“Okay,” You say. No judgement, no accusation, no disbelief. “Do you need anything?”

The immediate acceptance unravels his thoughts. 

Maybe he should’ve started telling you the truth a long time ago.

“Uh—uhm, no,” He says. “I’m okay, it’ll pass.”

“You look awful,” You say. “When’s the last time you slept?”

He sighs. “I dunno’.”

His body hurts so badly he doesn’t hear the distance in your voice. 

“You should probably do that,” You say, pushing yourself back on your heels, not touching him anymore. “I need to get changed, I have a shift in an hour.”

“Wait, wait, you’re going to work?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” You say, standing up now, brushing your hands over your thighs. “Someone called out, I offered to take the shift.”

You wait a moment before continuing, debating how much to tell him. 

“I honestly didn’t think you’d be back yet,” You admit. “I didn’t want to be home by myself all night.”

He winces. “Right, yeah, fair enough.”

“I ordered in last night, there’s leftovers in the fridge,” You continue. “I got that, uh, that pasta you like.”

His thoughts are incomprehensible, but he knows he has to apologize. “I’m sorry you were alone yesterday.”

You nod. “I appreciate that.”

“I love you,” He says. “More than anything.”

His vision is too blurry to see the tears gathering in your eyes. 

“I love you too, Frankie,” You say, leaning over, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline. You disappear into the bedroom before the tears actually fall, changing into your black slacks and button down that you always wear to the restaurant you’ve been working at for years. You dry your face, putting on some makeup to hide any evidence of the day you’ve had, then you tiptoe past the living room to the front door, slipping out without a sound. 

You spend the next two days in a stupor, mindlessly dragging yourself to class, then home, then work, all while making sure Frank doesn’t die on the couch. You go through the motions of taking care of him—making him food, forcing him to hydrate, helping him take showers. You don’t actually know when you made the decision to leave, if you decided the second he admitted to relapsing or if it came a little while after, but your mind is made up by the time he’s lucid again. 

“We should talk about…what happened,” You say, not taking a seat on the couch, simply standing off to the side with your arms crossed over your chest. He nods. 

“We should,” He agrees. “I’m really, really sorry, peanut. It was just the once, one of my friends had some on him, and I just…I caved. I wished I could take it back the second I swallowed it.”

“Yeah, I believe that,” You say. “But that’s not—that’s not it.”

“What is, then?”

“I—I was really mad at you for relapsing,” You start. “And I hated every second of helping you through the comedown.”

“Of course, that’s totally fair-”

“I want to take care of people for a living,” You interrupt. “I don’t…I can’t be with someone who makes me hate that. I can’t let myself be apathetic.”

He stops breathing at the implication of what you’re saying. 

“I don’t like the version of me that I saw for the last two days,” You continue. “And I don’t want to be put in that position again.”

“Then I’ll never put you in it again,” He promises. 

“That’s not a guarantee you can make,” You counter. “And…if your track record is anything to go by, you will do it again.”

“I go longer and longer between relapses every time,” He says. “I haven’t used in almost two years.”

“And I’m really fucking proud of you, Frank,” You say. “But I’ve put in too much work to get to where I am, I’m not willing to risk it.”

“Baby-”

“It’s not up for debate,” You say. “I…I would really like to be your friend, if you’re ever ready for that. I think that might suit us better.”

His eyes are glassy with tears. “Yeah, uh—okay. I’ll get back to you on that.”

Him and his belongings are gone by the time you get back from work that night. 

August, 2019

You can’t stop looking at the picture, always finding your way back to it after you manage to swipe away, re-reading the caption and the comments until your vision blurs. 

It’s a picture of Frank holding a chip in his hand, beaming at the camera so wide it almost looks painful, posted by Abby with the caption ‘one year sober!!! so proud of you :)’. 

There’s almost a hundred comments, all variations of congratulations, praising him for his hard work. You force yourself to double-tap the photo, even liking a few comments, trying to come across as supportive and mostly nonchalant. 

“Is that Frank?”

You nod, tilting your phone towards your boyfriend, letting him look at the picture. 

“Good for him,” He says. “He’s really put in the work.”

“Yeah, definitely,” You say. “I’m glad he’s doing better.”

“You talked to him recently?” He asks, and you shake your head, rolling over and getting out of bed. 

“No, not for awhile,” You say, making sure he can’t see your face when you say the words, fearing he’ll be able to see right through you. “I haven’t even seen him since before my graduation.”

It’s a lie—you’ve seen him so many times you’ve lost count, each time dissolving into familiarity and collapsed boundaries, him usually on top of you, coaxing out moans and whines in the way that only he can. He leaves at the end of the night, going back home to Abby, and you end up alone in the same apartment you got together in undergrad, unable to let it go. 

“That was over a year ago,” He says. “You should give him a call, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” You say, already halfway in the bathroom, reaching over and turning the shower on. 

You close the door before climbing in, letting the hot water run over your sore muscles, your back particularly tight after being in a precarious position for the majority of a twelve-hour surgery yesterday. 

Your mind drifts to Frank as your hands trail down your body, one of them hovering between your thighs. You can practically hear him saying your name, breath feathering over your neck, ramming into you-

“Jesus,” You mutter, snapping out of it and bringing your hand back up, grabbing the bottle of bodywash off the shelf. 

You pull a fresh pair of scrubs on once you’re out of the shower and completely dry, checking your phone to make sure you still have time to grab something to eat before you get to the hospital. You see Frank’s contact name on the screen, and you glance over your shoulder before opening the text. 

Can I come over tonight? I have news!

You wonder if it’s about him hitting one year sober, but you decide quickly that it’s unlikely to be that. You know that it isn’t true, and he knows that you know. He’s done an incredible job at keeping it from Abby and his friends, instead coming to you every time he slips up again, which is exactly how you found yourself in this situation in the first place. 

He had taken you up on your offer to be friends a few months after your most recent break-up, and at first that’s all it was. Then, he showed up at your doorstep higher than you’ve ever seen him, begging you to let him crash on your couch until he was sober again. You had agreed, but you hadn’t taken care of him the way you did the last time he rode a high out in your living room. You just moved around him, coming and going, leaving food and gatorade in the fridge. 

He stayed sober for seven months after that before he used again, and he ended up in the exact same place, needing somewhere to stay so Abby didn’t find out. 

After that your friendship…shifted. 

Late nights, wandering hands, bad decisions. Forcing your respective partners out of your heads for a few hours, finding comfort in the person who knows every piece of you, convincing yourselves that each time will be the last. 

You text back. 

At the hospital until eight, swing by after?

The knock startles you despite the fact that you’re expecting it. Frank’s shoulders are scrunched up to his ears, hands in his pockets when you pull the door open, a wide grin on his face. 

“Hey,” He greets. You step to the side, letting him in, just like you do every time. “You look nice.”

“I haven’t slept in three days,” You counter. He grimaces, sliding his shoes and jacket off. 

“Back to back call shifts?” He asks. 

“Yeah, fuck, it’s been brutal,” You say. “I have to be back at the hospital in-”

You pause, checking the time on your phone, whining. “-six hours.”

“Shit,” He says. “Seems like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

“You absolutely do,” You say, smiling. “What did you wanna’ tell me?”

He hums, pulling you in for a hug, rocking you back and forth. You relax into his touch despite the guilt that builds inside of you, the same guilt that’s been slowly gnawing away at your sense of self for the last two years. 

“It can wait a bit,” He mumbles, tilting your chin towards him. “I’ve missed you.”

He breaks the silence once you’re done, laying beside eachother, chests heaving with deep breaths. 

“Abby’s pregnant.”

You go completely still—like a child tucked away in bed who hears a noise from the hallway, convinced that whatever horrors lay outside won’t be able to see them if they don’t move a muscle. 

The words feel sharp, not quite tearing your chest open, but slicing the skin over your collarbone, leaving you breathless. If you listen close enough you can almost hear them echoing around the room, distant, yet earth-shattering. His tone is so gentle, like he believes there’s a reality where both of you make it out of this alive. 

But you know better. 

One of you gives up here, and you’re absolutely certain it’s going to be you. 

There’s a crack running along the edge of the ceiling that you’ve never noticed, inching towards the slowly spinning ceiling fan that does little to protect you from the dry, prickling heat under your skin. It runs down the wall too, splitting the uneven paint that you and Frank rolled on six years ago, the colour now dulled into something that barely resembles the sample you picked the day you moved in. 

You can see yourself taping it up on the wall, letting it sit there for days, examining the way it changed under different lights, as if you could account for the ruthlessness of shadows and time. The way you convinced yourself that if you stared at something for long enough you’d be able to see into the future, knowing exactly how it would look ten years down the line. 

You did the same for Frank, committing things to memory, even if they seemed mundane. His mouth tilting to the left when he smiles, the way he laughs when it’s just the two of you, the rhythm you hear every time you lay your head on his chest. The tapping of his fingers on your thigh when you stay up late watching TV, the pitch of his voice in the morning, the notes he used to leave for you on the bathroom mirror. 

The ordinary used to feel like proof. That you were solid, that he was there, that he’d always be there. Now, after all this time, it feels like something that was only believable if you didn’t look too hard. 

You need to say something soon—the silence has dragged on too long already. 

You flash through all the things you’ve put up with over the past ten years, all the morals you’ve cast aside just to have some sliver of the man who lays beside you. He stares straight ahead, gaze locked on your ceiling, fingers drumming against his stomach. 

Every time you lied to your partner about who you were texting, then calling, then seeing. 

The nights Abby texted you, asking if you knew where Frank was, when you’d tell her that he was still at the library when he was actually in bed with you. 

Countless hours you’ve spent convincing yourself that you’re not a bad person—you’re just hopefully, sickeningly, disturbingly in love. Hoping that each infraction might bring you closer to what you actually want. Calling things ‘complicated’ as if that makes it any better. 

But it hasn’t. And it won’t. 

You’re just a terrible person who has absolutely nothing to show for it.

You turn slightly, looking at him instead of the crack. 

“Are you serious?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. 

“Yeah,” He says. “Eight weeks.”

“Oh,” You say, sitting up slowly, reaching for your shirt off the floor and yanking it over your head. “That’s—that’s good. It’s good, right?”

Frank blinks a few times, confusion passing over his features as he sits up, too. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” He agrees. “She’s pretty psyched.”

You nod, actually standing up now, slipping into your shorts and reaching back to smooth your hair down. You don’t stop moving, because you know that you won’t surrender if you stay still for too long. 

“Okay,” You say, looking around the room as though you might snap out of this soon. Like this isn’t real. “So…this is done.”

Frank says your name, drawing it out as though you’re being unreasonable. 

“No, Frank, fucking-”

You cut yourself off, grimacing when a small whimper follows the truncated sentence. Frank copies your actions, pulling his sweatpants up and walking over to your side of the bed, setting a hand on your shoulder. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” He says, softly. You shake your head, swallowing back tears. 

“You’re having a baby,” You counter, stepping away from him, hands raised to keep him from touching you again. He straightens, dropping his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to get his heart to slow down. “She’s…Abby’s pregnant.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” He says, his thoughts completely incoherent. “But she has no idea about this, and-”

“That’s the problem,” You interrupt. “You—you’re about to have a baby and you’re talking about how she doesn’t know that you’ve been fucking me since the day you met her.”

Frank steps back too, crossing his arms over his chest, that all-too-familiar defensiveness starting to prickle through his skin. 

“So, what?” He asks. “You have some kind of moral objection to this suddenly? You never had an issue with infidelity before—yours or mine.”

“You think I never had a problem with this?”

“Certainly didn’t seem like it.”

Your jaw tightens, tears hot in your throat and eyes, dizziness forcing you to reach back until you feel the nightstand beneath your palm. 

“You always knew exactly what this was to me,” You say. “I told you, out on that fucking balcony, that this was about how much I loved you.”

“And you’re telling me it still is, huh?” He asks. “All this sneaking around has been out of love?”

It’s not exactly anger, something more like refusal. The ceiling fan keeps spinning, clicking each time it finds the same spot, the pull string waving back and forth. You wonder if the crack would be farther down on the wall if you turned to look.  

“Has it not been for you?”

Your voice is practically nothing. 

“I haven’t heard you tell me you love me in years,” You add, still quiet, voice catching on the last word. “But I keep showing up because I don’t know what I’ll do if I never hear you say it again.”

His heart practically stops.

“Look at me,” He says, closing the gap between you. You don’t, eyes trained on the floor in front of you, hands going numb from how tight you’re gripping the edge of the nightstand. His tone strays from anger, edging into something much kinder. “I love you.”

Your bottom lip actually wobbles. 

“I love you with everything that I have,” He continues. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t keep doing this to Abby if I didn’t love you.”

You can’t swallow anymore, your throat wound too tight. 

“I’m not saying that because I think it’ll fix things,” He adds. “I’m saying that because it’s true, and I cannot keep lying to you.”

“But you do,” You say. “You keep lying.”

“I’m not lying right now,” He insists. 

You nod. “I know.”

The stillness is unbearable. 

“Then what do you want from me?” He asks, a hint of anger returning along with an uncontrolled urgency, one he knows well. “What do I have to do here? Just tell me, and—”

He cuts himself off, exhaling abruptly through his nose, running a hand through his hair. A few pieces stick upwards, drawing your gaze to them, watching as they slowly fall back against his head. 

“I’m not lying to you anymore, I can’t keep doing that, and I don’t want to keep doing that,” He says. “So just tell me.”

A beat. 

“Tell me what you need from me,” He finishes. “And I’ll do it.”

You can see exactly what he doesn’t want you to. 

It’s not coming from a place of love, it’s coming from a place of desperation. 

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head. “Build a time machine.”

“I can’t do that, baby,” He says, bouncing on his feet. “But I fucking would if I could.”

“Yeah,” You say. “I would too.”

He watches you carefully, waiting anxiously for a solution he can execute. You cross your arms over your chest, bracing yourself for the words you’re about to say. 

“You know what you can do?” You ask. 

He shakes his head. “No, tell me. Please.”

“You can get clean,” You say, hugging yourself, ignoring the panic that’s simmering beneath the surface. “For Abby.”

You pause. 

“For your kid.”

You don’t give him a chance to retaliate. 

“Maybe this’ll finally be enough to snap you out of it,” You add. “Because I was never enough, Abby was never enough, nothing has ever been enough for you to get your shit together.”

Your tone is so final he feels like there’s nothing he can say to change your mind.

“I really tried,” He says. “After you left.”

“No, you didn’t,” You say, finally dipping into anger yourself. “You did just enough to string me along, made me look like a fucking idiot every time I actually believed you were clean.”

“I wanted to, I swear,” He says. “It didn’t have anything to do with you, I just, I couldn’t kick it-”

“Like me?” You ask. “I’m clearly just another bad habit you can’t quite seem to shake.”

He purses his lips, clenching his jaw, scoffing. He drags a hand down his face, trying to ignore the way your words shatter against his cheekbone like glass. “That’s a low blow.”

“That’s why this all started, right?” You say. “Because you couldn’t get clean.”

“I tried!” He yells, slamming his hand against the bedframe, the sound of his palm connecting with the wood echoing in your bedroom. “You are the one who left me!”

“Because you were high all the fucking time!” You yell back, voice wavering now, hands thrown out in frustration. 

He takes a deep breath, his eyes closing for a second while he gets himself together, feeling you slipping through his fingers more with each word that he says. 

“No, I know that, and I’m sorry,” He says. 

“Don’t be sorry for me,” You argue. “Be sorry for yourself. And don’t make your kid spend their whole life wondering why they weren’t enough for their dad to stop using.”

You squint a touch, leaning towards him. 

“You can do that, right?”

He takes a moment before answering. 

“I really fucking hope so.”

There’s no false confidence—just honesty in a way you haven’t seen in years. Your face breaks before you can stop it, breath catching as you twist away from him, tears trickling down your cheeks. You try to inhale, to avoid what you know is coming, but it’s no use. A sob rattles inside your skull before you can stop it, pressing a hand against your mouth to at least muffle the sound. 

“I-”

He stops himself when another cry tumbles out of your lungs, his own chest constricting. He reaches for you, arms finding their way around your waist and chin resting on your shoulder. 

“Hey,” He murmurs. You turn around, curling into him, tucking your head against him. He hesitates, having expected you to push him away, but you don’t. 

“I just want you to be okay,” You say, words slightly incoherent. “To be happy.”

“I know, peanut,” He says. “I’m so sorry.”

Your breathing picks up, the occasional sobs shifting to full-blown crying, the kind that makes it impossible to steady yourself, no matter how hard you try. His hand moves up and down your spine, his lips by your ear, muttering reassurances that you can’t quite hear. 

You become aware of everything all at once. 

His arms around your shoulders, the pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades, the sound of his breathing. 

You’re memorizing him, fiercely clinging to something you know hasn’t been yours in a long time—something that won’t ever be yours again. 

“I don’t wanna’ lose you,” He says, softly, rocking you slightly in his arms. You shake your head, leaning back and wiping your face off. 

“I’m not gonna’ do that to a kid,” You whisper, sniffling. “I’m not gonna’ be the reason you don’t show up for them.”

“You won’t be,” He insists. “Don’t…don’t think of it like that, alright? That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” You ask, still quiet. 

“It’s—it’s us,” He insists. 

“Us,” You repeat. “And what even are we anymore?”

He raises his hands, gesturing vaguely, eyes searching yours for anything he can use. 

“Everything,” He says. “It’s been everything.”

“I think—I think we’re just pathetic,” You say, spitting the words out before you can taste the poison on them. “Two people who meant something to each other a long fucking time ago who can’t admit that it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“It does-”

“Oh my god, what is it gonna’ take?” You ask, exasperated, throwing your hands up. “What’s not clicking for you?”

You push yourself away, leaving him with his hands raised, looking odd now that they’re not holding anything. 

“There is no coming back from this,” You continue. “We’re…we’re fucking done. For real.”

“Baby, come on, just listen-”

“No, you listen,” You say, grabbing his shirt off the bed and throwing it against his bare chest. “We are never gonna’ see each other again. Not like this.”

You step around him, walking out into the living room, him following you as he tugs his shirt back on.

“What do you mean ‘not like this’?” He asks, stumbling to keep up. You throw his jacket and keys towards him, opening your front door, practically parading him out of your apartment. 

“Figure it out, Frank.”

September, 2024

You clip your badge to the front of your black scrubs, running your hands over your hair and looping your stethoscope around your neck. You breathe out through your mouth before shutting the locker, making sure you have the small slip of paper detailing the combination in the back of your phone case before pushing it fully closed. 

Your eyes scan the department until you spot an older man in a navy blue zip-up, somehow certain that that’s exactly who you’re supposed to be looking for. You make your way over to him, planting yourself in his field of view, smiling. 

“Hi, Dr. Robinavitch?” You ask. He nods, returning your smile, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. You stick your hand out, introducing yourself, putting ‘doctor’ before your first and last name. “I’m the new orthopedic trauma fellow, I’ll be hanging out down here for the next four weeks.”

“Ah, yes, right,” He says. “Everyone calls me Robby. Welcome, we’re happy to have you.”

“I’m happy to be here,” You say. “Where do you need me?”

“Uhm, just stay here for one second,” He says, then he disappears, leaving you alone by the central desk. You nod to yourself, still re-adjusting to the constant introductions that come with working at a new hospital. 

People start gathering around the desk, and Robby returns a few minutes later, addressing the group. You put your attention on him, subconsciously adjusting your badge and stethoscope again. 

“As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” He says, glancing past you, waving a group of younger students over. He gestures to you first, repeating your first and last name. “She’s an ortho trauma fellow, she’ll be your first point of contact for any ortho cases.”

You give a small wave, and Robby moves on with the rest of the introductions. He points out the board, explains how things move, and makes sure all of you know exactly who Dana is before continuing. 

“Your senior residents are Dr. Collins,” He says, gesturing to a woman wearing a red fleece over her scrubs. “And Dr. Langdon. You report to them, they report to-”

Your ears start to ring, adrenaline flooding your veins and hammering in your skull as you turn around, praying that you misheard him, or that it’s somehow not who you think it is.

His hair is a little shorter than it was five years ago, but it’s undeniably him, his blue eyes already looking at you. His jaw is tight, brows raised and eyes wide with disbelief. You let your gaze skitter over him, not daring to stop for too long, using every ounce of strength you have to keep your face neutral. 

“Senior residents, you got your sign-outs?”

tags:

@thenormreedus @sinoxima @serrendiipty @celiaisacaterpillar @xoxoloverb @momdancingtomcr @arianna-r13 @starsbymars @outpostsworld @he6rtshaker @ilocuras24 @hucklesbaby @laurenyas @true1411 @navs-bhat @amelia-styles @barnes70stark @huang-the-geek @run-for-the-hills @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @noahcantread @princess76179 @the-perfect-gemini @arienic @llovekats @fishfishcaterpillar @macbaetwo @izzyyy-1 @waywardhunter95

[oyasumiaikko]

the 4 times dennis hurt you and the one time he couldn’t look away from it anymore

dennis whitaker x fem! reader (one shot) | the pitt ★

wc 9.9k genre hurt to comfort warnings intended lowercase, established relationship, ‘baby’ used as a pet name, jealousy (coming both from dennis and the reader), talks of wanting to break up, arguments, suggestive, swearing, alcohol, reader doesn’t work at PTMC (she’s in college and works part-time as a barista in a coffee shop, major unspecified), whitaker lives with reader instead of santos

summary after treating a patient who later passes away, whitaker grows closer to amy, the man’s widow, a farm girl soon to become a mother. he decides to help her, and your relationship begins to change. you try to be understanding, but over time your unhappiness grows, and dennis continues to overlook it until it becomes impossible to ignore.

author’s note part of this fic is inspired by this fic written by @bitchinbarzal make sure to check it out !! i really liked the setting of that fic and wanted to add my own twist to it. : )

after dennis came home from his first shift at the pittsburgh ER, he was devastated. you welcomed him with a tight hug and let him sink into you on your shared bed.

he had called you from the hospital, saying he’d have to stay longer because of the pittfest shooting, and the entire time you waited, you kept hoping he’d be okay, that the day wouldn’t break him completely.

by the time he finally walked through the door, his expression alone said more than a thousand words ever could. so that night, you simply held him, gently playing with his hair until he fell asleep in your arms. you let him process it all without asking questions. you were there if he needed to talk, but by now you knew him well enough to see when all he really needed was to be held.

the next morning, you woke up a little earlier and went to make him an omelette, his favorite, along with coffee. as you were still preparing everything, you felt two arms wrap around you from behind.

“morning, sleepyhead. you okay?” you murmured softly as he rested his head against your shoulder.

in response, he just nodded, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck, which made you let out a quiet giggle.

“just a few more minutes and you’ll get to eat. if you feel like it, you can tell me about… yesterday,” you whispered.

“i’d like that…” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before letting go and moving to sit at the table.

and then he told you everything. after resting and eating, his cheeks still full of food made with love, he opened up about the patient he lost, about how many times he had to change his scrubs, the rats running around the emergency room, how out of place he felt among all the confident, skilled doctors, and then the tragedy at the end of the day. you just listened, letting him get it all out.

it was also the first time he mentioned amy, though at the time you didn’t think much of it.

he said he was glad he could soothe her, even just a little, but that it was heartbreaking knowing she was carrying the child of someone who would never get to see their baby’s face.

still, it was one of the rare moments he felt truly helpful and useful during the shift, especially when he offered to help her at the farm and her entire demeanor seemed to calm down a little.

you nodded along, thinking it was just something he said in the moment to comfort someone, especially a grieving woman, but as the months passed, you slowly realized that his promise to amy had never been empty at all.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the first time you were left feeling hurt by your sweet dennis was during a weekend.

a lot of time had passed since his first shift, and dennis had changed in a lot of ways. he had grown a mullet, picked up a bit of sass from his colleague trinity santos, who you got along with pretty well whenever you visited dennis at the hospital to drop off lunch or something he had forgotten that day, and overall, it seemed like he had finally found his place in emergency medicine, but with that came more responsibility and less time for the two of you.

if it wasn’t him who was busy, it was you, juggling college classes, assignments, and your part time job all at once. so your dates with denny usually ended up indoors, curled up watching a movie that faded into the background as you either fell asleep or, on better nights, got distracted by each other. dennis always seemed far more interested in your lips and the soft warmth of your body than whatever storyline was playing on the tv anyways.

but this weekend was supposed to be different. for once, both of you were mostly free, and he had promised to take you somewhere fancy. you deserved it, he said. you deserved to be taken care of for once, after all the days you spent taking care of him.

“doll yourself up and leave everything to me. i have to stop by somewhere in the morning, but by four i’ll come get you and we’ll spend a lovely day together, okay?” he had said earlier, while you looked at him with a sleepy smile. he pressed a quick kiss to your lips, lingering just for a second as he admired you, beautiful even like this, soft and unguarded in the morning light, before heading out.

that was hours ago.

now it was already thirty minutes past four. you were sitting in your shared bedroom, your makeup done, your hair styled, dressed in one of your prettiest dresses. it hugged your figure perfectly, always earning you that soft, stunned “wow” from dennis, even though he had seen you wear it countless times. it was his favorite.

but he was nowhere to be seen.

you had called and texted him, but every call went straight to voicemail, and your messages stayed on delivered.

when you thought about it more, a quiet unease settled in your chest. denny hadn’t even told you where he was going. the thought made your stomach twist. did something happen to him?

the longer you waited, the worse it felt. the dress, that made you feel pretty just a little while ago, now felt too tight, pressing against your ribs as your anxiety crept in. your makeup started to feel heavy on your skin, suffocating, and your perfectly styled hair pulled at your scalp until it began to ache.

when you glanced at the clock again, it was already almost six.

and just as you were about to call trinity, ready to fully freak out, you heard the door softly open. you hurried over, only to see dennis by the door, calmly taking off his shoes like nothing had happened.

“hey… sorry i’m late,” he said quietly, his voice a little uneven. then he finally looked up at you.

you just stared at him, trying to process it. this wasn’t like him. he had been late before, sure, but he used to be the one to panic, rushing in, apologizing over and over like the world was ending. now he just stood there.

“you look really pretty,” he added after a second, quieter than usual. no soft “wow” no hint of that familiar warmth. he just sounded kind of tired.

“i’ll take a quick shower and we can still go somewhere. i’ll find a place, i’m sure something’s open…”

“dennis,” you cut in, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. “where were you?”

he paused, clearly not expecting that.

“i told you, i’m sorry. i just got held up—”

“you didn’t respond to me. not once,” you said, stepping closer. “i called you like five times. i had no idea where you were or if something happened. do you get that?”

he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “i know, i know. i should’ve texted. it just… got busy.”

“busy where?”

there was a small pause before he answered. “at the farm. with amy.”

you blinked, thrown off. “amy?”

“yeah. she needed help. i thought i’d just stop by for a bit, do something small, but…” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “her baby’s only a few weeks old and she was really overwhelmed. i didn’t feel right just leaving her there like that.”he said it like it was obvious, like it made perfect sense.

“so you stayed. for hours,” you said slowly.

he didn’t answer right away, which was answer enough.

“are you serious right now?” your voice rose before you could stop it. “you stood me up, didn’t pick up your phone, and you’re telling me it’s because you didn’t want to leave another woman alone? and not just a woman, but the widow of your deceased patient? do you hear yourself?”

“hey, i said i’m sorry,” he replied, a bit sharper now. “what was i supposed to do? just walk out when she’s clearly struggling?”

“you could’ve texted me,” you shot back. “you could’ve told me anything. i’ve been sitting here for almost two hours thinking something happened to you.”

he sighed, like the whole thing was exhausting. “okay, yeah. i should’ve texted. i get it.”

“no, you don’t get it,” you said, shaking your head. “this wasn’t just ‘you forgot to text.’ you made plans. you promised.”

he looked at you for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “i mean… it’s not like you’re dealing with a newborn right now, unlike her.”

the second the words left his mouth, the air shifted.

you just stared at him in disbelief. “wow. okay.”

he ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer. “that’s not what i meant. i just… look, i miss nebraska sometimes, okay? being out there, helping like that… it feels familiar. it feels like i’m actually doing something that matters.”

“and this doesn’t?” you asked quietly.

he hesitated. “that’s not what i said.”

he let out a breath, softer now. “i’m sorry. really. i should’ve handled it better. it won’t happen again.”

you looked at him for a moment before averting your eyes, taking a slow breath, then another, trying to blink the tears away before they could fall. this just… didn’t feel right. just this morning, dennis had looked at you with so much love. it would be unfair not to accept his words now, wouldn’t it?

but it still hurt. it really did.

you had tried so hard to look pretty for him, and now all you felt was stupid. stupid for wasting your time, stupid for sitting there for hours, stupid for feeling like you had turned into something he had to squeeze in after spending his day somewhere else. like you were just another thing waiting for him at the end of it.

you didn’t want to be jealous. not of her. she had lost someone she loved, had a newborn to take care of and a whole farm. you kept telling yourself dennis was just being kind, that he had always been too kind for his own good.

he wouldn’t… cheat on you with a grieving woman.

right?

it must have shown on your face, because before you could fully spiral, before the tears could slip past your control, dennis stepped closer and gently placed his hands on your shoulders.

“hey,” he said softly. “look at me.”

you hesitated, but slowly did.

“i said i’m sorry. you told me what was wrong, and we talked it out. everything’s fine, okay?” his voice was calm, almost too calm. “you don’t need to cry.”

you were already too overwhelmed to argue. you just nodded, swallowing hard.

“just… touch up your makeup, yeah? give me a minute. i’m here.” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head before stepping away and heading towards the shower.

you went back to your shared bedroom and sat in front of the vanity mirror. your eyes were red at the edges, still glossy from tears that hadn’t fully fallen, mascara slightly smudged under your lower lashes. as you carefully fixed it, you kept replaying what had just happened in your head.

this was… so not like your denny.

he didn’t usually brush things off like that. he didn’t usually decide that “you talked it out” and then move on like nothing happened, especially not when you were still clearly upset.

but maybe you were overthinking it. you had to be. one bad moment with your otherwise caring boyfriend didn’t suddenly rewrite your entire relationship, right?

still, your chest felt tight as you stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to smooth out the expression on your face like that could fix what you were feeling inside.

in the shower, dennis just stood under the running water, unmoving for a while. he couldn’t tell if he was trying to wash off the sweat from a long day outside in the sun, or something heavier he didn’t want to name.

guilt, maybe.

not even fully guilt, just… that uneasy feeling sitting under his ribs that he hadn’t handled things the way he normally would have.

he didn’t really understand why he had spoken to you like that. usually, he was the one over-apologizing, even when you weren’t asking for it. but lately, something had shifted in him. a new kind of confidence, or maybe just a different way of justifying things to himself.

he didn’t think he needed to feel bad about amy. not really.

he was helping her. he was doing the right thing.

that was what he kept telling himself as the water ran over his face, louder than the thoughts he didn’t want to fully face.

and somewhere in the background of it all, without him really saying it out loud, your sadness became something he pushed aside to make room for that belief.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the second time happened a few weeks after that. by then, you were already a little worn down.

you didn’t work in the ER, but your job as a barista still drained you in its own way. you weren’t saving lives, but some customers surely did act like you were actively ruining theirs if their latte wasn’t perfect, even when the issue had nothing to do with you.

and lately, it had been one difficult shift after another.

you couldn’t tell if it was the summer heat making everyone more irritable, but it didn’t help your mood either. especially when you kept checking your phone for any notifications from dennis and there was either nothing at all, or messages like:

behind on charting, won’t be able to pick you up :(

there was an accident on the road and it’s all coming to us, sorry love, don’t wait for me for dinner

you’re working, right? amy will pick me up after my shift, she needs help with building some furniture for the nursery, don’t know when i’ll get home yet. good luck!

any time amy’s name appeared, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. you wanted to be understanding, you really did, but did she not have anyone else? no friends, no family, anyone at all?

it started to feel ridiculous.

and by now, you knew you weren’t the only one who thought so.

once, when you mentioned it to trinity, she had scoffed and called it weird, saying it wasn’t professional at all, that if anyone else at the hospital behaved like that, they’d be reprimanded immediately.

you didn’t really disagree.

but at the same time, you felt almost silly bringing it up again when you and dennis had already “talked” about it before. sort of.

you leaned against the cash register, exhaustion settling into your bones as another shift dragged on. your eyes drifted over to the pastry display, where an apple pie sat neatly behind the glass.

dennis really liked apple pie.

he always said it reminded him of home, how his grandma used to bake the sweetest ones.

you smiled a little at the memory and made a quiet mental note to bake him one soon.

it seemed like your relationship was lacking something sweet these days, and you didn’t want it to turn sour. after all, aside from the amy situation, everything else still felt like it was working. when you were doing your assignments, he would still kiss your temple on his way out, leaving a bowl of fruit on your desk so you’d have “something in your system.” he still held you close when you fell asleep, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you just needed to focus on the good things a little more.

as soon as you clocked out, you went grocery shopping, feeling inspired to make the best apple pie in the world.

when dennis came home later that day, the sun already long gone, he found you waiting for him.

“surprise!” you said brightly, bouncing slightly on your toes, apron dusted with flour still tied around your waist. the whole apartment smelled warm and sweet, like baked apples and cinnamon.

he paused in the doorway for a second, then let out a soft laugh. “what is this?”

you grabbed his hand immediately, pulling him towards the kitchen. “just come see.”

his eyes landed on the pie sitting on the counter. “woah,” he murmured, more genuine now. “baby, you didn’t have to do all this. weren’t you working today?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling as you watched his reaction, “but i don’t know. i just wanted to. i know how much you like it.”

that softened him. he turned to you right away, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your lips, then another to your cheek like he couldn’t decide where to land.

“you’re sweet,” he said quietly.

you smiled into him, letting yourself lean into the moment.

“let me wash my hands first,” he said after a second, already loosening his grip. “and then i’m going to absolutely destroy that pie. can’t have your effort going to waste.”

he laughed as he said it, a bit lighter now, and before you could respond, he spun you around once in his arms.

it was new. a little unexpected. stronger than before. now that you thought about it, ever since he started going to the farm more often, he did gain some muscle that he didn’t have before.

you let out a small laugh, steadying yourself against him. “okay, okay.”

while dennis was getting changed into his comfortable home clothes, you cut the pie and made him a cup of tea with two sugar cubes. he liked everything sweet.

when he came back, he kissed your cheek again and immediately dug in.

you watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.

“mhmm.” he let out a satisfied hum with his mouth full, which made you laugh, a small spark of pride warming your chest. “it’s so sweet, baby. thank you, i love it.”

he reached for his tea, still chewing. “though it would be nice if you used whipped cream too. amy did it when i was at hers and it tasted like a dream.”

he said it casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all, like it was just a passing thought he decided to share.

but your expression shifted immediately. happiness dropped into something tighter, disbelief and hurt mixing in your chest.

“are you comparing me to her?” you frowned.

dennis paused, eyebrows pulling together like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.

“no? i just said it’s a tip for next time. don’t take it so personally.” he gave you a small smile, already moving on, like it was nothing.

then he continued talking about something from his shift, completely slipping back into his day, like the moment had already passed.

but you hadn’t.

you stayed still for a second too long, trying to figure out if he really didn’t see it or if he just didn’t care enough to. neither option felt good.

“i’m tired. i’m going to bed.” you said quietly, cutting through his sentence as you took off your apron.

he blinked. “oh. okay. night, baby.”

and then he went right back to eating.

you walked into the bathroom and turned on the water, letting it run loudly so it could cover the sound of your sobs. you just sat on the cold floor, knees pulled in, tears slipping down your cheeks faster than you could stop them.

so much so for wanting to do something sweet for your boyfriend.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the third time dennis hurt you came pretty quickly after that. by then, it didn’t even take much to make you feel sad.

over time, as dennis kept shining brighter, his job clearly fulfilling him, combined with all the farm visits and the confidence he had grown into, something else started happening too.

you wanted to be happy for him. you really did.

but the more he seemed to step into the light, the more you felt like you were being left somewhere behind in the dark.

at first, it showed in small things. forgetting to turn in your assignments. being late to your shifts at the café. then it got worse. you couldn’t sleep properly anymore.

the only times dennis was home, he was usually exhausted, barely able to do more than kiss you hello before collapsing into bed. your movie nights disappeared. your time together shrank into almost nothing. and somehow, the quiet moments became the hardest.

when he was asleep beside you, snoring softly, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, that was the only time you still felt like you belonged in his world. like you still had a place there.

and even then, it didn’t last.

because the second you tried to fall asleep, a thought would creep in, heavy and persistent.

what if you let go for too long and he just… drifted away?

so you stayed awake.

and then there was the faucet.

it started dripping one night, a steady, uneven sound echoing through the apartment. and if your thoughts weren’t enough to keep you up, that quiet, repetitive tap of water hitting the sink made sure you wouldn’t rest at all.

by morning, you felt completely drained.

when dennis was getting ready for his shift, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his socks, you wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back.

“baby…” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion. “the faucet’s dripping. can you fix it? i can’t sleep because of it…”the dark circles under your eyes had only gotten worse over the past few days.

“oh,” he said lightly, like it hadn’t even crossed his mind before. “i didn’t notice.” he turned slightly towards you, gently taking one of your hands off his waist and pressing a quick kiss to your palm.

“yeah, of course. i’ll take care of it when i get home. you’re not dating a farm boy for nothing.” he gave you a small smile, easy and reassuring, before standing up to finish getting ready for his shift.

as dennis left for work, you were left alone in the apartment with that… sound. the quiet space only made it worse, the steady dripping echoing through the rooms like it was filling every corner.

but it was okay. denny said he was going to fix it.

you took a deep breath and made yourself a light breakfast, then sat down to study and work on your assignments. you tried to focus, really, but the grating sound of the faucet kept pulling you out of it. over and over again.

at some point, you weren’t even sure if it was the sound itself that was driving you mad, or if it was everything else piling up inside you, finally starting to crack.

you texted dennis around the time his shift was supposed to end, but once again, you were left on delivered. you rolled your eyes, already knowing what that meant.

but it was okay. maybe amy just needed help with groceries or something small, and he’d be home soon. after all, he promised he’d fix the faucet for you.

and still, nothing.

by midnight, dennis still hadn’t shown up. his dinner sat untouched on the table, wrapped in foil, long gone cold. you didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore. you just sat there, staring at the sink, at the constant drip, your chest tight as your thoughts spiraled.

you couldn’t live like this.

2am passed. still nothing.

eventually, you went to the bedroom and lay down, staring at the ceiling, waiting. and waiting.

dennis finally came home at 5am. he moved quietly through the apartment, like he didn’t want to wake you. or maybe like he didn’t want to deal with you being awake.

unfortunately for both of you, you hadn’t slept at all.

“where the hell were you?” you said the moment you saw him, your voice flat from pure exhaustion.

he paused for a second before answering. “i’m so sorry, baby. i swear i wasn’t ignoring you. i left my phone at work by accident, and by the time i realized, i was already at amy’s. the storms this week caused a lot of damage on the farm, so i had to stay and help. and then it got late, and she didn’t want me driving back when i was that tired. but… i’m here now.”

you let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“yeah. to get clean clothes. you’re not here for me.”

he frowned slightly, like that wasn’t fair.

“you promised you’d fix the faucet, dennis. i haven’t slept in days. why are her problems always more important than mine?”

he stepped closer, gently holding your face in his hands like that would calm you down.

“it’s not like that, baby. i promise i’ll fix it today, okay? actually promise. it just slipped my mind.”

he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. you didn’t kiss him back, but he didn’t seem to notice.

he glanced at the time right after.

“after work, okay? i’m already late and robby’s gonna be on my ass if i don’t show up. bye. love you.”

and just like that, he was already moving again, grabbing his things and heading out, leaving you standing there in the same apartment, with the same dripping sound still echoing in the background.

you took a few deep breaths, trying to steady yourself, but it got harder the moment you realized your own shift started in three hours.

great.

you could barely handle customers on a full night of sleep, let alone like this, after nights of barely resting at all. you already felt it in your body, the heaviness behind your eyes, the way everything seemed just a little harder.

you groaned quietly, frustration bubbling up. at yourself, at amy, but most of all at your boyfriend. all the apologies, all the promises that never really seemed to reach you anymore. it felt like those only meant something when they were directed at her.

you pushed yourself up anyway.

slowly, you got ready, moving through everything on autopilot. you made yourself the strongest cup of coffee you could manage and forced it down before heading out.

to say the shift dragged would’ve been an understatement.

everything felt off. you kept making small mistakes, ringing up hot drinks instead of iced ones, spilling milk on the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you poured coffee. even the simplest things felt like too much.

you were just so tired.

during a quieter moment, when the line finally died down, your coworker approached you. mark. you didn’t know him that well, just small talk here and there, but enough to know he was a year older, also in college, and had really nice hair.

“hey… you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle, careful. “you don’t seem like yourself today.”

you let out a dry laugh, glancing at him. “you can say it. i look like shit.”

he gave you a small, almost amused smile, but didn’t argue.

“thanks for asking though,” you added, shrugging lightly. “i just… couldn’t sleep. there’s this faucet in my apartment that won’t stop dripping, and i can’t fall asleep with it. and i don’t even know how to fix it myself, so…”

mark nodded, listening. then, after a second, “are you free after your shift?”

you looked at him, a bit confused.

“i mean,” he continued, leaning slightly against the counter, arms loosely crossed, “i’m pretty handy. i could take a look at it for you. probably fix it pretty quickly.”

for the first time in what felt like weeks, something in you lifted. just a little.

“really?” you blinked. “that… that would actually mean a lot. are you sure you don’t mind?”

he smiled easily. “i wouldn’t offer if i did.”

then, a little softer, a little more playful, “besides, i’ve been meaning to get to know you better anyway.” he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “don’t tell anyone, but you’re kind of my favorite here.”

you couldn’t help it, you giggled, the sound feeling unfamiliar but nice.

he winked, then straightened up again as another customer walked in, already slipping back into work like nothing happened.

after that, the rest of your shift felt a little easier. anytime you got dazed or lost, mark would quietly slide in and take over for you, telling you to take five and go easy on yourself.

it felt… nice. being seen, being taken care of, even in such a small way. even if a part of you kept insisting it was probably just politeness, nothing more.

when you got back to your apartment with mark, you actually got to know him a bit better. he told you he was majoring in sculpting at one of the fancy art colleges in pittsburgh, joking that being handy was probably the only reason he got accepted. he talked about playing basketball, about his two younger sisters, and somewhere along the way, the conversation just… flowed.

you found yourself laughing more than you expected. it was nice, talking about things that had nothing to do with dennis for once.

you liked trinity, you really did, but she always circled back to him. and right now, you just couldn’t handle thinking about any of it.

you ended up making a quick pasta as a small thank you, insisting he stay for at least a few bites before leaving. after that, you walked him to the door, exchanging a quick, easy goodbye.

once the apartment fell quiet again, it didn’t feel as heavy as before. not as suffocating. and the second your back hit the couch, exhaustion took over. you fell asleep almost instantly, finally getting the rest your body had been begging for.

dennis came home hours later.

you only stirred when you heard dennis’ keys, your body too tired to fully wake up.

he stepped into the living room, his voice low. “hey…”

you barely responded, just a small nod before turning onto your side, your back facing him. you didn’t have the energy to talk to him. not now.

he sighed quietly and went to change, but then paused.

something felt… off.

the apartment was too quiet.

he walked towards the kitchen, glancing at the sink, and froze for a second. the faucet wasn’t dripping anymore. but there were two plates sitting there, neither of them his.

he stood there for a moment before speaking.

“hey… what happened to the faucet?” he asked, his voice careful, though there was something tense underneath it.

you stirred slightly, pushing yourself up just enough to look at him.

“oh. yeah. that,” you mumbled, still half asleep. “my coworker fixed it. i was a mess at work, didn’t sleep, so he offered…”

you stretched a little, not thinking much of it.

dennis, however, did.

his expression tightened just slightly, a strained kind of smile settling on his face as he stepped closer.

“your coworker?” he repeated. “like… a guy?”

you frowned, confusion mixing with irritation as you sat up more properly.

“yeah. why? does it matter?”you pushed yourself off the couch, already exhausted again. “whatever. i’m going to bed. i need sleep.”

you tried to walk past him, but he caught your arm, stopping you.

“i don’t like you inviting other guys into our place to fix things,” he said, his tone firmer now. “that’s what you have a boyfriend for.”

for a second, you just stared at him.

“do i?” you said, your voice sharp despite how tired you felt.

you pulled your arm out of his grip.

“because i haven’t seen him in a while.”

his jaw tightened, but you didn’t stop.

“i asked you to fix it first. you brushed me off for amy. you don’t get to play house at a farm with some other woman and then get mad at me for accepting help from someone else. that’s not fair, dennis.”

dennis looked at you for a moment, clearly deciding what to do next. if it had been the dennis you first fell in love with, he probably would’ve dropped his gaze, stumbled over his words, and started muttering multiple apologies, though the dennis you started dating wouldn’t have let things get this bad with you in the first place.

but now he wanted to use his newfound confidence. to show you he had become better, not just for himself and his coworkers, but for you too.

so instead of backing down, he closed the distance between you and kissed you.

it was sudden, passionate, catching you completely off guard. your eyes widened, and before you could react properly, he pressed you back against the nearest wall, his lips moving down to your neck, slowly sucking at your sensitive spot.

your breath got caught in your throat, your body reacting before your mind could catch up, hands instinctively wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

for a brief moment, it felt like everything else faded. like things were normal again.

dennis pulled back just enough to look at you, something almost smug flickering across his face.

“you don’t need other guys for this,” he said quietly, as his hand slowly slipped into your pants, his lips returning to your neck. “could that coworker of yours do this to you, huh?”

and for a moment, you did feel it. the warmth, the closeness, the pull. and it would’ve been a lie to say you didn’t get wet from his touches, because you did. however it was his fault you were this needy in the first place. months of distance, of being tired, of him barely being there or only half present when he was. you don’t even remember the last time the two of you got intimate.

and just like that, something in you snapped back. because as quickly as your body responded, your mind caught up as well.

the missed calls. the empty apartment. the nights you spent staring at the ceiling. the sound of the faucet. amy. always amy.

your hands pushed against his chest.

“stop. stop!” you raised your voice.

dennis stepped back immediately, actual fear in his eyes. he had never forced himself on you, and this was the first time you had ever fully rejected him like that.

you stood there, breathing uneven, and then it all came out at once.

“you can’t do that. you can’t leave me hanging for months, walking away from me when i need you, choosing some other woman who should be relying on literally anyone else but you, and then come back and act like this fixes it.”

your voice shook, but you didn’t stop.

“waltzing back in here to try to do some jealous power play on me? saying how you can make me feel things that my coworker can’t? when’s the last time you even did anything like that for me, dennis?”

a bitter, exhausted laugh slipped out of you as you ran a hand through your hair.

“i love you, dennis,” you said more quietly now, voice breaking a little at the edges. “i still do. but i deserve better than this.”

you looked at him for a second longer, then turned away.

“i’m going to bed.” you walked past him, heading to the bedroom, leaving him standing there in silence. he couldn’t react in any way, because deep down he knew you were right. he just didn’t want to accept it.

didn’t want to admit that everything he thought was making him better, stronger, someone you could be proud of, was slowly pushing you away instead.

that night, he stayed on the couch.

he didn’t dare come into the bedroom. not after everything.

and as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of your perfume still lingering on the couch pillows from your nap, he realized how far away you suddenly felt.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

the fourth time dennis hurt you came the next morning.

you woke up with a headache worse than any hangover you’d ever had, and instead of feeling well rested after finally getting the sleep your body desperately craved, you just felt awful.

you didn’t even want to get up, knowing you’d have to face dennis again, face that difficult and weird situation he put you into.

you just wanted to stay in bed. sleep the whole day away, maybe even the next one too, but unfortunately, you couldn’t.

you glanced at the empty side of the bed, the one dennis usually slept on, the cold bedsheets showing that he didn’t sleep there at all.

with a heavy sight you got up from the bed and carefully navigated your way through the hallway into the living room. you took a deep breath before you opened the door and then carefully stepped inside, bracing yourself for what was yet to come.

dennis was still there, which by now, was rather unusual. he was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his eyes tired, but they lit up a little when he saw you in the doorway.

you two just looked at each other for a moment, awkward silence filling the room. after another beat of silence, dennis opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his phone started ringing.

he glanced at it, hesitating for a second, clearly unsure if he should pick up.

“amy?” you asked, your voice flat, already knowing the answer.

“y-yeah, but uh let me just take this, it’ll be quick, and then we can finish our conversation from yesterday, okay?” his voice wavered slightly.

you let out a quiet, humorless breath.

“bold of you to assume i want to finish that conversation,” you said, your tone tired more than anything. “i said everything i needed to, so go ahead. pick up. wouldn’t want to leave poor amy hanging, right?” you rolled your eyes and turned away, walking out of the living room.

you meant to go back to your bedroom, to get dressed and leave, just get out of the apartment for a while.

but you didn’t go far.

you stopped just behind the door in the hallway, your chest tight, your curiosity and anxiety keeping you there.

you needed to hear it. needed to know how he talked to her. what he sounded like speaking to other woman than you.

you heard him click his tongue before picking up the call, the tension in him slipping out in that small sound.

“uh, hi amy. what’s up?” he said, his voice a little gentler now, like he didn’t want her to hear that he was stressed.

“oh, theo’s teething? is that what’s making him act up? i’m sorry to hear that.” after a pause, probably listening to what else she had to say, he responded with a light laugh in his voice. “you’d like me to come on sunday?” he repeated, glancing at the calendar hanging in your living room.

sunday was marked as your anniversary date. officially three years together. dana had once joked that even some marriages don’t last that long.

you tensed at the mention of that, waiting for his answer just as much as amy.

“y-yeah, i don’t know…” he started, clearly aware he was busy. with you. he was supposed to be busy with you.

but he didn’t finish, as amy probably started insisting. at least that’s what you assumed.

dennis ran a hand over his face before responding. “okay, sure. i’ll come. probably in the morning, because—”

and the moment you heard his defeated “okay” you didn’t even for him to finish the rest of his sentence. you had already heard enough.

you rushed to your bedroom and shut the door behind you, louder than necessary, making sure it made a sound.

you didn’t even know what came over you in that moment. probably all the pent up sadness, the anger, the constant feeling of being pushed aside finally spilling over. the more you thought about it, the more worse you felt.

you did everything for this man. you were there when he had nothing, when he was struggling financially, when he didn’t even have a place to stay. you welcomed him into your home and made it a home for both of you. you supported his decisions, tried your best to build up his confidence, to make him feel like he was enough.

and now he was using the widow of his dead patient, which was insane in itself, to boost his ego?

for what?

were you never enough?

was it because you were a city girl, while amy could give him that quiet life he always talked about? the white fence, the baby, the farm?

you couldn’t do this anymore. you just couldn’t.

so with shaking hands, you pulled out a suitcase and started packing. quickly, carelessly, not even looking at what you were grabbing, just throwing clothes in, one after another.

the moment dennis heard the loud thud from the bedroom, he ended the call with amy almost immediately and rushed in.

he froze for a second when he saw you.

“what are you doing?” he asked, frowning, already stepping forward.

then he moved closer, panic kicking in as he started pulling your clothes back out of the suitcase.

“what are you doing?” he repeated, more urgent now.

“what are you doing, dennis?” you snapped back, your voice rising as you yanked your sweater out of his hands.

“i’m tired of this. i’m tired of feeling like the other woman in my own relationship.”

your chest was heaving now, emotions spilling out faster than you could control.

“you’re going to her place even on our anniversary? seriously? grow a backbone. why couldn’t you say no to her for once, the same way you keep saying no to me?”

the words came out sharp, unfiltered, driven by everything you had been holding in.

and something in dennis… snapped.

he didn’t mean it. not really.

he was just angry. mostly at himself, honestly.

but it all came out wrong.

“yeah?” he shot back, his voice tight. “you know what? i always thought you were a good person, but now it just feels like you simply liked me better when i was at my lowest.”

you froze.

“yeah,” he continued, words spilling out faster now. “when i was that broke, clumsy med student with nothing. no money, no place, nothing. and you got something out of that.”

your heart dropped.

“you used it. you used me to feel better about yourself. and now that i’m not beneath you anymore, now that people actually see something in me, even another woman… you just can’t handle it.”

the room fell silent after that.

you just stared at him, like you didn’t even recognize the person standing in front of you anymore.

“if that’s what you really think,” you said quietly, your voice shaking but steady enough, “then i don’t understand why you’re even here.”

you swallowed, forcing the next words out.

“it’s over, dennis. i want you to leave. right now. and if you won’t, i will.”

your eyes were glossy, but your tone stayed stern.

for a moment, he just stood there, blinking, like he didn’t fully realize what he had just done. then, without another word, he turned and walked out.

the door closed behind him.

and suddenly, it was quiet again.

you sank down onto the floor of your bedroom, the suitcase still half full, clothes scattered everywhere around you.

little pieces of your life together, now just painful reminders you didn’t know what to do with.

꒰𐔌 ★ 🩺

time moved on, but neither did you and dennis. it had been almost a week since he left the apartment, and unfortunately for both of you, today was that fateful sunday.

you decided to stay in, considering all the plans you once had for that day were long gone. you bought yourself a big tub of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and planned to spend the entire day inside, rewatching your favorite show, not even bothering to open the blinds.

dennis, on the other hand, picked up a shift. it was a convenient excuse not to go to amy’s, and at the same time, he needed something to distract himself. he figured if he focused on his patients, maybe he wouldn’t have to think about everything else.

unfortunately for him, his coworkers had other plans.

the first one to bring it up, as expected, was trinity. he had been staying at her place for the past few days. at first, she gave him space, knowing when to leave things alone, but patience had never really been her strength, and she had clearly had enough.

“so, when are you planning on fixing your fuck up, huckleberry?” she said bluntly, her tone sharp as they both sat down to do charting.

“what fuck up?” he replied, not even looking up, like he didn’t know exactly what she meant.

“oh, don’t play dumb,” she scoffed. “just a few days ago you were going on and on about how you were gonna treat your ‘queen’ on sunday, and now you’re here instead. and don’t think i didn’t notice the fifteen cans of beer in my fridge. if you drink all of that and throw up in my apartment, i swear…”

he exhaled, rubbing his face, clearly not being in the mood for this conversation.

trinity just shook her head. “to think you threw it all away for that farm girl…” she muttered.

that was enough to set him off.

“look, i really don’t want you bringing that up, especially here, okay?” he said, his voice lower now, but tense.

trinity raised her eyebrows, her tone immediately turning more biting.

“wow. look at that. acting like a victim,” she said, a sarcastic smile creeping onto her face. “as if i haven’t told you multiple times how weird this whole thing is. you kept telling me how your girlfriend is this perfect, understanding angel, and i kept thinking, who in their right mind would actually be okay with that? now look at that, she wasn’t okay with that.”

he stayed quiet.

“for fuck’s sake, amy was picking you up from work more often than your own girlfriend at this point. everyone saw it. and you didn’t seem to mind back then,” she added, her voice sharper now, as she she stood up, grabbing her things.

“i’m saying this because i actually care, huckleberry. fix it today, or you’re going to regret it.” and with that, she walked off.

dennis sat there for a moment, then dropped his face into his hands.

after a second, dana leaned slightly towards him.

“she’s right, kid. harsh, but right.”

“you too, dana… don’t even start.” he muttered, already ready to get up and grab another case just to avoid the conversation, but she stopped him.

“look, i know it’s not my business,” she said more gently, “but that girl of yours… she seemed really sweet. and she loved you. that was obvious.”

he didn’t respond.

“people mess up. trust me, i’ve had my fair share with my husband. but if the love is real, it’s worth fighting for.”

then she leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice.

“and it’s definitely not worth losing over… whatever this is with a patient’s family.”

she gave him a look before going back to her work.

dennis stayed there, shoulders slumping as he processed everything that was said to him just now, because well, they were right.

all of them.

and you… you had been right from the start.

he had seen it, even if he didn’t want to admit it. the way you held onto him a little tighter in the mornings, the way your smile slowly faded over time.

somewhere along the way, he had lost the balance between taking care of himself… and forgetting to take care of you.

before dennis could dwell on it any longer, a trauma was called in and he was needed immediately.

dennis quickly pulled on protective eyewear and a sterile gown, falling into the routine as he joined the rest of the team rushing to receive the patient. it was serious enough to require a trauma surgeon and immediate transfer to the OR, which meant everything had to move fast.

garcia was the one called in, and at that, dennis couldn’t help but roll his eyes. she had never really spared him when it came to snarky remarks, and now, knowing trinity, she probably knew everything already.

“oh, if it isn’t the funky music,” she said when she spotted him, her tone light despite the situation. “i know you’ve been going around breaking hearts, but don’t break this one too, okay?” she shot him a teasing look before turning back to the patient.

dennis huffed quietly under his breath but didn’t respond, focusing on what needed to be done as the team worked to stabilize the patient.

unfortunately for him, robby had been there the whole time too.

once things finally settled and the patient was stable, robby motioned for dennis to step aside, leading him towards the ambulance bay doors.

“you alright?” robby asked, arms crossed, studying him for a moment.

dennis frowned slightly. “yeah. why?”

robby raised a brow. “because you’ve been off all day. tired, distracted. not like you.”

dennis exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’m fine. just didn’t sleep much.”

robby didn’t seem convinced. he leaned back slightly against the wall, still watching him.

“that all?”

there was a pause.

dennis hesitated, glancing away for a second like he was debating whether to say anything at all.

“it’s just… stuff at home,” he admitted finally, quieter now.

robby didn’t interrupt.

“i messed up,” dennis added after a moment, his voice low. “with my girlfriend. like… really messed up.”

he let out a short breath, shaking his head slightly.

“i don’t even know how it got this bad.”

robby hummed quietly, not surprised. “that explains the mood.”

dennis let out a tired laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“yeah.”

there was a short silence before robby spoke again.

“you gonna fix it?”

dennis didn’t answer right away.

he just stood there for a second, the question settling heavier than he expected.

“…i don’t know if i can,” he admitted.

robby shrugged slightly. “then figure it out. because whatever’s going on, it’s clearly getting to you.”

he pushed himself off the wall, giving dennis a small nod.

“get your head back in the game. we still got a shift to finish.”

and just like that, robby walked off, leaving dennis standing there with his thoughts again, only now he couldn’t ignore them as easily.

the end of the shift couldn’t come soon enough. dennis rushed through handoffs with the night shift, barely listening as perlah and princess exchanged knowing looks, whispering to each other in a language he didn’t understand, but he could guess exactly what it was about. at this point, it felt like the whole hospital knew about his fuck up.

he didn’t even bother changing out of his scrubs. he just grabbed his things and hurried out, stopping by the nearest flower shop and spending almost all the money he had left, which wasn’t much, considering he had only just started getting paychecks, on the biggest bouquet of your favorite flowers.

then he drove to your place.

he still had the key.

dennis stood outside for a moment, taking a few deep breaths before unlocking the door and quietly stepping inside.

the apartment was dark, except for the soft glow coming from the living room, along with the familiar soundtrack of your favorite show. one he had gotten to know pretty well over time. he remembered you rewatching it during breakfasts back when he was still in med school. he used to tease you about how you could probably recite every line by heart, and you never denied it. he had grown to love it too. mostly because it reminded him of you.

he swallowed and slowly made his way towards the living room.

when he stepped in, he saw you curled up under a blanket on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine next to you. your eyes were puffy and tired, like you had been crying for hours.

his chest tightened at the sight. he hated himself for letting it get this far. for being the reason you looked like this.

“hey…” he whispered softly.

you looked at him, taking a second to fully register his presence, before a small sniffle escaped you.

“get out,” you said, trying to sound firm, but your voice shook. “i don’t want to see you.” you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, hiding your face completely.

dennis stepped closer, careful and hesitant.

“darling… baby, please just hear me out,” he started, his voice already shaky. “i know you said everything you needed to that day, but i didn’t, and i… i’m sorry. okay? i didn’t mean any of the things i said at that moment.”

he swallowed hard, his voice threatening to break.

“you are a good person. you always have been. and i should’ve been grateful that you stayed with me when i had nothing, when i was… pretty useless, honestly. and then i go and treat you like this…” he let out a breath, shaking his head. “i’m a fool. i know i am.”

his voice cracked despite his effort to keep it together.

“you’re the best thing in my life, and i don’t want to lose that. i don’t want to lose you.”

he took another small step closer, still not touching you.

“i’ll cut amy off. completely. i swear i never thought of her in a romantic way, not once, but i should’ve realized how it looked, how it felt for you. but i didn’t. i messed up. badly.”

he ran a hand through his hair, his words coming out more rushed now.

“i just… i felt good for once. at the farm, i know what i’m doing. i feel useful there. like i actually stand out. in the hospital, there are so many people who are better, stronger, more confident and then there’s you…” he let out a small, almost breathless laugh. “you’re the strongest, most amazing, most beautiful person i’ve ever met. and i think i just… lost myself trying to prove i could be something too.”

his voice softened again.

“and in the process, i pushed away the most important person in my life.”

there was a pause.

“i regret it. more than anything.”

he finally stepped closer to the couch, slowly lowering himself down in front of you, but still keeping a small distance, giving you space.

“can you… just give me a chance to fix this?”

after a few seconds, you pulled the blanket down, your face still tear-streaked, your eyes red. you had listened to everything. every word.

but you didn’t know what to say.

you loved him.

you really did.

but was that enough?

was it right to let him back in after everything?

as if he could read the doubt in your expression, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“you don’t have to forgive me. not now… maybe not ever,” he admitted. “but if there’s even a chance… let me earn it. let me prove to you that i can be better. that i can be the man you deserve.”

he swallowed, then carefully got down on his knees in front of you, placing the bouquet beside you before gently reaching for your hands. this time, he waited, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to.

“i, dennis whitaker, promise that i’ll take care of you,” he said softly. “i’ll fix every stupid faucet, anything that bothers you. i’ll take you anywhere you want to go. i’ll do all those dumb things like putting my coat over puddles just so you don’t get your shoes wet.”

a faint, sad smile tugged at his lips.

“i’ll rub your neck when you’re studying, and in return i just… want to be the one who gets to wake up next to you. the one who gets to eat your pies and whatever you bake until i’m old and annoying.”

his grip on your hands tightened just slightly.

“please. just one more chance. you’re the only one for me.”

there was a beat of silence, as if you were still weighing everything he had said, still deciding what to do with it.

then you let out a small sniffle.

“if i ever hear about amy again,” you started, your voice shaky but holding onto that familiar edge, “or if you ever dare to say my pies aren’t perfect, i’ll sell your clothes on ebay and come to the hospital to show everyone your donald duck boxers.”

a quiet, broken giggle slipped out of you.

dennis let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, a soft, relieved laugh escaping him as he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“yeah… that’s fair,” he murmured. “that’s definitely what i deserve.”

he smiled softly before looking at you properly again, his expression warmer now, but still careful.

“thank you. for letting me try again. i love you.”

you sniffled once more, your lips pressing into a small, tired smile.

“you’re lucky i love you too.”

“i really am.” he whispered.

that night was finally the first one in a while where you actually slept a little peacefully.

dennis took the bottle of wine away from you, putting it back into the kitchen cabinet and making you tea instead before gently tucking you into bed.

for a moment, he hesitated.

he wasn’t sure if he deserved to lie next to you yet. part of him thought he should just take the couch again, give you space, not assume anything.

but then you reached out for him. your hand searching for his without even opening your eyes.

that was enough to convince him. he slipped into bed beside you, and the moment you settled, resting your head against his chest, something in him softened completely.

he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting carefully against your back as he felt you slowly drift off to sleep.

he stayed like that for a while, just holding you. making sure you were really resting.

and once your breathing evened out, he carefully reached for his phone.

he stared at the screen for a moment before typing out a message to amy, that he was going to focus on building his own family now. with you. and that if things got too overwhelming, she should reach out to the hospital psychologist, but that he couldn’t be there for her anymore, because he was needed somewhere else.

he sent it, then turned his phone off completely.

when he looked back at you, you were still curled up against him, your chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

his expression softened, but his eyes stung. a few quiet tears slipped down his cheeks as he brushed his thumb gently against your arm.

“i’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered. “i won’t ever do this to you again. promise.”

fin.

general masterlist 🩺 the pitt masterlist

🏷️ tag list @flowersandsuch111 @mrsbellastyles @m-maxie-ie @iliterallyhavenoideawhattosay @interdimensionalzoomcall @4ria790 @harrysmatcha @lotusapple-xia-main @celestiallworld @uwuuuuooo @ninihrs @oliviajhene @hateusernames @meowtastick @coffeelmao @jcks29 @sugaryapplez @druidofstars @husbandb3at3r @beths-shoelaces @jace2582 @archxve @maviscone @sincerellie @carriemill

[sapiensecrets]

bad omens - frank langdon x f!reader

we go ‘round again, we jump back in bed, that’s what you do when you love somebody.

pairings: frank langdon x ex!reader cw/tags: no use of y/n, swearing, a LOT of infidelity (from both frank and reader) and arguing. eventual orthopedic surgeon!reader, discussion and depiction of drug use/addiction (specifically amphetamines - AU where frank is addicted to speed instead of benzos), angst without a happy ending, implied and lightly explicit smut. mention of urgent care and antibiotics (brief depiction of reader having pneumonia, including coughing, fevers, medications, dizziness). use of nicknames for reader (peanut and baby from frank). reader did not do her residency at PTMC. reader wears heels and makeup one time, but other than that there are no physical descriptions. wc: 12.1k inspired by bad omens by 5sos masterlist

Frank Langdon is, unfortunately, the love of your life. 

Even if you don’t want him to be. 

Even if you’re not his. 

April, 2014

You know Frank is wearing himself thin. 

Between co-captaining the football team, classes, volunteering, studying—it’s all starting to take a toll, especially after he failed a midterm two months ago. You’ve tried to tell him that almost everyone fails a test at some point in university, but it hasn’t helped, and he’s only ended up throwing himself into things harder. 

You aren’t much better off, but you’re able to keep up with things in a way that he isn’t. Both of you are running on caffeine and delusion, praying that you’ll finish up with the semester before the consequences of your actions catch up to you. 

Frank’s taken a different route, sick of constantly coming second place to you, the resentment starting a fire underneath him that he has no way to sustain. You’re graduating a year early, for godsake, and he can barely handle the typical course load. He’s pulling all-nighters constantly, barely eating, and he almost never comes home to your shared apartment anymore except to shower and grab food after a multi-day study session at the library. 

As far as you can tell, it’s working. His grades are up, ‘hundreds’ stacking up in all his courses, almost completely correcting the dip from the failed midterm. You’re more than proud of how he’s turned things around, but you don’t know how much longer you can survive with the version of him that you’re getting. 

He’s irritable—snapping at you over every little thing, cancelling plans with his friends, getting into fights on the field. He disappears for days at a time, always coming back run down, claiming to have spent his time studying or ‘disconnecting.’ When he is around he’s restless, practically bouncing off the fucking walls, making it impossible for you to focus. Despite that, you’re worried, so you agree to any opportunity you have to keep an eye on him, including a study session with him and some of your friends. 

You’re scattered across various tables and seats in the library, all of you completely focused on whatever task you’re trying to finish before turning in for the night. You squint at the textbook in front of you, highlighting an important line, rubbing your eyes when your vision starts to blur. It’s already midnight, but you told yourself you wouldn’t go home until you finished this unit. 

“Fuck me, I need to take a break,” Frank says, pushing his chair back and standing up, stretching his arms above his head. “You want anything from the vending machine?”

You don’t answer right away, forcing him to poke your shoulder a few times. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you want anything to eat?” He asks. “I’m gonna’ go grab something.”

“Oh, no, I’m okay,” You say, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

He leans down, kissing your forehead, walking off to the stairs and disappearing. Now that your focus has been broken, you feel the familiar twinge of a headache blooming behind your eyes, and you reach down into the front pocket of your backpack, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen. 

You unscrew the cap, tipping the bottle upside down, only for nothing to fall into your hand. You frown, shaking it a few times, groaning once the realization hits that it’s empty. 

You don’t hesitate to grab Frank’s bag, hoisting it into your lap and sifting through it’s contents. You spot a bottle of something at the bottom, and you reach down for it, pulling it out and turning it over in your hand, reading the label. It’s acetaminophen, not ibuprofen, but it’ll have to do if you want to get through this final chapter. 

You dump two pills out, grabbing your water bottle, moments away from tossing them into your mouth when you actually get a glimpse of them. They don’t look like any acetaminophen you’ve ever seen, making your brows furrow. You flip one of the pills over, revealing a crooked imprint code, but you’re certain that this isn’t any kind of painkiller you can buy at a pharmacy.

It’s not his vyvanse, either. 

You tuck one of the pills into your pocket, throwing the other one back into the bottle and replacing the lid. You put the bottle at the bottom of his bag, then drop his backpack onto the floor just as he comes back up the stairs. He gives you a bright smile, setting your favourite chocolate bar on the table. 

“Figured it couldn’t hurt,” He says, taking his seat beside you again. You swallow, nodding, forcing a tight-lipped smile. 

“Thanks,” You say. “I was actually gonna’ head home, are you coming?”

“Shit, really?” He asks, tilting his head a little. “I wish I could, but I should really stay. I’m fucked for this final if I don’t.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll see you in the morning, then?” You ask, already packing your things up. 

“Probably not,” He says. “I need to get at least twelve hours in tomorrow, I was gonna’ leave pretty early.”

You nod, fingers ghosting over the outline of the pill in your pocket. “Can you wake me up when you get back, say goodnight?”

“Sure, yeah,” He says, already distracted by his work, jotting something down in his notebook. “See you at home. Love you.”

You don't even take your shoes off once you're home, just sitting on the floor by the front door. You fish your phone out of your pocket, snapping a picture of the orange pill and pasting it into the search bar. You watch the browser load for too long, then similar pictures start popping up. You click on the first one, looking at the article name that sits below it.

Amphetamine Addiction and Withdrawal - Statistics, Warning Signs, and More

Your mouth goes dry.

You thought it would end up being naproxen or something, not an illegal stimulant.

Things start to click into place as you think about everything that's happened over the past few months—the not sleeping, barely eating, the irritability—it's all because he's been high.

You don't get any sleep that night, and Frank never comes home. You don't see him until the next day, long after the sun is set.

“Hey, peanut,” He says, closing the door softly, kicking his shoes off and tossing his bag aside. “Sorry I didn’t wake you up last night, you just looked so peaceful, I didn’t wanna’ interrupt.”

Your stomach twists, nausea curling up and taking hold of your chest. You close your laptop, tossing it onto the couch beside you, shaking your head. 

“Why are you lying?” You ask, getting to your feet, folding your arms over your chest. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, trying to smile, but you can see the panic in his expression. “I got back late, you know-”

“You didn’t come home,” You interrupt. “I was up all night, waiting for you.”

He sighs, coming farther inside. “I didn’t know you were waiting, you should’ve texted.”

“I shouldn’t have had to,” You counter, shifting on your feet. “Do you have anything you wanna’ tell me, Frank?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No, what? Do you think I’m cheating on you or something? Because I swear I’m not, I was at the library all night, Jonah can back me up-”

“I don’t think you’re cheating on me,” You clarify. 

“Then…what?” He asks. “No, I don’t have anything to tell you, babe.”

“Really?” You push. 

“Yeah, really.”

You reach into your pocket, pulling out the pill, holding it out towards him. Obvious recognition passes over his features before he feigns confusion. 

“What is that?” He questions. 

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, folding your fingers back over the pill and dropping your hand to your side. 

“I found a bottle of these in your backpack last night,” You explain. “I didn’t know what it was at first, but then I did some research. Fucking speed, really?”

“What bottle, babe?” He asks. “It’s not mine, whatever it is.”

You hum with frustration, gesturing to his bag. “Show me your bag, then.”

“Seriously?” He says. “You don’t trust me?”

“You really expect me to believe that someone put a bottle of speed in your backpack without you realizing?” You ask. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“I obviously don’t think you’re stupid,” He argues. “But yeah, I expect you to trust me after six years of knowing me.”

“You lied to my face two minutes ago,” You say. “Completely unprompted.”

He huffs. “That was so you wouldn’t worry about me staying up all night.”

“Show me your bag, Frank.”

“No,” He says. “That’s insane, come on.”

You click your tongue behind your teeth, sucking in a breath, shrugging.

“You’re being ridiculous,” He says. 

“Frank, whatever this is? We can deal with it,” You say. “Just…stop lying, okay? Please.”

He purses his lips, leaning over and picking his backpack up, handing it to you. You rummage through the contents until you find the same acetaminophen bottle, unscrewing the cap and peering inside, seeing the same orange pills you saw last night. He doesn’t say anything, he just stands with his hands in his pockets, his anxiety palpable.

“I’m right?” You ask, putting the lid back on. “It’s speed?”

“...yeah,” He says, looking down at the floor. You nod, trying to get yourself to think rationally, but you have no idea what to do here. 

“Okay,” You say, moving towards the couch. “Come on, let’s sit for a second.”

You ask him a million questions. How long, how much, why? His answers come slowly, a part of him still wondering if he can shield you from this for a little while longer, but you don’t leave any room for half-truths. He truly hesitates when you ask him if he’s tried to stop. 

You watch his adam’s apple move when he swallows, his eyes averting to his hands, which twist around each other as he toys with his fingers. 

“No,” He finally says. “I was going to the second the semester was over, I swear. It was just to keep up with school.”

“Right, I get it,” You say, reaching for him, trying to ignore the bottle that sits on the coffee table. “You’ve had a rough couple months. But this was not the solution, Frank. You could’ve talked to me, or your advisor, or your profs—there were a lot of steps to take before you started using drugs.”

Your tone isn’t judgement or condescending, it’s realistic. You’re trying to remind him that he has other options. 

“This seemed easier,” He says. “And more effective.”

“I mean, it probably was,” You agree. “But it’s dangerous, baby.”

“No, I know, you’re right,” He says. “But I’m not out of control or anything, I can stop whenever I want.”

You straighten, signalling that he’s said the wrong thing. He grimaces, hating the way the line sounds coming out of his mouth. 

“Most people who say that can’t actually stop whenever they want,” You counter. 

“Those people aren’t me,” He says. “A lot of people use it, and they’re all completely fine. I just needed something short-term.”

You take a deep breath, tangling your hands with his own, the action making his pulse spike. He sighs with relief, leaning closer to you, squeezing your fingers tightly. 

“You need to stop,” You say, not leaving any room for interpretation. “This is—this isn’t okay, Frankie.”

“It’s not, it’s so far from being okay,” He repeats. “I’ll stop, I’m done. Starting right now.”

He makes a point of flushing the pills down the toilet, but it doesn’t feel as final as it should. Something heavy sits over both of you—an omen of what’s to come. 

October, 2014

Frank’s voicemail plays in your ear for the sixth time. 

You call again, kicking a rock with your heel-clad foot, sending it into the dirt beside the sidewalk. 

“Hey, it’s Frank, leave a message-”

You close your eyes, jabbing your finger against the ‘end call’ button, shoving your phone back into your purse. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the past six months have made that exceptionally difficult. 

The summer had been great, with you graduating and the two of you taking a short vacation before you started medical school in July. Then September rolled around, and Frank jumped back into everything, needing to keep his GPA up if he had any hopes of following in your footsteps. You had tried to get him to take a lighter course load, but he had refused, claiming he would be fine.

You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining things when the tell-tale signs started up again. Him picking fights over stupid shit, long stretches of time where you don’t know where he is, a level of sleep that isn’t congruent with survival for most people. 

Or, at least, for anyone who isn’t abusing stimulants. 

You asked a million times if he was using again. He said no, promised that it was just because of school and that he’d be back to normal once the two of you could go home for the holidays. 

But now, standing outside your favourite restaurant an hour after your reservation, on your seventh anniversary, with no sign of him solidifies your worst fears. 

You blink back tears, checking your phone again, still seeing nothing. A family of five walks by you, the youngest daughter saying something about how pretty you look to her mom, which only makes your heart hurt more. You’re about to give up and go home when a car pulls up in front of you, the passenger door opening hastily. You step back as Frank clambers out, shouting goodbye to his friend and slamming the door shut. You flinch, putting more distance between you and him when he turns around. 

“Hey, baby, I am so sorry,” He says, walking over to you, setting his hands on your cheeks. You turn to the side when he leans in, forcing him to kiss the corner of your mouth, making him frown. “I know, I’m so fucking late, practice was insane and I’ve got that assignment due on Friday, I lost track of time.”

You look at him. His irises are practically invisible. 

“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” You say. “No call, no text, no nothing, Frank.”

He frowns, grabbing both your hands. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m the worst. Maybe we can still get a table? I’ll go ask-”

“Don’t bother,” You say. “I’m not having dinner with you when you’re high out of your fucking mind.”

“What?” He asks. “I’m not high, come on, I told you I’ve just been busy. I haven’t been using, I swear.”

You shake your head, laughing a little despite yourself, pulling your hands out of his. “Is this all you’re ever gonna’ be now?”

His brows furrow. “What do you mean? Busy? No, of course not. I’m almost done undergrad, and then we’ll both be in med school, but that’ll be a different kind of busy. We’ll be back to normal.”

“I keep waiting for things to change,” You say, barely digesting his words. “I keep waiting for you to stop lying.”

“Baby, I’m not lying.”

“It’s always…this,” You continue. “You fucking up and trying to convince me you didn’t.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” He argues. “I know I fucked up, I should’ve been here on time, I know.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten high,” You whisper, tears piling in your eyes. “I don’t…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Are you joking?” He asks. “It’s one fucking night, come on-”

“You still won’t admit it?” You ask. “All I have ever asked of you is that you tell me the truth. And you have failed over and over again.”

You step back when he reaches for you. 

“I love you, but I can’t keep putting up with this,” You say, not bothering to wipe away the tears that drip down your face. “Get your shit together, please.”

January, 2015

The party isn’t anything huge, just yours and Frank’s main friend group, which is enough people to fill a room. You had been hesitant to go at first, still trying to keep your distance from him, but your best friend practically dragged you there after letting you mope in bed for the past three months. 

It starts off fine, but it quickly takes a turn for the worse a couple hours in. Luckily, you’re on your fifth drink by the time the door opens, revealing Frank and a petite blonde girl some time after eleven. 

“Hey, look who it is!” One of your friends exclaims, pushing himself off the couch and over to the door. “We were starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”

You pull your phone out of your back pocket, taking a swig of the drink you’re holding, trying to seem remotely busy as people move to greet him. 

“Who’s this?” Someone asks, making you glance over, seeing the woman standing just behind him. You feel your chest tighten when he beams, wrapping an arm across her shoulders. 

“This is Abby,” He says. “We met a couple months ago.”

People start introducing themselves, tossing out names left and right, clearly overwhelming the poor girl. Someone eventually gestures to you, saying your name, and you see the way Abby’s face changes. Her smile drops a little, but she still gives you a wave. 

“Nice to meet you,” She says. “Frank’s told me a lot about you.”

“Yeah, bet he has,” Someone mutters, making the group laugh. Frank joins in, tightening his grip on Abby, desperately trying to get you to look at him. You avoid his eyes, downing the rest of your drink and standing up, giving her the most genuine smile you can muster. 

“Wow, I love your jeans, you’re stunning,” You say. “Frank’s a lucky guy. How’d you meet?”

You hear someone murmur something like ‘wow, very mature’ as you guide her into the living room, asking if she wants something to drink. Frank’s best friend, Jonah, slaps a hand onto his back once the two of you are out of earshot. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks, making Frank scoff. 

“Don’t start, man.”

“No, seriously, what’s your problem?” He pushes. “What happened to trying to get her back?”

“I never said I was doing that,” Frank argues. 

Jonah gives him a disapproving look, one that Frank isn’t sure he’s ever seen from his long-time friend. 

“You’re an idiot,” He says. “Bringing a new girl here like this, when you knew she’d be here too? That’s pretty selfish, man.”

“It’s not that serious,” Frank says. 

“That’s the problem, dude,” Jonah says. “It should be that serious.”

Meanwhile, you rummage through the fridge, listing out options to Abby, who’s standing off to the side. 

“I’m good with a beer,” She says, and you pull one out, passing it over before grabbing one for yourself. You crack it open, bringing the can to your lips, taking a sip as you close the fridge. 

“So, Frank told me you’ve known him since you were teenagers?” She says, leaning back against the counter. 

“Oh, yeah,” You say. “He moved into the house across the street from mine, we got pretty close.”

“Right, he says you’re his best friend,” She adds. “I’d really love to get to know you, you know, to see more of his life.”

You hum, taking another sip of your drink. “Yeah, no, for sure. I’d like that too.”

Frank watches carefully as the two of you come back into the living room, trying to figure out if anything happened while you were gone. Abby grins as she walks over, and he smiles back, replacing his arm around her shoulders. 

“She’s really nice,” Abby says, and Frank glances at you for a second before settling his eyes back on her. 

“Yeah, she’s great,” He agrees. He can’t help but feel a little disappointed with how well you’re taking this, almost as though he wanted it to bother you. “You wanna’ sit?”

He catches you on the balcony a few hours later, missing the way you swipe a hand over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. 

“Hey,” You say. “I was just about to head in, balcony’s all yours.”

He grabs your arm as you walk by, stopping you from going inside. 

“I actually came out here to talk to you,” He says. “I was gonna’ tell you about Abby, I swear.”

“Yeah, okay,” You say, sarcastically. “I would’ve loved a heads up that you had a girlfriend before agreeing to come tonight.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” He counters, still holding your arm. You pull out of his grip, exhaling sharply, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie down. 

“She said you called me your ‘best friend,’” You say, putting quotes around the words. “Does she know about us?”

“What about us?” He asks. “That we dated?”

You purse your lips, tears pushing against your throat again, pooling in your eyes. Him summing up almost a decade of history with ‘we dated’ reignites the anger and insecurity that you’ve been feeling for months, and you just want to get out of here and go home.

“Yeah,” You say. 

He squints, shrugging his shoulders up, waving his hand in a ‘sort of’ motion. “She knows we were together in high school.”

“In high school,” You repeat. 

“That’s when it started,” He adds, obviously trying to justify his actions—something he’s been doing a lot of for the past year. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah, no, I was there,” You say. 

He raises an eyebrow. “I know.”

You watch him for a second, trying to read his expression, which use to be easy for you. Now it feels impossible, his face neutral, not letting you in. 

“Is this your way of ending things, like, for real?” You ask, finally voicing what you’ve had on your mind since he showed up. There’s no edge in your voice, the question not meant to hurt him—you just need to know. “Because you could’ve just…said it.”

His face flickers, an unrecognizable look settling on it while he digests your words. 

“No, that’s—that’s not what this is,” He says. “You—you ended things with me, I didn’t realize you and me was still an option.”

“You think I’ve just been checking in with you constantly for the past three months, what, for fun?” You ask. The corners of his lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile, taking the opportunity to try and lighten the mood. 

“I mean, talking to me is a lot of fun,” He teases. A tear slips down your cheek, brows creasing and lips parting in disbelief. 

“Why do you always do that?” You ask, gesturing with your hand before letting it fall back against your leg. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”

“Come on,” He says, exasperatedly. “I’m just trying to keep this from becoming a whole thing, I-”

“God fucking forbid this become a whole thing,” You say, cutting him off. “I almost thought everything that happened between us actually meant something, thank you so much for reminding me that it didn’t.”

“When did I say that?” He asks, more defensive now. 

“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.”

You try to go back inside again, but he grabs both your biceps, holding you in front of him. You refuse to look at him, sniffling as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. He clenches his jaw, swallowing back tears of his own, letting go of one of your arms to tilt your chin up. 

“Everything that happened means so much to me, peanut,” He says. “Why do you think it doesn’t?”

More tears fall, dripping off your chin and onto the concrete beneath you. You suddenly feel stupid, the adoration on his face making you momentarily forget all the times he’s hurt you, all the times he’s lied or said something he didn’t mean, all the promises he’s broken. When you look into his eyes you see the boy you fell in love with staring back at you, genuine curiosity and concern in them. 

“You said ‘that we dated’ like that’s all it ever was,” You explain, finding yourself leaning closer to him. “Making a joke about having fun together when…I’ve been checking up on you to try and hold on to any fucking remnant of you and I because-”

You pause, inhaling involuntarily, a stifled cry catching in your throat. Frank’s face softens more, his grip dropping to your hands, taking them in his own. 

“This is killing me,” You admit, voice shaking. “I only broke up with you because I thought it might convince you to stop using, I—I thought we’d get back together once you got clean, I wasn’t expecting you to move on so fast.”

He sighs, nodding, tugging you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you. 

“I didn’t move on,” He admits. “The whole thing with Abby is selfish and stupid and I absolutely have not moved on, I swear to god.”

You don’t say anything, you just tuck your face into his neck. 

“I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her it’s over,” He says. 

“You don’t have to do that,” You say, voice muffled by his jacket. “She seems really sweet.”

“Yeah, she is, but she’s no you,” He says, holding you tighter. “As long as I have a chance with you then I don’t want anyone else, baby.”

He kisses you, and the hollowness in your stomach starts to fill. 

June, 2015

His phone rings when you’re already in bed, snuggled into his chest, his arms around you. He groans, shifting away, reaching for the object and glancing at the screen. He freezes, making you lift your head, catching sight of the contact before he can hide it. 

Abby ❤️

“Why is she calling you?” You ask, sitting up a bit. “Why does she still have a heart beside her name?”

“I dunno’,” He says. “I must’ve forgotten to get rid of the heart when I ended things.”

His thumb slams against the ‘decline’ button, which for some reason makes you doubt his answer. 

“What if something’s wrong?” You ask, reaching for the lamp, turning it on. “You should call her back, make sure everything’s okay.”

A part of you means it—if she’s in trouble you want to help, but the other part wants to see just how far he’ll take this if he’s lying. 

The two of you never re-established the seriousness of your relationship, but you certainly hadn’t seen anyone else since the conversation you had six months ago, and you were under the impression that he hadn’t either.

He shakes his head, setting his phone face-down on the nightstand. “Nah, I’m sure she’s fine.”

You squint. “Then just call her back, what’s the big deal?”

“No big deal,” He counters. “I’d just rather stay here with you.”

“Well, I won’t be able to sleep unless I know she’s alright,” You argue, analyzing his face, but you know the tells you learned when you were teens no longer apply, his whole charade much more calculated now. 

“Why does it matter?” He asks, a slight edge to his tone. “She has other friends she can call, she’s fine.”

You don’t respond, and he lets himself relax, thinking you’re done pushing. 

“Frank,” You say, forcing him to look at you again. “Fucking call her.”

He rolls his eyes, tossing the blanket off his body and sitting up. “Are we really doing this right now?”

“Doing what, exactly?” You ask. 

“You still don’t trust me,” He says, saying it like it’s unbelievable. “Wow, I honestly thought you were past this bullshit.”

You genuinely laugh at that, burying your face behind your hands. “Oh my god. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Sometimes, yeah,” He says. “This isn’t gonna’ work if you don’t start believing me.”

You’re still laughing, putting a hand over your mouth to muffle it, trying to get yourself together. Frank just stares at you, your reaction sparking fury inside him. 

“Wow, fuck me,” You say. “You’re sleeping with her.”

“That’s insane,” He counters, too quickly, as though he had the line ready. 

“You never ended things,” You continue, mostly just processing out loud, not actually needing him to confirm or deny. “You’ve been seeing her this whole time.”

“I—I did end things,” He argues. “Why would I not have? This is actually so fucking ridiculous, I can’t-”

“Okay,” You say, sucking in through your teeth. “When exactly did you end things?”

“Babe, I swear to you, nothing is going on,” He says. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

He pauses, looking up towards the ceiling, shrugging. “I—I dunno’, after the party.”

You hum disbelievingly. “Does she know that?”

“Yes, she definitely knows that.”

You gesture to his phone. “Then call her.”

He doesn’t move. 

“Why is that so hard?” You ask. “Pick up the phone and call her.”

“You’re turning this into something it’s not,” He says. “I cannot believe-”

“Frank, shut the fuck up,” You say, holding your hands up. “You can either call her, or you can leave.”

“Really? Over this?” He asks, still deflecting. “I’m not calling her, babe, there’s no need.”

“I’m not asking you again.”

He doesn’t move at first, but then he reaches for his phone, pulling it off the charger. You stupidly believe that he’s actually going to call her back, but he slides it into his pocket instead.

“Fine,” He says, grabbing his hoodie off the floor as he goes, stopping in the doorway of your bedroom. “I don’t wanna’ be around you when you’re like this anyway.”

You nod, watching him close the door behind him, the pause before he actually walks off confirming that he wanted that to get a reaction out of you. You wait until you hear the front door close before letting yourself collapse, burying your face in the covers and crying until you can’t breathe. 

December, 2015

You don’t see him until he’s already too close, leaving you unable to force your way through the sea of people fast enough to get away. Avoiding him has been relatively easy for the past six months, considering you’re a year ahead of him, meaning your classes don’t overlap. But here he is, somehow, waiting for you outside your lecture. His hand lands on your backpack, grabbing the loop at the top, shifting himself into place beside you. 

You don’t look at him as you walk through the hall, practically elbowing people as you move, making him have to fight to keep up. He says your name, but you don’t stop. 

“Can you just hang on for a minute?” He finally asks. 

“No,” You say, pushing a door open, stepping out into the freezing cold. He doesn’t have any problem catching up now that there’s no one in his way, and he plants himself directly in your path, making you freeze. You try to go around him, but he sticks an arm out, gently latching onto you shoulder. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” He says. “Just listen to me for a second.”

“Why?” You ask. “So you can lie to me?”

He exhales roughly, shaking his head. “No, so I can tell you the truth.”

You shrug, folding your arms over yourself, shivering. “Fine. Go.”

“Abby and I are done,” He says. You roll your eyes, trying to get away again, but he holds onto you. “Seriously, we’re fucking done, for real. I—I wanted to give it a real shot, you know, make it something that was worth losing you over, but that’s dumb. Nothing is ever worth losing you.”

“I’m glad you figured that out,” You say. “But that has nothing to do with me anymore.”

“What do you mean?” He asks. “It has everything to do with you.”

You sigh. “I have a train to catch, so, I should go.”

“Your train doesn’t come until six-fifty,” He argues. You go still, scoffing, the sound close to a laugh, but not quite. 

“Don’t do that,” You say. “Don’t fucking memorize my schedule like that.”

“I…I didn’t,” He says, then he recalibrates. “I didn’t mean to. I see you take that train five days a week, it just…stuck.”

“Okay, whatever,” You say, shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, your nose tingling in the cold. You inhale sharply, momentarily forgetting that your lungs have been protesting their usual function for the past few days, resulting in you falling into a fit of coughs. He frowns when it surpasses ‘swallowed the wrong way’ and enters ‘I can’t fucking breathe’ territory, stepping a little closer. 

“You okay?” He asks. You clear your throat as you straighten out, nodding quickly. 

“I’m fine,” You say, but it’s clipped, and you dissolve into more rib-shattering coughs immediately after. 

“That sounds like the exact opposite of fine,” He says. “You should sit down.”

The coughing subsides after a few more seconds, and you breathe in carefully, trying not to provoke your airway again. 

“I’m good, it’s just the weather,” You lie. He almost believes you for a second, but then you stumble slightly, making him reach out, grabbing your hips to keep you steady. “I should really get home.”

“I don’t like the idea of you taking the train like this,” He says. “Not by yourself.”

You wave him off. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“And yet I do anyways.”

Your walls splinter—he sees it on your face. 

You realize that the meds you took this morning must be wearing off, because your fever now feels very real, and sweat starts to bead along your forehead and neck. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink a few times, your ears ringing in protest from you still being upright. 

“Come on, I’ll get you home.”

The drive back to your apartment is hazy, but you’re aware of the way Frank holds you as he helps you into the elevator and to your door. You fumble with your keys, dropping them onto the floor. He swoops down, picking them up and selecting the correct one, sliding it into place and unlocking it. 

He follows you in, not taking his shoes off, telling himself that he just wants to make sure you get into bed safely. That goes out the window when you almost knock a lamp over trying to turn it on, movements clunky and disorganized. He sticks his hand out, catching it at the last second, carefully putting it back upright. 

“Have you eaten anything?” He asks, watching you lower yourself onto the couch, cheeks hot and eyes closed. 

“Not really,” You admit. “I haven’t been shopping in awhile, I’ve been surviving off of stale crackers.”

“Well, that just won’t do,” He says. “Let me help you get settled and then I’ll get you something to eat, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” He says. “I want to, so, just…shut up and let me.”

You fall asleep on the couch as soon as you’re done eating, curling into him, resting your head on his chest. He hesitates at the contact, but then he tucks a blanket around you, holding you close. 

He stays like that all night. 

You’re not any better the next morning, in fact, your cough is exponentially worse. 

“We should go to urgent care,” He says, aftering listening to you hack up a lung in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes. “You could have pneumonia.”

“I don’t have pneumonia,” You argue. “I just need to rest.”

“You slept for sixteen hours last night,” He counters. “Now you’re even worse.”

“It’s just because I haven’t taken anything yet,” You say, pulling the cabinet open and grabbing various bottles of medication. 

“Prove it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How?”

“Go to urgent care,” He explains. “They’ll tell me I’m wrong and then I’ll shut up.”

You huff, setting the meds down. “Fine. Let’s go.”

You’re back in his car two hours later, a pneumonia diagnosis on your chart and a bottle of antibiotics in your lap. You’re waiting for him to say ‘I told you so,’ but he stays quiet the entire drive back to your apartment, only speaking to check if you’re warm enough. 

“You were right,” You finally say. 

He hums. “Yeah, but you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

“You don’t want to…rub it in?” You ask. 

“That I was right about you having pneumonia?” He asks. “No, I wish I had been wrong.”

“Me too,” You say. “This sucks.”

“Do you have anyone you can call?” He asks. “Could your mom come take care of you?”

You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“The doctor said someone should stay with you for a few days.”

“I heard,” You say. “It’ll be fine, Frank.”

He hesitates, debating the idea in his head before deciding to bite the bullet. “Let me stay for the rest of the day, make sure you don’t die.”

He expects resistance, but he doesn’t get any. You just shrug, eyes starting to feel heavy again as you lean back into the seat.

“Suit yourself.”

He doesn’t leave that night. 

You spend the next three days together, him cooking, cleaning, and taking care of you while you suffer on the couch, wondering what you did to deserve whatever plague you caught. By the end of the third day you start feeling better, and you can actually get off the couch without any assistance, making him jump when he sees you come around the corner into the kitchen. 

“Jesus,” He breathes. “What’re you doing up?”

You smile, gesturing to your legs. “I can walk again.”

He chuckles. “You never stopped being able to walk.”

“Felt like I did,” You counter. “I feel a lot better today.”

“Oh, good,” He says, but he can’t even hide the disappointment. You feeling better means he has to go, and he’s nowhere near ready for that. “I’m glad, peanut.”

“Thank you for everything,” You say. 

“Yeah, anytime, seriously,” He says. “I guess I should get going, then.”

You look towards the window, shrugging. “It’s coming down pretty bad out there, I’d feel like an asshole if I made you drive in that.”

He follows your gaze, seeing the blizzard that’s starting outside. “It probably won’t last long.”

“So stay until it’s over.”

He tries to find any hint of insincerity in your eyes, but there isn’t any. Instead, he finds desire burning in your irises, the rest of your face completely innocent. He shakes his head, despite the voice screaming at him to jump at this opportunity. 

“Okay, yeah, I’ll stay for a bit,” He says. “You should lay back down, though, wouldn’t want to overdo it.”

You nod. “Will you help me?”

“You just said your legs are working again,” He counters. 

“They are,” You say. “That’s not what I want help with.”

He follows you back to the living room, watching you get back onto the couch, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“Can you hold me?” You ask, softly. His breathing stutters, some sort of affirmation stumbling from his lips. He sits beside you, opening his arms up, letting you lean into him. You don’t wait long before resting your hand over his, slowly pushing it down towards your thighs, towards the place you need him most. 

“You’re sick, we shouldn’t,” He whispers. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I don’t have a fever anymore,” You say, pressing your forehead to his for proof. “I want you to touch me, Frankie, please.” 

You mentally thank his impulsivity when he slides his hand beneath your waistband. Your eyes rolls back as his fingers move in slow circles, drawing a whine out of you. He leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, gently peppering kisses across your skin. 

“I’ve really missed you, baby,” He whispers. “And not just like this.”

You don’t say anything in response. You keep your eyes trained on your ceiling, focusing on how good he feels pressed against you. He kisses your collarbone, desperate for you to just look at him for a second. 

“Baby?”

You hum. 

“Could you look at me?”

You roll your hips into his hands, a soft moan slipping past your lips. “We can talk later.”

You never talk. You just slip back into old habits. 

February, 2017

“My mom called me this morning,” You say, sitting across from him in the cafe you’ve been studying at for the past few hours. “Said her and your mom have basically started planning our wedding.”

Your tone is casual, anecdotal, as though it’s just a funny thing someone said that rolled off your back. Frank raises an eyebrow, smiling a little as he sets his pen down. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “And where will we be getting married?”

You laugh. “I dunno’, I told her were weren’t even engaged yet and she was like ‘oh, I know, but you’ve found each other so many times and been through so much together’ or…whatever. Apparently it’s ‘written in the stars.’”

“She’s not wrong,” He says. “I mean, we’ve technically been together for a decade.”

“Big emphasis on technically,” You say, taking a sip of your coffee, completely unaware of how your words hit him. He tenses, picking his pen back up, spinning it around his fingers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks. You set your coffee down, shrugging, missing the underlying seriousness in his tone.

“Well, we were on and off in high school, and we’ve spent nine months of the last two years broken up, so.”

In your mind, you’re providing context. To him, you’re highlighting the incontinuity that he hates himself for creating. 

“Okay,” He says, and you finally see the pain beneath his expression. You sit up a little straighter, reaching your hand across the table, interlacing your fingers with his. 

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing,” You say. “But, I mean, it’s not as easy as ‘we’ve been together for a decade’ in my mind.”

He nods, his hand loose in your grip, not holding yours back. You frown, squeezing it gently, but he keeps it limp. 

“Frank,” You say. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think about it like that,” He says. “What do you say when people ask how long we’ve been together?”

You shrug. “I usually just say since high school.”

“But you don’t actually believe that.”

“Well, it’s objectively not true,” You argue, starting to get defensive, no idea why he’s fighting you so hard on this. “But they don’t need to know all the…nuance, or whatever.”

“The nuance being me being a drug addict?” He asks. 

You flinch, taking an intentionally deep breath before responding. “That’s part of it, yeah. Do we have to have this conversation right now?”

“Oh, sorry, am I embarrassing you?” He asks, everything about the sentence hitting you the wrong way. It’s too loud, too brazen, too disproportionate for the circumstance. You’re stunned for a second. 

“No,” You say. “That’s not what I said.”

You’re trying to de-escalate, but he doesn’t take the hint. 

“You’re literally telling me to shut up about it,” He counters, leaning away from you, gesturing to the people around you. The tables in the immediate vicinity have averted their eyes, doing their best to ignore whatever the fuck is going on. 

Your heart skips. Something is definitely wrong—this isn’t him. 

“Hey, you’re freaking people out,” You say, as gently as you can, taking his hand in yours again and rubbing your thumb along his knuckles. “Can you just…lower your voice for a second?”

“Why?” He asks. “So people can’t hear how ashamed of me you are?”

“Okay, what is going on with you right now?” You ask, starting to pack your belongings up, desperate to get out of the coffee shop before he can say much else. “You’re—I don’t know what this is.”

“Nothing’s going on with me,” He snaps. “I’m just saying what you won’t.”

“You’re basically yelling at me in public,” You correct. “We should go, talk about this at home.”

“Right,” He says, not moving. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your image.”

You slide your laptop into your bag, zipping it up and setting it on the bench beside you. “You don’t have to come with me, but I’m not doing this here.”

He doesn’t come home that night, but he’s back in the apartment when you get home from classes the next day, all the lights off and him wrapped in a blanket on the couch. You jump when you notice him, gasping and clutching your chest. He lifts his head slowly, face dull and pale, his eyes looking right through you. 

“Hey,” You say, dropping your things and taking your shoes off, kneeling in front of him. You set your hands on his cheek and forehead, frowning. “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”

You’re already back up by the time he processes the question, softly padding into the bathroom, running water over a washcloth. You come back out to the living room, looping it behind his neck, brushing a few strands of hair behind his ears. He grimaces, making you stop immediately. 

“Sorry, sorry, is it too cold?” You ask, going to move the cloth, but he grabs your wrist. 

“No, it’s not that,” He says, voice quiet and rough. He clears his throat, then he says your name. 

“What?” You say. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sick,” He says. “I—I’m just coming down.”

You don’t register the meaning behind that for a few moments, and he watches your face change as understanding sinks in. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, removing your wrist from his grasp, setting your hands on top of his thighs. 

“Okay,” You say. No judgement, no accusation, no disbelief. “Do you need anything?”

The immediate acceptance unravels his thoughts. 

Maybe he should’ve started telling you the truth a long time ago.

“Uh—uhm, no,” He says. “I’m okay, it’ll pass.”

“You look awful,” You say. “When’s the last time you slept?”

He sighs. “I dunno’.”

His body hurts so badly he doesn’t hear the distance in your voice. 

“You should probably do that,” You say, pushing yourself back on your heels, not touching him anymore. “I need to get changed, I have a shift in an hour.”

“Wait, wait, you’re going to work?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” You say, standing up now, brushing your hands over your thighs. “Someone called out, I offered to take the shift.”

You wait a moment before continuing, debating how much to tell him. 

“I honestly didn’t think you’d be back yet,” You admit. “I didn’t want to be home by myself all night.”

He winces. “Right, yeah, fair enough.”

“I ordered in last night, there’s leftovers in the fridge,” You continue. “I got that, uh, that pasta you like.”

His thoughts are incomprehensible, but he knows he has to apologize. “I’m sorry you were alone yesterday.”

You nod. “I appreciate that.”

“I love you,” He says. “More than anything.”

His vision is too blurry to see the tears gathering in your eyes. 

“I love you too, Frankie,” You say, leaning over, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline. You disappear into the bedroom before the tears actually fall, changing into your black slacks and button down that you always wear to the restaurant you’ve been working at for years. You dry your face, putting on some makeup to hide any evidence of the day you’ve had, then you tiptoe past the living room to the front door, slipping out without a sound. 

You spend the next two days in a stupor, mindlessly dragging yourself to class, then home, then work, all while making sure Frank doesn’t die on the couch. You go through the motions of taking care of him—making him food, forcing him to hydrate, helping him take showers. You don’t actually know when you made the decision to leave, if you decided the second he admitted to relapsing or if it came a little while after, but your mind is made up by the time he’s lucid again. 

“We should talk about…what happened,” You say, not taking a seat on the couch, simply standing off to the side with your arms crossed over your chest. He nods. 

“We should,” He agrees. “I’m really, really sorry, peanut. It was just the once, one of my friends had some on him, and I just…I caved. I wished I could take it back the second I swallowed it.”

“Yeah, I believe that,” You say. “But that’s not—that’s not it.”

“What is, then?”

“I—I was really mad at you for relapsing,” You start. “And I hated every second of helping you through the comedown.”

“Of course, that’s totally fair-”

“I want to take care of people for a living,” You interrupt. “I don’t…I can’t be with someone who makes me hate that. I can’t let myself be apathetic.”

He stops breathing at the implication of what you’re saying. 

“I don’t like the version of me that I saw for the last two days,” You continue. “And I don’t want to be put in that position again.”

“Then I’ll never put you in it again,” He promises. 

“That’s not a guarantee you can make,” You counter. “And…if your track record is anything to go by, you will do it again.”

“I go longer and longer between relapses every time,” He says. “I haven’t used in almost two years.”

“And I’m really fucking proud of you, Frank,” You say. “But I’ve put in too much work to get to where I am, I’m not willing to risk it.”

“Baby-”

“It’s not up for debate,” You say. “I…I would really like to be your friend, if you’re ever ready for that. I think that might suit us better.”

His eyes are glassy with tears. “Yeah, uh—okay. I’ll get back to you on that.”

Him and his belongings are gone by the time you get back from work that night. 

August, 2019

You can’t stop looking at the picture, always finding your way back to it after you manage to swipe away, re-reading the caption and the comments until your vision blurs. 

It’s a picture of Frank holding a chip in his hand, beaming at the camera so wide it almost looks painful, posted by Abby with the caption ‘one year sober!!! so proud of you :)’. 

There’s almost a hundred comments, all variations of congratulations, praising him for his hard work. You force yourself to double-tap the photo, even liking a few comments, trying to come across as supportive and mostly nonchalant. 

“Is that Frank?”

You nod, tilting your phone towards your boyfriend, letting him look at the picture. 

“Good for him,” He says. “He’s really put in the work.”

“Yeah, definitely,” You say. “I’m glad he’s doing better.”

“You talked to him recently?” He asks, and you shake your head, rolling over and getting out of bed. 

“No, not for awhile,” You say, making sure he can’t see your face when you say the words, fearing he’ll be able to see right through you. “I haven’t even seen him since before my graduation.”

It’s a lie—you’ve seen him so many times you’ve lost count, each time dissolving into familiarity and collapsed boundaries, him usually on top of you, coaxing out moans and whines in the way that only he can. He leaves at the end of the night, going back home to Abby, and you end up alone in the same apartment you got together in undergrad, unable to let it go. 

“That was over a year ago,” He says. “You should give him a call, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” You say, already halfway in the bathroom, reaching over and turning the shower on. 

You close the door before climbing in, letting the hot water run over your sore muscles, your back particularly tight after being in a precarious position for the majority of a twelve-hour surgery yesterday. 

Your mind drifts to Frank as your hands trail down your body, one of them hovering between your thighs. You can practically hear him saying your name, breath feathering over your neck, ramming into you-

“Jesus,” You mutter, snapping out of it and bringing your hand back up, grabbing the bottle of bodywash off the shelf. 

You pull a fresh pair of scrubs on once you’re out of the shower and completely dry, checking your phone to make sure you still have time to grab something to eat before you get to the hospital. You see Frank’s contact name on the screen, and you glance over your shoulder before opening the text. 

Can I come over tonight? I have news!

You wonder if it’s about him hitting one year sober, but you decide quickly that it’s unlikely to be that. You know that it isn’t true, and he knows that you know. He’s done an incredible job at keeping it from Abby and his friends, instead coming to you every time he slips up again, which is exactly how you found yourself in this situation in the first place. 

He had taken you up on your offer to be friends a few months after your most recent break-up, and at first that’s all it was. Then, he showed up at your doorstep higher than you’ve ever seen him, begging you to let him crash on your couch until he was sober again. You had agreed, but you hadn’t taken care of him the way you did the last time he rode a high out in your living room. You just moved around him, coming and going, leaving food and gatorade in the fridge. 

He stayed sober for seven months after that before he used again, and he ended up in the exact same place, needing somewhere to stay so Abby didn’t find out. 

After that your friendship…shifted. 

Late nights, wandering hands, bad decisions. Forcing your respective partners out of your heads for a few hours, finding comfort in the person who knows every piece of you, convincing yourselves that each time will be the last. 

You text back. 

At the hospital until eight, swing by after?

The knock startles you despite the fact that you’re expecting it. Frank’s shoulders are scrunched up to his ears, hands in his pockets when you pull the door open, a wide grin on his face. 

“Hey,” He greets. You step to the side, letting him in, just like you do every time. “You look nice.”

“I haven’t slept in three days,” You counter. He grimaces, sliding his shoes and jacket off. 

“Back to back call shifts?” He asks. 

“Yeah, fuck, it’s been brutal,” You say. “I have to be back at the hospital in-”

You pause, checking the time on your phone, whining. “-six hours.”

“Shit,” He says. “Seems like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

“You absolutely do,” You say, smiling. “What did you wanna’ tell me?”

He hums, pulling you in for a hug, rocking you back and forth. You relax into his touch despite the guilt that builds inside of you, the same guilt that’s been slowly gnawing away at your sense of self for the last two years. 

“It can wait a bit,” He mumbles, tilting your chin towards him. “I’ve missed you.”

He breaks the silence once you’re done, laying beside eachother, chests heaving with deep breaths. 

“Abby’s pregnant.”

You go completely still—like a child tucked away in bed who hears a noise from the hallway, convinced that whatever horrors lay outside won’t be able to see them if they don’t move a muscle. 

The words feel sharp, not quite tearing your chest open, but slicing the skin over your collarbone, leaving you breathless. If you listen close enough you can almost hear them echoing around the room, distant, yet earth-shattering. His tone is so gentle, like he believes there’s a reality where both of you make it out of this alive. 

But you know better. 

One of you gives up here, and you’re absolutely certain it’s going to be you. 

There’s a crack running along the edge of the ceiling that you’ve never noticed, inching towards the slowly spinning ceiling fan that does little to protect you from the dry, prickling heat under your skin. It runs down the wall too, splitting the uneven paint that you and Frank rolled on six years ago, the colour now dulled into something that barely resembles the sample you picked the day you moved in. 

You can see yourself taping it up on the wall, letting it sit there for days, examining the way it changed under different lights, as if you could account for the ruthlessness of shadows and time. The way you convinced yourself that if you stared at something for long enough you’d be able to see into the future, knowing exactly how it would look ten years down the line. 

You did the same for Frank, committing things to memory, even if they seemed mundane. His mouth tilting to the left when he smiles, the way he laughs when it’s just the two of you, the rhythm you hear every time you lay your head on his chest. The tapping of his fingers on your thigh when you stay up late watching TV, the pitch of his voice in the morning, the notes he used to leave for you on the bathroom mirror. 

The ordinary used to feel like proof. That you were solid, that he was there, that he’d always be there. Now, after all this time, it feels like something that was only believable if you didn’t look too hard. 

You need to say something soon—the silence has dragged on too long already. 

You flash through all the things you’ve put up with over the past ten years, all the morals you’ve cast aside just to have some sliver of the man who lays beside you. He stares straight ahead, gaze locked on your ceiling, fingers drumming against his stomach. 

Every time you lied to your partner about who you were texting, then calling, then seeing. 

The nights Abby texted you, asking if you knew where Frank was, when you’d tell her that he was still at the library when he was actually in bed with you. 

Countless hours you’ve spent convincing yourself that you’re not a bad person—you’re just hopefully, sickeningly, disturbingly in love. Hoping that each infraction might bring you closer to what you actually want. Calling things ‘complicated’ as if that makes it any better. 

But it hasn’t. And it won’t. 

You’re just a terrible person who has absolutely nothing to show for it.

You turn slightly, looking at him instead of the crack. 

“Are you serious?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. 

“Yeah,” He says. “Eight weeks.”

“Oh,” You say, sitting up slowly, reaching for your shirt off the floor and yanking it over your head. “That’s—that’s good. It’s good, right?”

Frank blinks a few times, confusion passing over his features as he sits up, too. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” He agrees. “She’s pretty psyched.”

You nod, actually standing up now, slipping into your shorts and reaching back to smooth your hair down. You don’t stop moving, because you know that you won’t surrender if you stay still for too long. 

“Okay,” You say, looking around the room as though you might snap out of this soon. Like this isn’t real. “So…this is done.”

Frank says your name, drawing it out as though you’re being unreasonable. 

“No, Frank, fucking-”

You cut yourself off, grimacing when a small whimper follows the truncated sentence. Frank copies your actions, pulling his sweatpants up and walking over to your side of the bed, setting a hand on your shoulder. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” He says, softly. You shake your head, swallowing back tears. 

“You’re having a baby,” You counter, stepping away from him, hands raised to keep him from touching you again. He straightens, dropping his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to get his heart to slow down. “She’s…Abby’s pregnant.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” He says, his thoughts completely incoherent. “But she has no idea about this, and-”

“That’s the problem,” You interrupt. “You—you’re about to have a baby and you’re talking about how she doesn’t know that you’ve been fucking me since the day you met her.”

Frank steps back too, crossing his arms over his chest, that all-too-familiar defensiveness starting to prickle through his skin. 

“So, what?” He asks. “You have some kind of moral objection to this suddenly? You never had an issue with infidelity before—yours or mine.”

“You think I never had a problem with this?”

“Certainly didn’t seem like it.”

Your jaw tightens, tears hot in your throat and eyes, dizziness forcing you to reach back until you feel the nightstand beneath your palm. 

“You always knew exactly what this was to me,” You say. “I told you, out on that fucking balcony, that this was about how much I loved you.”

“And you’re telling me it still is, huh?” He asks. “All this sneaking around has been out of love?”

It’s not exactly anger, something more like refusal. The ceiling fan keeps spinning, clicking each time it finds the same spot, the pull string waving back and forth. You wonder if the crack would be farther down on the wall if you turned to look.  

“Has it not been for you?”

Your voice is practically nothing. 

“I haven’t heard you tell me you love me in years,” You add, still quiet, voice catching on the last word. “But I keep showing up because I don’t know what I’ll do if I never hear you say it again.”

His heart practically stops.

“Look at me,” He says, closing the gap between you. You don’t, eyes trained on the floor in front of you, hands going numb from how tight you’re gripping the edge of the nightstand. His tone strays from anger, edging into something much kinder. “I love you.”

Your bottom lip actually wobbles. 

“I love you with everything that I have,” He continues. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t keep doing this to Abby if I didn’t love you.”

You can’t swallow anymore, your throat wound too tight. 

“I’m not saying that because I think it’ll fix things,” He adds. “I’m saying that because it’s true, and I cannot keep lying to you.”

“But you do,” You say. “You keep lying.”

“I’m not lying right now,” He insists. 

You nod. “I know.”

The stillness is unbearable. 

“Then what do you want from me?” He asks, a hint of anger returning along with an uncontrolled urgency, one he knows well. “What do I have to do here? Just tell me, and—”

He cuts himself off, exhaling abruptly through his nose, running a hand through his hair. A few pieces stick upwards, drawing your gaze to them, watching as they slowly fall back against his head. 

“I’m not lying to you anymore, I can’t keep doing that, and I don’t want to keep doing that,” He says. “So just tell me.”

A beat. 

“Tell me what you need from me,” He finishes. “And I’ll do it.”

You can see exactly what he doesn’t want you to. 

It’s not coming from a place of love, it’s coming from a place of desperation. 

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head. “Build a time machine.”

“I can’t do that, baby,” He says, bouncing on his feet. “But I fucking would if I could.”

“Yeah,” You say. “I would too.”

He watches you carefully, waiting anxiously for a solution he can execute. You cross your arms over your chest, bracing yourself for the words you’re about to say. 

“You know what you can do?” You ask. 

He shakes his head. “No, tell me. Please.”

“You can get clean,” You say, hugging yourself, ignoring the panic that’s simmering beneath the surface. “For Abby.”

You pause. 

“For your kid.”

You don’t give him a chance to retaliate. 

“Maybe this’ll finally be enough to snap you out of it,” You add. “Because I was never enough, Abby was never enough, nothing has ever been enough for you to get your shit together.”

Your tone is so final he feels like there’s nothing he can say to change your mind.

“I really tried,” He says. “After you left.”

“No, you didn’t,” You say, finally dipping into anger yourself. “You did just enough to string me along, made me look like a fucking idiot every time I actually believed you were clean.”

“I wanted to, I swear,” He says. “It didn’t have anything to do with you, I just, I couldn’t kick it-”

“Like me?” You ask. “I’m clearly just another bad habit you can’t quite seem to shake.”

He purses his lips, clenching his jaw, scoffing. He drags a hand down his face, trying to ignore the way your words shatter against his cheekbone like glass. “That’s a low blow.”

“That’s why this all started, right?” You say. “Because you couldn’t get clean.”

“I tried!” He yells, slamming his hand against the bedframe, the sound of his palm connecting with the wood echoing in your bedroom. “You are the one who left me!”

“Because you were high all the fucking time!” You yell back, voice wavering now, hands thrown out in frustration. 

He takes a deep breath, his eyes closing for a second while he gets himself together, feeling you slipping through his fingers more with each word that he says. 

“No, I know that, and I’m sorry,” He says. 

“Don’t be sorry for me,” You argue. “Be sorry for yourself. And don’t make your kid spend their whole life wondering why they weren’t enough for their dad to stop using.”

You squint a touch, leaning towards him. 

“You can do that, right?”

He takes a moment before answering. 

“I really fucking hope so.”

There’s no false confidence—just honesty in a way you haven’t seen in years. Your face breaks before you can stop it, breath catching as you twist away from him, tears trickling down your cheeks. You try to inhale, to avoid what you know is coming, but it’s no use. A sob rattles inside your skull before you can stop it, pressing a hand against your mouth to at least muffle the sound. 

“I-”

He stops himself when another cry tumbles out of your lungs, his own chest constricting. He reaches for you, arms finding their way around your waist and chin resting on your shoulder. 

“Hey,” He murmurs. You turn around, curling into him, tucking your head against him. He hesitates, having expected you to push him away, but you don’t. 

“I just want you to be okay,” You say, words slightly incoherent. “To be happy.”

“I know, peanut,” He says. “I’m so sorry.”

Your breathing picks up, the occasional sobs shifting to full-blown crying, the kind that makes it impossible to steady yourself, no matter how hard you try. His hand moves up and down your spine, his lips by your ear, muttering reassurances that you can’t quite hear. 

You become aware of everything all at once. 

His arms around your shoulders, the pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades, the sound of his breathing. 

You’re memorizing him, fiercely clinging to something you know hasn’t been yours in a long time—something that won’t ever be yours again. 

“I don’t wanna’ lose you,” He says, softly, rocking you slightly in his arms. You shake your head, leaning back and wiping your face off. 

“I’m not gonna’ do that to a kid,” You whisper, sniffling. “I’m not gonna’ be the reason you don’t show up for them.”

“You won’t be,” He insists. “Don’t…don’t think of it like that, alright? That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” You ask, still quiet. 

“It’s—it’s us,” He insists. 

“Us,” You repeat. “And what even are we anymore?”

He raises his hands, gesturing vaguely, eyes searching yours for anything he can use. 

“Everything,” He says. “It’s been everything.”

“I think—I think we’re just pathetic,” You say, spitting the words out before you can taste the poison on them. “Two people who meant something to each other a long fucking time ago who can’t admit that it doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“It does-”

“Oh my god, what is it gonna’ take?” You ask, exasperated, throwing your hands up. “What’s not clicking for you?”

You push yourself away, leaving him with his hands raised, looking odd now that they’re not holding anything. 

“There is no coming back from this,” You continue. “We’re…we’re fucking done. For real.”

“Baby, come on, just listen-”

“No, you listen,” You say, grabbing his shirt off the bed and throwing it against his bare chest. “We are never gonna’ see each other again. Not like this.”

You step around him, walking out into the living room, him following you as he tugs his shirt back on.

“What do you mean ‘not like this’?” He asks, stumbling to keep up. You throw his jacket and keys towards him, opening your front door, practically parading him out of your apartment. 

“Figure it out, Frank.”

September, 2024

You clip your badge to the front of your black scrubs, running your hands over your hair and looping your stethoscope around your neck. You breathe out through your mouth before shutting the locker, making sure you have the small slip of paper detailing the combination in the back of your phone case before pushing it fully closed. 

Your eyes scan the department until you spot an older man in a navy blue zip-up, somehow certain that that’s exactly who you’re supposed to be looking for. You make your way over to him, planting yourself in his field of view, smiling. 

“Hi, Dr. Robinavitch?” You ask. He nods, returning your smile, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. You stick your hand out, introducing yourself, putting ‘doctor’ before your first and last name. “I’m the new orthopedic trauma fellow, I’ll be hanging out down here for the next four weeks.”

“Ah, yes, right,” He says. “Everyone calls me Robby. Welcome, we’re happy to have you.”

“I’m happy to be here,” You say. “Where do you need me?”

“Uhm, just stay here for one second,” He says, then he disappears, leaving you alone by the central desk. You nod to yourself, still re-adjusting to the constant introductions that come with working at a new hospital. 

People start gathering around the desk, and Robby returns a few minutes later, addressing the group. You put your attention on him, subconsciously adjusting your badge and stethoscope again. 

“As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” He says, glancing past you, waving a group of younger students over. He gestures to you first, repeating your first and last name. “She’s an ortho trauma fellow, she’ll be your first point of contact for any ortho cases.”

You give a small wave, and Robby moves on with the rest of the introductions. He points out the board, explains how things move, and makes sure all of you know exactly who Dana is before continuing. 

“Your senior residents are Dr. Collins,” He says, gesturing to a woman wearing a red fleece over her scrubs. “And Dr. Langdon. You report to them, they report to-”

Your ears start to ring, adrenaline flooding your veins and hammering in your skull as you turn around, praying that you misheard him, or that it’s somehow not who you think it is.

His hair is a little shorter than it was five years ago, but it’s undeniably him, his blue eyes already looking at you. His jaw is tight, brows raised and eyes wide with disbelief. You let your gaze skitter over him, not daring to stop for too long, using every ounce of strength you have to keep your face neutral. 

“Senior residents, you got your sign-outs?”

tags:

@thenormreedus @sinoxima @serrendiipty @celiaisacaterpillar @xoxoloverb @momdancingtomcr @arianna-r13 @starsbymars @outpostsworld @he6rtshaker @ilocuras24 @hucklesbaby @laurenyas @true1411 @navs-bhat @amelia-styles @barnes70stark @huang-the-geek @run-for-the-hills @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @noahcantread @princess76179 @the-perfect-gemini @arienic @llovekats @fishfishcaterpillar @macbaetwo @izzyyy-1 @waywardhunter95

[mariposium]

❀ : GREEN-EYED MONSTER — dennis whitaker

summary — you try not to jump to conclusions regarding dennis's friendship with one of his co-workers, but as more details regarding their relationship come to light, you can't help entertaining the green-eyed monster inside of you. (5.5k)

featured — dr. dennis whitaker / fem!reader, jesse van horn, dana evans, michael robinavitch, trinity santos

content — set somewhere between s1 and 2, mostly fluff w/ some angst, dennis and trinity are roommates, dennis's money problems, reader works at a law firm and likes smut audiobooks, awkward and lovable!dennis, jealous!reader, miscommunication, very small trinity santos / reader like you really have to squint, light descriptions of medical procedures

(cross-posted on ao3)

You stare at the bright red EMERGENCY sign in front of you for a moment too long. When you blink, the letters are still embedded behind your eyelids. 

The setting sun bathes the front of the building in golden light. A shadow of a nearby tree obscures half the entrance to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and effectively prevents you from seeing inside the dark glass paneled door. You shift in your too-high heels and try not to look as awkward as you feel standing on the side of the street staring into space.

You look down at your phone for the fourth time in a row. 7:30pm. Thirty minutes late.

A cold breeze slides by your skin and you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to cover your exposed skin.

“Did you need help with anything, ma’am?” 

Your eyes shoot up from where they had been tracing the cracked concrete underneath your feet to the gray-haired man standing in front of you. He’s wearing dark scrubs and a small smile on his lips. He has a tag on that clearly says NURSE.

You swallow back your nerves and return his smile. “Sorry,” you say, “am I in the way? I tried to avoid the loading zone…”

“Oh, no,” he replies immediately, “I just noticed you standing there for a few minutes, thought I’d see if you needed help.”

“I can see why you’re a nurse,” you say with a soft chuckle.

He grins and goes to walk away.

“Actually,” you say, and he turns to face you again, “do you think… I mean, if it wouldn’t be much trouble… the guy I’m seeing is an ER doctor here. We were supposed to meet up and go to dinner, but I guess he’s gotten busy?”

“What’s his name?” he says, eyebrows furrowed.

“His name is Dennis,” you say, then shake your head as you remember who you’re talking to, “sorry. He might go by Whitaker? Dr. Whitaker?”

The nurse nods his head. “Yeah I know him,” he says, “here, I’ll take you back there.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, though you begin to follow him as he heads to the dark doors. “I’m sure he’ll be out soon.”

“Eh, my break’s almost over anyway,” the nurse tells you. “I’m Jesse, by the way.”

You smile and tell him your name. He pushes open the doors and lets you step in before him. 

You immediately freeze at the amount of people inside. There’s people groaning, hunched over in pain, holding gauze to wounds. You lock eyes with a woman coughing furiously into a napkin, and you suddenly feel like you need to cover your mouth and nose to prevent catching something.

You break from the stare when Jesse puts a hand on your shoulder. 

“Welcome to paradise,” he tells you. More like hell, you think.

His hand falls off your shoulder and he begins to weave through the throngs of people. You shrink in on yourself at the stares that the people you pass give you. Jesse gives a wave to a nurse behind the counter and she gives you a short look before she presses the button to open the doors to the ER.

You follow Jesse as the warm waiting room turns into sterile white hallways and people standing around in thin gowns and stiff gurneys. You keep your arms crossed around yourself subconsciously as every person you pass turns to look over at you. You really shouldn’t have decided on wearing a dress.

The hallways clear to an open area surrounded by windowed doors with large numbers painted on them. There’s a circular desk in the middle where a few doctors and nurses stand by.

You look around for Dennis, but don’t see any sign of his curly brown mop.

“Hey, Dana,” Jesse calls out to an older blonde woman as you approach the circular desk.

As her eyes fall on you and Jesse, you immediately feel like you know exactly what kind of woman she is. She just looks like she knows how to get shit done.

“Who’s this?” she asks, gesturing to you. Her words are blunt, but her eyes seem kind. She gives you a once-over as if assessing for any injury.

“We’re looking for Dr. Whitaker,” Jesse tells her, “he apparently forgot he had a date scheduled before he decided to clock in overtime.”

You nervously shuffle on your feet as Dana’s eyes turn critical. They give you another cursory look over before she nods like she approved of her findings. Relief rushes over you, though you think it is silly given the fact you don’t actually know or care what the woman thought.

Dana puts half her body over the counter, a small smile pulling at her red lips. “You must be the one we’ve all heard so much about.”

You can feel yourself immediately get hot. Dennis spoke about you? To his colleagues, no less? You aren’t sure whether to feel flattered or worried. What if he’d told them all your embarrassing moments, like that time you got food stuck between your teeth at Chili’s?

“I hope only the good things,” you say with a small smile.

Dana lets out a laugh. “From the way he described you, I was expecting you to come in walking on rainbows or something.” 

The smile that pulls across your lips then feels shockingly genuine. You duck your head to hide it.

“I’ll go find him,” Dana says with a nod toward you. “Jesse, you might want to go check on the septic patient in Central 2? Then head home, please.”

Jesse gives a thumbs-up toward the nurse and gives you one last smile before he backs away toward the room.

Dana goes to leave her desk when a room behind you opens loudly and you follow her eyes to the commotion.

Almost immediately, your eyes lock onto Dennis. He hasn’t noticed you yet, talking quietly to an older doctor beside him. He looks pensive, all hard lines and furrowed brows. You wish at that moment that you could get into his head in order to figure out the issue he was trying to solve and help him, even though you knew more about law than you did medical jargon. 

You’ve never seen him in his element before. His dark scrubs highlight every detail in his body, and as his arm flexes to drag through his curly hair, your eyes catch on the muscles in his forearms that jump beneath his skin. 

His eyes move away from the man beside him and land on yours almost like he could feel your stare. They stop on your form and widen to a comically large size, his mouth dropping open slightly as they drag over your exposed skin.

You smile tightly and raise your hand to give him a little wave.

“Guess my work here’s done,” you hear Dana say from behind you. You shoot her an appreciative look before your eyes drag back to Dennis.

He’s gotten closer since you last looked at him. His wide doe eyes look between the two of yours as if asking a silent question. You get a whiff of his cologne and you unwittingly breathe it in in deep gulps.

“I was waiting outside,” you tell him sheepishly. His eyebrows furrow in a silent question. “We were going to go try that new Italian place, remember?”

“T-That was tonight?” Dennis grabs his phone from where he had it in his pocket and begins flipping through it. He stops once he finds something and he lets out a quiet expletive.

“I had it set for tomorrow in my calendar. How did I mess that up?” he shakes his head and closes his phone. He looks at you, and you swear you’re looking at a little puppy begging for scraps from the table. He reaches forward to grab your hand. “I-I’m so… sorry. H-How long did you wait? Are you cold?”

You let out a soft laugh. “I’m fine, Dennis.” You squeeze his hand and look around at the hospital. “Are you up for tonight? We can always reschedule. It looked pretty busy in the waiting room, I’d hate to be the reason someone doesn’t get seen.”

“I…” he begins to reply, eyes darting around the hospital behind you. “No— I mean you’re all dressed up. I can’t bail.”

You hate the relief that rushes over you in that moment. You feel like a wilted plant and Dennis’s attention is like the watering can, your only chance at quenching your thirst. It’s pathetic.

“Whitaker!” someone shouts from across the room. 

Your eyes dart to the noise. The older doctor from earlier is looking over at you two from where he stands next to Dana. He pulls off his glasses and points them at you two.

“Stop loitering and go buy this girl dinner!”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile.

“A-Are you sure, Dr. Robby—“

“Yes!” the man, Dr. Robby, says exasperatedly. “Now get out before something big shows up.”

Dennis’s lips quirk upwards at that remark as he turns to look back at you. He leans forward and plants a quick kiss to your cheek. You smile bashfully at the show of affection, eyes darting around to see if anyone noticed.

“Let me go get my stuff and change. You stay here, okay?” 

You nod and Dennis practically skips away. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon. A taste of the adrenaline of being inside a hospital. Is this the high he chased? 

You feel awkward standing in the middle of the hall, so you step back a few feet. You turn around and catch eyes with Dana at her desk. She smiles and waves you over.

You smile back and shuffle over to where she stands. Once you get close enough, she passes a folded piece of paper across the counter. 

You pick it up and unfold it to see a phone number written in bright blue ink. Your eyes dart up confusedly to the woman’s.

“In case you ever need anything, hon,” Dana says, her voice taking on a familiar tone. “I do it for all the women I come across. Just good to have people to talk to.”

You smile slightly, flustered by the gesture. You tuck the note into your bag. You aren’t sure if you will ever use it, but you suppose it is a nice gesture. 

“Who’s this?” you hear a voice from behind you say.

You spin around to see a pretty dark-haired woman standing there. Her sleek hair is pulled up into a tight knot on her head. Her equally dark eyes are narrowed as she takes you in. She’s wearing the same colored scrubs that Dennis was wearing and her badge confirms your suspicions—DOCTOR.

“This,” Dana says, “is Whitaker’s girlfriend.”

“…Not girlfriend,” you correct with an awkward smile, “we have been seeing each other for, like, three months. Haven’t made it official yet.”

“Sounds pretty official to me,” Dana says, sliding down her glasses to look at something on her tablet, “but what do I know? I’m old.”

As Dana gets distracted with work, you are left alone with the stoic doctor. She makes you nervous.

“So why’s a pretty girl like you hanging ‘round Huckleberry?” she says after a moment’s contemplation.

You go to swallow, but find your throat has suddenly gone dry. “You mean Dennis?” 

“Huckleberry,” the dark-haired doctor corrects you. 

“I haven’t ever seen you before,” she continues, unperturbed by your stunned silence, “but he talks about you plenty.”

“Do… you see him often?” you ask, your nails digging into the skin of your arms.

The doctor scoffs. “Only everyday,” she says. Then, her eyes draw up to meet yours, her eyebrows furrowed. “I mean, he hasn't told you?”

“Told me what?” your voice sounds weak.

The doctor goes to say something else, but she closes her mouth as her eyes get caught on something behind you. Right at that moment, a hand grasps your forearm. Your eyes look to the side and Dennis is there. He’s changed into different clothes and looks like he’s combed his hair a bit. You give a fond smile. 

Dennis looks nervous, though. His eyes dart between you and the other doctor like he’s watching a ping pong match.

“Santos,” Dennis greets, his voice thin. 

The brunette doctor, Santos, lets out a low whistle. “Huckleberry knows how to clean up! Who knew?”

Standing there, between them, you feel like a third wheel. 

“Don’t be condescending,” Dennis tells her. 

“What? I’m not lying.”

Dennis rolls his eyes and turns to you with a small smile pulling at his lips from the exchange. You look over at Santos who gives you a two-finger salute. You bite your lip.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

You nod. Dennis says goodbye to Santos and loops his arm through yours to lead you to the door. He waves to several other doctors and patients as he passes them, a permanent grin etched across his face. His hand eventually migrates to rest over your waist, gently tugging you through the waiting room to the outside of the hospital.

You feel like you can breathe again once you have breached the outside of the hospital. You step away from the shaded awning and into the golden light of the sunset. 

As you look over at Dennis, his eyes are already gazing back at you.

“You okay?” he says. “Been kind of quiet.”

You smile tensely. “I’m good. Hospitals just stress me out.”

And it was true. You were good. You liked knowing this side of Dennis. The side that helped people selflessly every day, that worked seriously and with unflinching dedication. But another part of you keeps straying back to what the doctor, Santos, implied. Of how pretty she was and their teasing dynamic.

You’ve only been seeing Dennis for a couple months. Neither of you have said anything about making it official. You don’t know anything about Santos, really. You have no claim to jealousy. And yet…

“If you’re sure,” Dennis says. 

“I’m sure,” you say tersely, “want to meet up at the restaurant?”

You go to turn to where your car was parked a little ways on the street when a hand grasps your arm. You turn back, confused.

“Uh, actually…” Dennis starts, a bashful hand going to rub the back of his neck, “would you mind… I, uh, rode in with a colleague this morning.”

With a colleague. You wonder if it is the same colleague that made you feel inferior just by existing in her presence. You think your smile must come across as more of a grimace, because Dennis goes to pull his arm away.

You feel guilty for not answering, so you grasp his hand in yours before he can fully retreat.

“Of course not,” you say, “I usually take the bus actually, because I like to save money on gas…”

“Smart,” Dennis says with a nod. “I had thought about getting a bus card but—“ his words abruptly fall short and you look back at him over your shoulder. You cock a brow, wondering why he stopped.

Dennis smiles sheepishly, his eyes searching for something in your expression. “Sorry. I… don’t know the first thing about buses. I know more about herding cattle than I do public transportation. Santos calls me a huckleberry for good reason.”

You stay silent at that last comment, opening your car door to unlock the trunk. Dennis slides his bag of things into it and you close it with a soft click. You go into the driver’s seat and Dennis slides into the passenger.

Your car starts with a purr of the motor, some part of your steamy audiobook starting up immediately at volume 20 and 1.5x speed. You immediately scramble into action, hands flying to turn the volume down before you remember to mute it. About half a page goes by in the chaos, and it just so happened to be in the middle of one of the copious amounts of love scenes.

“Sorry,” you apologise, unable to bring yourself to look at him. The narrator had just said something about wet lips. You can feel yourself cringe in on yourself like a grape left too long in the sun. You could see this moment replaying in your mind later in bed tonight.

“What was that?” Dennis says, an amused smirk on his lips. “Fifty Shades of Grey?”

You pat your hand against your cheek, trying to cool yourself down. “I’m sorry, it’s some… fairy smut book my book club’s reading.”

“Dang,” Dennis says and you can see him nodding in your peripheral, “I need to join a book club.”

“Please,” you beg, “I’m going to die if you keep talking about it.”

You and Dennis are waiting for your food to arrive later that night in the new Italian restaurant. It’s all ambient lighting and hushed conversations and elegant piano music in the far corner. It’s all really fancy and way above what you’re used to.

Most of you and Dennis’s dates thus far have been walks around the park, small mom and pop bakeries and that one time you went to see the latest Marvel movie neither of you liked. Nothing like this. It feels more intimate, somehow.

“Work any interesting cases today?” Dennis asks you as he wraps up the story of the emergency thoracotomy he’d done shortly before your arrival, you cringing behind your drink at the detailed descriptions of cracking ribs and clamping aortas.

“Nothing to that level,” you tell him, before you pause. “Actually, I had a funny thing happen today. This woman came in because she suspected her husband to be cheating on her. And she asked if we could sue for emotional damages. Isn’t that crazy? I mean, we’re a probate office, not an episode of Judge Judy.”

Dennis shakes his head, laughing. “Must have been watching too many crime dramas. It’s probably similar to when we get Dr.Google’s thinking they’ve self-diagnosed all their problems.”

You let out a short laugh at the description, feeling like it lines up well with your experience with some of the people who came in for legal advice. Almost once a week, like clockwork, you had someone coming in thinking they had all the answers.

The conversation lapses for a moment when the waiter delivers the food and you take your first bites.

“God,” you moan as your taste buds erupt in flavor. “It’s so fucking good.”

Dennis seems to be experiencing a similar epiphany. Eyes closed, licking his lips clear of residual sauce.

After you’ve tried the food sufficiently, Dennis’s eyes lock back onto yours.

“I’m sorry about Trinity,” he tells you, “I know she can be a lot.”

You frown. “Trinity?”

“Dr.Santos.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes falling to your plate in an attempt to hide your dislike. “No, she was fine.”

“She can be a lot when you first meet her,” Dennis says, “but she grows on you.”

You nod, not really needing an explanation for the woman’s behavior. If you were lucky, you’d never have to see her again. If only Dennis would stop bringing her up and reminding you of your inadequacies.

A logical side of your brain says that Dennis wouldn’t keep bringing her up if he had something to hide. The side with green eyes and a clear pessimism says otherwise. That perhaps they were not together yet but Dennis was using you as a placeholder, or worse, a thing to make her jealous until he could get her instead.

You lean over to take a sip of your wine and put your fork down on your plate.

“You done?” Dennis asks, eyes wide.

“I’ll save the rest for tomorrow’s lunch,” you tell him with a bitter smile, “better than having to get up early to pack something.”

“I wish I could pack a lunch,” he tells you, “but I don’t really have time to eat it during the day.”

You shake your head. “That’s awful. I would not last without lunch.”

“It’s not so bad,” he says, “you mostly just forget you’re hungry because you’re doing so much.”

“Sounds abusive.”

“Are we ready for the check over here?” the waiter says as he approaches, an obnoxiously large smile on his face.

You look over at Dennis, who nods. 

“Yeah,” you reply, “we’ll split it, if that’s okay.”

“—actually,” Dennis interrupts, “just one. I’ll pay.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, surprised. You lean forward over the table, eyes wide. “I don’t mind paying my side…”

Dennis waves your concerns away with a flippant hand and the waiter nods as he goes to fetch it. You know that he is only a new doctor and that as a med student he got paid little to nothing for his work. You had paid for a lot for things; movie tickets, ice cream in the park, bus tickets. But nothing would equal up to the amount he was putting down tonight.

It made you nervous while equally flattered. 

The waiter brings the check and Dennis takes a cursory look over it, his face stoic. Then, he puts his card down and nods for it to be taken away.

“Was it a lot?”

Dennis nods, but when he sees your face drop, he quickly adds: “but it wasn’t outrageous.”

You begin to pack your food into the styrofoam containers they’d given you and Dennis does the same. You work in silence, you shooting him a glance between scoops of pasta, trying to figure him out.

Once his card is returned and the food is packed, you and him step outside of the restaurant. It is dark outside, the only light coming from amber street lamps and passing headlights of cars.

You clutch your food close to your chest as you turn to face him.

“Need a ride home?” you ask. You had never been to Dennis’s apartment. He’d been to yours once or twice, but you’d never really asked to visit his.

“Uh…” he says, “I can call an Uber.”

Your heart sinks at the blatant rejection. You flatten your lips and nod.

“Well, I had fun,” you tell him softly. 

“Yeah, me too,” he says with a genuine smile. For a moment, you think the rejection may have all been in your head. “Want to—“ he’s cut off by his phone as it rings a pleasant tune in his palm.

You can’t see the caller id before he answers it.

“Trinity?” he whisper-shouts into the receiver.

He tries to keep his voice low enough that you can’t hear it, but you do. You feel your blood run cold. It’s nearly 9:00pm, why is she calling? She knew you were on a date. She had to have.

You turn your back as tears unexpectedly well in your eyes. You feel like a fool. 

“Yeah, I can head over there,” he tells her and it feels like you've been shot.

You begin to step away, but you’re stopped by a hand grabbing your arm.

“Hey—give me a second, Trinity—“ he says, his eyes wide and questioning at you trying to leave. He looks even more startled by the tears in your eyes.

You slip your arm out of his, a rush of embarrassment clogging your senses, and you walk away.

You get into your car and put your food into the passenger seat and it starts with a quiet rumble. As you drive away, tears blur your vision, the streetlamps are long streaks of color and the road ahead is cloudy and disfigured. 

It’s silly, especially considering you had only known him for at most three months, but you can’t help it. The jealousy that overwhelms you in that moment is one of the worst emotions you’ve ever felt.

A few days later, you decide that it is probably best you don’t continue to see Dennis. 

You consult friends, your favorite shows, and a bowl of ice cream almost every night after the miserable date. You think they’re all telling you the same thing. That if he really liked you, then he wouldn’t be talking about another woman—or calling her.

There’s still a lingering fear, though. That perhaps you’ve completely misjudged the situation and that you’re overreacting. But there had to be a reason, right? Normal people didn’t try to hide friends of the opposite gender, didn’t look ashamed when talking about them, didn’t lead every conversation in their direction. It feels inane, hasty; but the question remains.

Did he really like you, or was he just using you?

He texted you almost non-stop, or what felt like non-stop. You haven’t looked at any past the first one where he asked if he did something wrong. You don’t have the heart to tell him. It feels like a bad dream that you just need to wake yourself up from with a bucket of ice water.

The realization comes into the fifth day of self-imposed isolation from Dennis, when you’re loading several boxes of files into your trunk.

There’s a black duffel bag in your car. And it feels like an ice pick just went through your chest. 

You think back to the night, of how Dennis had loaded his bag into your trunk before you two headed off. 

“Damnit,” you mutter.

Because as much as you wanted to ignore it, throw it on the side of the road and forget it like everything else to do with Dennis, you couldn’t. 

You groan as you grab the bag and hustle it back into the elevator of the parking garage to take it back to your apartment. You unlock your phone and finally open your text conversation with him.

It’s not much. The question about if he’d done anything… a day later, a question about going to some concert together… the next day, another question if he did something wrong and an apology. And most recently, a text asking for his bag to be returned. 

You drop the bag inside your apartment and pinch the bridge of your nose. 

You look back at your phone and type a response: Sorry, I have your bag, can you come by and get it sometime today?

You put your phone down beside you and let out a heavy sigh. 

It feels like mere seconds pass before you hear your phone buzz. You grab it quickly and unlock it.

Dennis<3: Yea, I’m in the area. Can I swing by now?

“Shit,” you say, but you aren’t sure why. He had to come to get it, why delay the inevitable?

Sure. You finally send back.

After it is sent, you jump up from the couch and hurriedly begin to clean your apartment up. Admittedly, in the past few days you’d become a bit of a slob. You don’t just clean up when people come over, but a huge motivator to stay on top of things was Dennis, so without that in your life things had kind of fell by the way side.

In the middle of picking up the last shirt off the ground, you hear a sharp rap against your door. You feel your heart pounding against your ribs as you throw the shirt into a hamper and go to the door.

You open it just wide enough to see outside and Dennis comes into full view. He’s wearing a loose shirt with some sports logo on it you don’t recognize (some team from Nebraska, most likely) and sweat pants. His hair is a mess, but in an endearing way. His doe eyes look so earnestly sad that you have to avert your own in order to stay calm.

You reach down and grab the bag by the door and hand it to him.

“Uh, thanks,” Dennis says, grabbing the bag.

You nod with a tight smile and go to close the door, but he sneaks his hand in to prevent it from closing.

“Wait—“ he says, eyes wide, “uh, can we talk?”

You want to say no. You should say no. You already feel like you could cry tears of shame just looking at him, much less actually talking to him. 

But for some inexplicable reason, you nod.

You pull open the door a bit to allow him to come in.

Dennis steps inside, but lingers by the door as he takes you in.

“H-Have you been okay?” he says, eyes sweeping across your ruffled loungewear and tired expression.

“Yep.”

“A-Are you sure?” Dennis continues, “I-I haven’t heard from you since our last date… I just wanted to know if I’d done something wrong?”

“I-I’ve been busy,” you say. You can’t meet his eyes and the words fall flat. You know immediately he isn’t buying it.

“Right…” Dennis says, “well, do you have anything planned this weekend? There’s going to be a fair in town on Saturday and I have the day off.”

“I don’t know,” you say curtly, “I’ll have to check my schedule. Maybe Trinity will go with you?”

Dennis frowns. “Trinity?” he looks close to laughing. He shakes his head. “I don’t think Trinity would hang out with me outside of work if she had a gun against her head.”

Your eyes dart up to meet his from where they’d been tracing the pattern of the flooring beneath you. You narrow your eyes, trying to understand what he’s saying.

Dennis steps forward, reaching to gently grasp your arm. “What’s going on? Seriously?”

“I talked to Dana,” you tell him, worrying your lip beneath your teeth, “I know you and Trinity ride to work together. I know that you guys are roommates. I know that you probably see her way more than me and I know she’s been friends with you for much longer and she’s so pretty—“

Your words cut off when Dennis captures your lips in a kiss. Your eyes flutter shut on instinct, a hand reaching up to grasp the back of his neck. His arm wraps around your waist as the chaste kiss gets deeper. Your chest flutters beneath your skin, a tremble in your hands.

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t move far, a small laugh escaping his parted lips.

“Trinity and me,” he starts to say, another laugh escaping his lips at the thought, “we’re just friends. We are always going to be just friends.”

“But…” you say.

“Also, I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian. She’s been having this other doctor, Garcia, over, like, every night,” Dennis tells you, which shuts you up immediately. “It’s funny, because I was worried she might flirt with you. She’s been talking about how pretty you are for, like, days.”

You let out a small laugh.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, unable to come up with much more in response.

“She took me in when she found out I didn’t have anywhere to live when I started interning,” he explains, “I’d been sleeping in an empty wing of the hospital…”

“Oh wow,” you say, eyes wide. “Did you get in trouble?”

“No,” Dennis says, “she helped me, gave me a place to stay. I just didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to think of me any differently. People always pity me once they find out. I didn’t want that from you.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, “for assuming.”

He just shakes his head with a small smile. “I’m just glad we got this all straightened out. I’ve been, like, seriously stressing over it.”

“Me too.”

You pause for a moment, twirling a piece of his hair at the back of his neck around your finger. You remember something. “And the date? When she called?” you ask.

He frowns for a moment as he tries to remember. Then he nods. “Oh, Trinity saw a cockroach in the bathroom. She wanted me to come get it.”

“Because you’re her huckleberry,” you say with a teasing grin.

Dennis lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he says, “I’m pretty sure the only reason she keeps me around is for pest control.”

“That’s not true,” you say with a grin, “you’re plenty likable. If you were my roommate, I’d keep you around for a while. The pest control is just a plus.”

“Is that an invitation?” he asks, a flirtatious smile pulling at the edges of his lips.

“Dennis,” you say, smiling, “don’t you know you’re supposed to ask a girl out before being so indecent? I mean, we haven’t even made it official yet.”

“We haven’t?” Dennis says teasingly, “that’s embarrassing. I’ve been telling people we’ve been dating for weeks.”

You roll your eyes and let out a short laugh.

“Do you…?” he says, his eyes suddenly wide, “do you want to make it official?”

You bite your bottom lip to stop the grin from pulling at your lips. “Of course I do,” you reply immediately, “well, as long as you promise you don’t have any more surprises in store for me.”

“Can’t promise that,” Dennis says, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I guess I can live with that.”

You punctuate the statement by leaning in to give him another kiss and as he leans into you with full abandon, you think perhaps there is a benefit to indulging the green-eyed beast every once in a while.

[i-love-ptv]

Gimme Some Love *:ꔫ:*

Dennis Whitaker x Fiancée!Doctor!Reader

You and dennis woke up late this morning, but you miraculously now have a few minutes to kill before your shift. What could possibly happen in 10 minutes?

wc: 1,642

warnings: dry humping—semi public (they’re in the car but in a parking garage), r is a freak who js wants her man (real), getting caught, hickies, pet names (angel, baby, love) santos n langdon getting along??? (sort of)

an: HI GUYS!! NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED!!

i have another whitaker fic in the works in case y’all fw him. s/o to my gf for inspiring me to make this bc she loves whitaker (me tew). more abbot coming soon too :p

feedback is always welcomed! feel free to send requests as well :]

Imagine making out with Dennis in your car, parked in the PTMC parking garage.

The pair of you had woken up late, so there was absolutely no time for your pre-shift, morning quickie—much to your dismay.

Luckily, though, traffic was q—not bad, which gave you and your fiancé about 10 minutes in the car.

He parked towards the corner, which is out of the ordinary for him, but there was no way he’d be able to survive a 12 hour shift without getting his hands on you.

And you felt the same way, so it worked out.

Dennis kisses you passionately as you straddle him in the driver’s seat. His hands glide from the back of your neck to your spine, and then eventually the curve of your ass.

You can’t help but moan in delight once he gives you a firm squeeze—almost as if he needed to in order to breathe.

Between your shared kisses and Dennis’ light panting, you’re sure the windows are starting to fog up. Barely any light enters the car between the dimly lit parking garage and the sun that is slow to wake. He can’t see all of your lovely features because of the shadows’ influx—but what he can see makes his heart skip a beat and his pants start to twitch.

Eyelashes tickle his cheeks as your closed eyes flutter ever-so slightly. Your urgency brings your brows to furrow; Dennis’ hand goes to caress the side of your face then lightly brushes the lobe of your ear. His touch reminds you of a dandelion that sways through the sky: both gentle and faint.

Your hands grip his scrubs tightly, as if your world were crumbling and your icy-blue-eyed man was your only salvation.

Once Dennis feels you start to pull away, he lets out a noise akin to a whine, murmuring a soft ‘no’ against your lips.

“Time check?” You ask breathily with a love-struck grin and a twinkling gaze before diving back into the enchanting pool that is Dennis’ lips.

He peers over your shoulder at the digital clock, blinking simultaneously as it shines the numbers ‘6:55’.

Dennis parts briefly to murmur, “Five minutes.”

You scan his face, eyes glinting with something Dennis reckons is far from innocence. “Think I can get you off in five?” You ask with an experimental roll of your hips. The doctor that sits beneath you groans and immediately places his hands on your hips, halting you from moving any more. “Jesus—” he huffs. “Y-you and I both know you can—oh god…” A gasp rips from his parted mouth.

He clears his throat sharply. “Angel, I cannot be two minutes i-into my shift and already change my scrubs..!” Dennis sighs as your tongue licks the side of his neck. “They’ll—mmn! They’ll know, baby,” Dennis whispers, because he knows that anything louder will display his growing need for you.

Your grinding stops and it takes everything in Dennis not to whine. You take your index finger and drag it down the slope of his nose, watching as his slightly glossy eyes follow your movements carefully.

“If you want me to stop, then I will, love.”

Dennis swallows, taking another peak at the clock.

6:57.

Three minutes until the two of you had to waltz into the ED and pretend as if you weren’t dry humping in the car.

Dennis knows his boner isn’t going away without a little help in three minutes.

“Oh fuck—please—” Dennis grits through his teeth before rolling your hips on his lap. You sigh and let your head tilt back for a second. Dennis grinds up into you with hurried movements; his chest rises and falls quickly as he pants.

“Fuck,” you whisper with an inhale. One of Dennis' hands lightly presses on your back, pushing you to the crook of his neck. “Oh god…” Dennis groans, voice oozing with rasp.

You lean back into him, kissing his lips with feverish intent. You’re starting to lose where you stop and where Dennis begins, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.

That is, until the harsh rocking of your hips results in your ass hitting the steering wheel.

Specifically the horn.

“Holy—”

“Jesus chr—”

Teeth clash into each other; foreheads bump; curses leave mouths in flurried strings.

You’re quick to raise from Dennis' neck, gasping for air as you look down in shock. He looks equally as perplexed, but his stare bores over your shoulder.

You glance back and your eyes widen to the size of a saucer.

The corner of the parker garage is now being illuminated by the hazard lights on Dennis' car, which somehow turned on in your panicked frenzy.

You whip your head around the opposite way, nearly giving yourself whiplash as your finger scrambles to the button.

You feel Dennis sit up beneath you, and the two of you sigh in relief once the lights stop their blinking. You pinch your eyes shut, and when you open them, you take a second to look out of the windshield.

That’s when you realize that it didn’t matter how quickly you turned the hazards off—because the damage had already been done.

In front of you stands none other than Frank Langdon, who completely fails—though you don’t think he’s trying—to mask his state of pure and utter disbelief.

His shoulders are wound up tight; his palms face outwards, as if his astonishment won’t allow him to even close his fists; and if it were possible, his jaw would be completely on the floor.

You feel Dennis stiffen underneath you, and all you can do is gape at Frank like a fish out of water. The car is dead silent—you and Dennis can’t even let out a peep through your bated breath.

The brunette’s eyes flicker between you and Dennis before a mischievous smirk fixes its way onto his chiseled face.

“No—no,” you exclaim worrisomely, holding your hand out to the glass for Frank to ‘wait’ as he starts to walk backwards. You fumble to gather your bearings before opening the driver’s seat door.

Dennis sputters, “Wait! Baby—” but before he can finish, you’re hopping out of the car, trekking after the senior resident with ferocity Dennis has never seen you exhibit.

He sighs, running a hand over his face before adjusting his scrubs as he listens to the sound of your ranting grow faint.

Dennis comes in at 7:02 with his head down and an unusual pep in his step.

“Running from the cops, Huckleberry?” Trinity snorts when he passes by, but he doesn’t have the will to respond.

Despite the wave of doctors rolling in, Dennis finds himself relieved when he makes it back to the central hub without another question thrown in his direction.

“Hey, Prince Charming!” Frank chirps.

You hiss in Frank's direction. You want to walk over to Dennis when you hear him groan, but you decide to look at your clipboard for the upteenth time—you totally weren’t re-reading each word on the page waiting for Dennis to walk in. absolutely not!

Frank crosses his arms, glancing at his watch before setting his sights on your fiancé. “Few minutes late, Whitaker. Everything alright this morning?”

“Just fine,” Dennis mutters with annoyance.

Trinity muses, “Doesn’t sound fine.”

Frank suddenly laughs—it’s both loud and obnoxious. “Holy shit, Whitaker! Doesn’t look fine either, look at that!”

Both you and Dennis freeze as if the world had stopped. Your eyes shoot up to him and the two of you quickly discover the red-ish mark that adorns the side of his neck.

You’re too far away to see the teeth marks as well, but Trinity isn’t.

She’s quick to exclaim, “No fucking way!” This causes a few heads to turn, including Robby's as he looks over quizzedly for a beat. Dennis immediately shushes Trinity with a finger to his lips and a hand shooting outwards.

“Both of you keep it down, please!”

Frank hums. “Bet you couldn’t keep it down in the car with Sunshine, huh, Dennis?"

Trinity guffaws, “Oh-ho, this is good!” She leans in—which is an unusual sight for you all.

Frank murmurs, despite Dennis' protesting, “Saw those two getting frisky in the parking garage like 10 minutes ago.” he points between you and Dennis, and suddenly you’re fascinated by the boring paint color of the Pitt. “Clumsy asses honked the horn,” he adds with a snicker.

Trinity has a cocky grin on her face. “Y’know, this is the first time you’ve proven yourself useful,” she says, watching as the smirk on Frank's face dim slightly whilst he tilts his head at her.

“But you two,” she whips her head around in your direction since Dennis had gradually gravitated towards you, her ponytail swishing with her every move. “You two—are bad,” she huffs a laugh.

Frank hears his name called from the opposite direction and starts to head over, but not before grinning and saying, “Next time you decide to bring your sexcapades to work, bring some concealer, yeah?”

You clear your throat instantly, looking down at your clipboard. Dennis' face beats cherry red, making Trinity laugh once again before pulling her phone out from the pocket of her scrubs.

She then takes a picture of Dennis' face before he can stop her. “This is laugh of the week, Huckleberry! Oh my god!” She then struts away with a newfound sense of joy.

“So,” Dennis whistles, rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous tick of his that stemmed from Robby. “It could be worse…”

Dana then makes her presence known, peering over her glasses. “Kid, nothing could be worse than getting caught in a supply closet.” She then walks away with a small smirk gracing her lips, leaving both you and Dennis to stutter out in defense.

Yeah, next time, you’ll leave the quickies for the mornings at home.

Maybe.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

What almost was

Frank Langdon X fem!reader:

Warnings: graphic medical scenes, severe blood and injury, emotional trauma, intense hospital emergency, near-death experiences, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort vibes, happy ending, established relationship, suggestive language, possible inaccurate medical terms

Word count: 3.4K The Pitt masterlist

a/n: this was requested by a lovely anon

You were pulled out of your dream by the shrill screeching of your alarm. Your body flinched out of sleep, a groan escaping your lips as the noise continued to blare.

For some reason, Frank liked to be woken by what he referred to as “sounds of nature,” which meant that for the past four years you’d been waking up to the sound of roosters cawing.

You’d tried to tell Frank that people hadn’t woken up to that sound since maybe the 1800s, but he didn’t seem to care.

Frank liked waking up like he was living on a farm, and you liked seeing him wake up happy, so you sacrificed your earbuds in the name of love.

It did not, however, mean you enjoyed it.

You didn’t like the alarm in general — it meant peeling yourself out of bed and dragging your body toward what was sure to be a grueling shift — but you disliked Frank’s alarm even more.

You tugged your pillow from beneath your head and pulled it over your face to dull the sound.

“Make it stop,” you groaned into the pillow, your voice muffled.

After a second, the screeching finally stopped, and the bedroom was swallowed by silence once again. You sighed softly, grateful for the lack of noise.

Warm hands wrapped around your waist as Frank burrowed his nose under the pillow you were hiding beneath, his head settling in the crook of your neck. His nose bumped against your ear, tickling you and drawing out a soft laugh.

“Morning, baby,” Frank whispered against your ear.

You tugged the pillow off your face, turning your head so you could press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Morning,” you whispered against his smile.

You turned your body around, letting Frank pull you tight against his chest. You breathed in, savoring that familiar scent that just seemed to come with Frank. You wanted to stay like this for the rest of the day—unfortunately, you had work.

The alarm started blaring again. You groaned, which only made Frank laugh. He reached back blindly for his phone and shut it off.

“We better get up before we’re late.”

You slapped a hand over your face.

“Oh God. No. I refuse.”

Frank laughed again and tugged you even closer as you let your body sink deeper into the mattress. He pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Just think—tomorrow we’re both off. No alarms. No trauma bays. No patients throwing up on my shoes.”

His lips dragged along your cheek.

“We can stay in bed as long as we want… go to Altius for dinner… and then I’m taking you home, and you’re gonna be screaming my name all night long.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Frank.”

He kissed that spot just under your ear—the one he knew turned you into absolute putty. 

“What? I’m motivating you.”

When he pulled back, you brushed your nose against his, leaning in for another kiss.

“First we have to work twelve hours,” he whispered against your mouth.

You moved back with a dramatic groan.

“Way to ruin the moment.”

The smell of stale coffee and antiseptic hit as soon as you walked through the double doors. You and Frank ended up standing shoulder to shoulder at the board, your name already splattered under three cases.

“Looks like I’ve got a possible radius and ulna fracture,” you said. “What’d they give you, Frankie?”

He squinted at his line. “A fuckin’ abscess drainage. I swear they’re assigning me the boring ones on purpose.”

You bumped your elbow into him. “That’s because you need to be nicer to people.”

Frank turned like he was ready to protest, then your offer sank in. “You’re taking the abscess?” he said, eyes brightening.

You shrugged, casual. “Sure. You can take the fracture. Grab Mel and knock it out.”

He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear.

“God, you’ve never been sexier. I’m tempted to bend you over the nurses’ station right now.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him lightly.

“Calm down, cowboy. This just means you owe me. Next case I don’t want? You’re taking it. No complaints.”

He backed away with that stupid wink.

“You got it, baby.”

As you walked toward Dana, she shook her head at the sight of Frank disappearing into the hall.

“You are way too nice to him,” she muttered.

“It’s my weakness,” you said, because… yeah. It was.

You found Javardi triple-checking her pockets like she’d misplaced her entire existence.

“Javardi!” you called. “Have you seen an abscess drainage before?”

She perked up. “Not in the ED. I’ve only seen videos.”

“Perfect. You’ll observe this one with me. Ask whatever you need. And then I’ll have Dana assign us the next abscess that comes in — that one’s yours. Deal?”

Her eyes widened like you’d just handed her a Christmas bonus.

“Yes! Thank you!”

The patient was in his late fifties, a big guy, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His chart said thigh abscess. The swelling under the blanket confirmed it.

“Hello, Mr. Bernstein,” you said warmly. “I’ll be your doctor today, and this is Dr. Javardi — she’ll be observing. I understand you have an abscess. How long has this been going on?”

“A week and a half,” he grunted. “Hurts like hell. I don’t even know what I did.”

“They can be really painful,” you said gently. “Today we’ll numb the area, drain it, and get you started on antibiotics and pain control. You may need to come back in a couple days for a dressing change. Any questions?”

“No. Let’s do it.”

You pulled the instrument tray closer. Behind you, Javardi laid out the supplies with careful precision.

“Alright, I’m going to disinfect the area and then inject lidocaine for numbing,” you explained. “The lidocaine burns — I’m sorry in advance.”

As you swabbed the skin, Bernstein glanced at Javardi.

“You a student doctor?”

She smiled shyly. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s impressive. Congrats. What year are you?”

You weren’t paying much attention to the exchange — just focusing on getting this guy fixed up and out of the room as fast as possible. There were other people who needed the bed.

Maybe if you had been listening, you would’ve noticed how he wasn’t even looking at Javardi as she chattered nervously about being a student doctor. Maybe you would’ve caught the exact moment his eyes flicked to the scalpel. The precise second his body leaned forward to grab it.

But you weren’t paying attention.

So you didn’t notice any of it until white-hot pain exploded in your side.

Everything happened at once.

Javardi’s scream tore through the room. The sound that came out of you wasn’t even a scream—more like the air had been punched out of your lungs all at once. Your hand flew to your side, warm blood already slicking your fingers.

Dana burst through the doorway, eyes wide as she searched for the source of the scream. When she saw you slumped on the floor, your palm stained red, she didn’t hesitate.

“Code white! Security — I need security!”

Robby and Ahmed barreled in behind her, going straight for Bernstein. The room detonated into chaos: shouting, the crash of a rolling cart, Bernstein snarling something incoherent as he fought them.

But all of it felt… weirdly distant. Your vision wasn’t focusing the way it should. Your ears rang. The pain was white-hot, stabbing—and then somehow ice-cold underneath.

Dana dropped to her knees beside you, eyes huge. “Jesus—okay, okay—pressure, we need pressure on that wound—Javardi, get Langdon, now!”

You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Dana pressed down on your side, and you let out a raw, broken groan.

“I know, hon. I’m sorry, I know. I have to keep you from bleeding out.”

Frank barreled into the room like someone had launched him from a canon. He didn’t even look at Bernstein or the chaos around him — his eyes found you instantly.

He froze.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Then he dropped to the floor beside you, hands cupping your face, his voice too calm to be real.

“Hey, baby. I’m here. Look at me. Don’t worry.”

His gaze flicked down to where Dana’s hands were drenched in your blood. His eyes snapped back up, meeting Dana’s — her expression mirroring exactly what he felt.

You swallowed hard, tasting metal.

“Frankie…”

“Stay with me, baby,” he blurted, breath shaking. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, okay?”

“We need to move her, Frank — if we don’t, she’ll—” Dana stammered.

“I know!” Frank snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him.

But it wasn’t anger that made him raise his voice — it was fear. Dana knew that, so she didn’t take it personally.

Javardi was talking to Robby, stumbling through an explanation about how she hadn’t seen it coming, how there were no signs of distress. Robby called for Princess, asking her to take Javardi somewhere else — the girl was clearly in shock. Princess nodded, guiding her out by the shoulders. As they passed you, you could hear Javardi sobbing apologies the whole way out.

Someone touched Frank’s shoulder, snapping his attention upward. Mel crouched beside him, her expression sharp and focused.

“What do you need?” she asked.

Frank didn’t hesitate.

“You’re gonna take over pressure. You have to be aggressive. I don’t care if she screams — she’ll bleed out otherwise.”

You barely inhaled before Mel and Dana switched hands.

The scream tore out of you before you could stop it.

Frank gathered you into his arms, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

“We’re going to the trauma bay. Mel — keep that pressure. Don’t stop. One, two, three—”

He stood, muscles tensing as he carried you out while Mel kept her hands clamped to your side.

People jumped out of the way. You heard gasps, someone calling for a crash cart, a nurse shouting to prep a trauma room.

Frank’s breath was hot and ragged against your hair.

“Stay awake,” he kept saying. “Baby, stay awake. Don’t do this.”

Bright lights. Cold air. Too many hands.

They lowered you onto the bed, and you cried out when Mel’s pressure shifted for even a second. Perla grabbed scissors, slicing open your scrubs and exposing the full wound. It wasn’t small. A sickening amount of blood pooled beneath you.

Frank’s voice cracked.

“Fuck.”

Robby rushed in beside you.

“I need TXA on board now! Give me ketamine, two bags of O-neg STAT! Langdon, keep her with you!”

Frank cupped your cheek with blood-soaked fingers, forcing your gaze up to his.

“Hey. I’m right here. Stay with me. Stay calm.”

Your vision shimmered. Your ears buzzed.

Frank tried to smile.

“You always said if you were ever hurt you’d want Robby as your doctor instead of me. That’s still kinda rude, by the way.”

You actually felt a weak flicker of amusement.

Your hand — slippery with blood — lifted halfway before you could stop it. Frank caught it instantly, pressing it to his mouth.

“Frankie…” you gurgled.

His breathing faltered.

Behind him, a monitor beeped erratically.

Then— It didn’t.

A flat, continuous tone filled the room.

Everyone froze.

Frank’s head whipped toward the monitor.

“No,” he whispered.

The world went silent.

Robby shouted from somewhere far away, “Push epi! Start compressions! Now!”

Frank snapped back into motion and climbed onto the gurney, starting compressions himself. A sickening crack echoed—your sternum giving way.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered raggedly as he pumped your chest. “But you’re not leaving me. You don’t get to leave.”

Minutes stretched—endless, brutal.

Twenty minutes later, Robby’s voice was quiet.

“Frank… it’s time.”

“No!” Frank barked, still compressing. “We keep going! She’s not gone!”

He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours.

“Tomorrow—I was gonna propose. The ring’s hidden in my locker, top shelf. You can’t miss that. You promised me a lifetime, baby—don’t you dare—”

Dana’s voice broke. “Frank… she’s gone.”

His entire body trembled. Tears streamed down his face as he choked, “We’re supposed to get married. Have kids. Grow old. I love her. I love her—”

Robby placed his hands on Frank’s. “Frank… time of death is 11:42.”

Frank collapsed over you with a raw, broken sound no one in the room would ever forget.

Mel never stopped applying pressure.

And then—

A blip on the monitor.

Another.

Robby turned. “Dana—pulse check!”

“I have something!” Dana gasped.

“Dr. King—on the gurney. DO NOT lift your hand. Hang another liter. Push norepi. OR, now!”

Frank kissed your forehead before they raced you out of the room. He stood there shaking, covered in your blood.

Robby took his shoulders. “We got her back. She has a shot. Garcia will take care of her. She’s a fighter.”

Frank sobbed. “This was my case. She switched with me.”

“No,” Robby said firmly. “Don’t do that. You saved her. Those compressions saved her.”

Frank broke, pulling Robby into a hug. “Thank you for not giving up on her.”

“It’s not me you should be thanking. Mel’s the one who kept pressure even after we called it. She’s the one who gave her a chance.”

Robby patted Frank’s back as he finally pulled away from the hug.

“She’s gonna make it, Frank.”

He nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the door they’d wheeled you through. Robby left the room, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts for a moment.

He felt exhausted all of a sudden, the adrenaline that had been pumping through him finally draining from his body. He stumbled out of the room, his eyes immediately finding Mel talking to Robby. Her scrubs and hands were covered in blood.

Your blood.

Frank’s stomach lurched at the sight, but he forced himself to walk toward her anyway. Mel’s head snapped over to him at the sound of his shoes against the floor.

“Dr. Langdon, they’ve started the procedure, she’s—”

But before she could finish, Frank stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, desperate hug. Mel let out a startled sound. Frank’s voice broke against her shoulder.

 “God, you saved her, Mel. You fuckin’ saved her. I can’t thank you enough.”

Mel awkwardly patted his back, still clearly unsure of what to do.

“You’re welcome, Dr. Langdon.”

When he finally let her go Dana was at his side, her hand moving to rest on his back as she gave him a soft look.

“Frank. Go shower. I promise—if we hear anything, I’ll come get you myself.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, like leaving the hallway meant abandoning you somehow—but Dana just held his stare. Eventually his shoulders dropped, and he nodded.

The locker room felt wrong. Too quiet. Too normal. Frank stripped out of his blood-soaked scrubs with shaking hands. When he stepped under the water, the red spiraled down the drain in thin, diluted streams. He pressed his palms to the tile and let the water hit the back of his neck. His chest hurt. His eyes burned. His breath kept catching in that half-sob way he couldn't stop.

By the time he walked out, hair still dripping, fresh scrubs clinging to him, Javardi was waiting. Her face crumpled as soon as she saw him. Frank could tell just from looking at her that she'd been crying just as much as he had. 

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I froze. I got in the way. I should’ve—”

Frank let out a sigh, his hand moving to rest gently on Javardi’s shoulder as her face twisted into a deep frown.

“This wasn’t your fault, Javardi. You couldn’t have known what he was going to do—there weren’t any signs. You said so yourself.”

Javardi stared at him, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? Just go home. Get some rest.”

She nodded, crying even harder, and backed away down the hallway.

Hours later, you slowly slipped into consciousness.

Everything hurt. A deep, throbbing, full-body ache that made your breath stutter. When you tried to shift—even a little—a sharp stab tore through your side, and you let out a groan.

Frank jerked awake instantly.

His head had been resting on the mattress beside you, his fingers tangled with yours. His eyes shot open—red, puffy, glassy. He looked wrecked.

You blinked at him, your voice scratchy. “Frankie… you look terrible.”

He let out a weak laugh—half relief, half broken sob. “You literally died, and that’s the first thing you say?”

You tried to laugh, but the motion made your voice twist in pain. Frank immediately shushed you, lifting from his seat so he could press a soft kiss to your temple.

“God, I love you,” he whispered against your skin—skin that, thankfully, was no longer cold and clammy like it had been the last time he kissed you.

“I love you too.” You squeezed his hand as best you could as he settled back into his seat.

For a long moment he just stared at you, drinking in the fact that you were alive—breathing—talking. The adrenaline was gone, but the terror still clung to him.

“What… what happened?” you whispered.

Frank swallowed thickly.

“We almost lost you.” His voice cracked. “We did lose you. For a minute.” He dropped his forehead to your hand. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You smiled faintly. “I’ll try my best.”

Frank let out this shaky little laugh at your words — the kind of sound someone makes after almost drowning. It lasted all of two seconds before the smile fell right off his face.

He went quiet. Completely still. And then his chin wobbled. His breath hitched. His eyes filled again, overflowing before he even tried to stop it.

“Frank…” you whispered.

He shook his head like he was mad at himself for breaking. A tear hit the blanket near your hip. You squeezed his hand weakly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. 

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay. I promise.”

His shoulders caved inward, like everything he’d been holding back finally punched through.

“I was so fucking scared,” he choked out. “I thought—God, I thought I lost you for good.”

You dragged in a slow breath, ignoring the ache that lanced through your ribs. 

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked at you, like he still didn’t quite believe it. Then he let out this humorless little scoff.

“Life’s too fucking short, isn’t it?”

You blinked, confused. “Frank…?”

He inhaled sharply, sat back just a bit, and wiped his face with the heel of his hand. Then his gaze softened in this heartbreaking way, and he shook his head.

“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “Better circumstances, you know? Something romantic. Something… not this.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

He swallowed hard. “But after today? After watching you—after hearing that monitor—” His voice cracked again. “You never know what’s gonna happen. So I’m done waiting. I’m done pretending I’m not ready.”

He reached into the pocket of his scrub pants — the new pair Dana forced him into — and pulled out a small, black velvet box. His hand shook.

Your breath caught, and pain flared in your torso. You let out a soft gasp.

 “Frank—are you seriously proposing to me while I’m lying in a hospital bed?”

He gave a watery laugh. 

“Yeah. I guess I am.” His thumb brushed the lid of the box. “So… what do you say?”

You stared at him — at his wrecked face, his trembling lip, his desperate, hopeful eyes — and your heart swelled painfully in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Frank let out a relieved, broken laugh that instantly dissolved into more tears. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours, careful of all your lines and bandages.

“Thank God,” he breathed. “Thank God.”

He kissed your hand — over and over — whispering your name each time like a prayer.

Frank slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were still trembling, letting out a shaky breath like he’d been holding it for hours. His eyes flicked up to yours, still glossy but finally… lighter.

“So,” he murmured, giving you that crooked, exhausted smile, “how’s it feel to be Mrs. Langdon?”

You blinked, took the smallest inhale — and immediately regretted it.

“Honestly?” you rasped. “Like shit.”

There was half a beat of silence before Frank barked out a laugh, trying to smother it against your arm.

You groaned, “No—don’t make me laugh, it hurts—”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, absolutely not sorry, still laughing through what might’ve been lingering tears.

You started laughing too, breathy and pained but real, and reached over to squeeze his hand. “God, we’re a disaster.”

Frank dropped his forehead against your arm, still smiling. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You smiled at him, nose bumping into his as you gave him a soft kiss before whispering, “Me neither.”

[deerfawnn]

reward

pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: with frank unable to join the bets while he catches up on his rehab bills, you decide to up the stakes in a different way. you propose a new reward: a kiss. from you. content warnings: mention of rehab and withdrawals, mention of one rough patient but no details, mostly fluff a/n: hai lovelies!! i'm so pittpilled at the moment so my inbox is open pls send in your lovely requests

You watched as Frank stared at the betting pool pinned to the bulletin board. A few of the other residents were gathered around, laughing as they scribbled their names down and threw in a few dollars. For a moment, you saw the competitive edge he used to wear so easily, flicker across his face.

Then he shook his head. "Gotta pass. Still catching up on rehab bills."

The words came out casual enough, delivered with a small shrug. But you noticed the way his eyes lingered on the board for just a second longer than necessary before he turned away.

Betting on stupid stuff had been his thing. Every shift, he'd have his name in some pool or another. It was part of who he was here, part of how he connected with everyone. And now he couldn't even do that.

You found him a few minutes later, leaning against the top of a desk near the nurses' station. His forearms were pressed flat against the surface, body angled forward as he squinted at a patient chart, brow furrowed in concentration. He looked tired.

You moved quietly, slipping into the space beside him until your shoulder brushed against his.

He turned his head, and when he saw it was you, something softened in his expression. "Hi," you said, offering a small smile.

And he smiled right back. "Hey." Then he looked away, back down at the chart in his hands.

It happened a lot these days, you'd noticed.

Ten months. That's how long it had been since everything fell apart. Ten months since you'd both been so excited about your first date. Ten months since he'd been exposed, since Robby had confronted him.

And then he was gone.

Rehab. You texted and called him every week. You'd even looked into visiting, researched the facility, figured out the hours. But when you finally got him on the phone, he'd asked you not to come. Explained that the withdrawals were too awful and that he didn't want you to see him like this.

So you waited.

And now he was back, and every time he looked at you, you could see the shame and guilt written all over his face. The absolute terror that you must hate him for what he did, for who he turned out to be.

You didn't, of course. But he didn't believe that yet.

You watched him for another moment, the way his jaw tightened as he read, the way his thumb traced the edge of the chart without really seeing it.

"You're not participating in the bet," you said softly, gently pulling him out of his head.

Frank glanced at you, just for a second, before his eyes dropped back to the paperwork. He wouldn't let himself look at you too long. You'd noticed that too. Like he was afraid that if he really let himself remember how pretty you were and how much he'd wanted that date, it would hurt too much.

"Yeah, got too many unpaid bills," he muttered. He grimaced slightly, and you could feel the discomfort radiating off him.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, gathering yourself, before turning your head toward him. "You can still participate in the bet," you spoke softly, your voice carrying a gentle warmth.

Frank looked back at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

But this time, you remained looking down, your gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between you. And he ,foolishly, used that moment to really look at you.

Your hair had gotten longer.

It was pulled back in a ponytail, the way you always wore it during shifts so it wouldn't get in the way. But the length of it now, the way it swept back from your face, the few shorter pieces that had escaped to frame your temples, he noticed all of it. And then he turned his head away immediately, before you could catch him staring.

"We could make a bet together," you said softly, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. "And the reward wouldn't be money."

Frank looked down at you properly now, his blue eyes piercing as they searched your face. His gaze held yours, unwavering, as the silence stretched between you.

"What would be the reward then?" he asked after a long moment.

"A kiss."

Frank's eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared beneath the strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. His lips parted slightly, then closed, then parted again as he processed the word.

"A kiss," he repeated.

"Yup." You held his stare, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered in your chest. "If you win, you'll get a kiss from me." You tilted your head slightly, the picture of casual confidence even though your pulse was racing. "You can just tell me what you think made Westbridge shut down, and if you're right, you'll get a kiss."

You said it so simply, like it was nothing, like you weren't offering him something you'd both been wanting for nearly a year now.

Frank's eyes moved rapidly across your face, searching, trying to gauge if you were messing with him. He knew you, knew your sense of humor, knew how you liked to tease. But this felt different.

"So?" you asked, and you managed to look assured and unbothered. But your fingers, hidden from his view, were tapping rapidly against the top of the desk, giving away every ounce of nerves you pretended not to have.

Frank stared at you for another long moment. Then slowly, a grin spread across his face. The first real grin you'd seen from him since he came back. "Okay," he said. "You got a deal."

And you smiled, relieved. "Yeah?"

He smiled further at your smile, like he couldn't help it, like seeing you happy made him happy whether he wanted it to or not. "Yeah."

You nodded, smiling to yourself, feeling warmth spread through your chest. You were about to push off from the desk, about to go find a case to work on and give yourself a moment to process what just happened, when Frank's voice stopped you.

"You—" He cleared his throat, and when you glanced back at him, you saw color rising on his cheeks. He closed his eyes briefly, like he was embarrassed by what he was about to ask but couldn't stop himself. "You are talking about a—" He swallowed hard. "A kiss on the lips?"

The question hung in the air between you, and you could practically hear him cursing himself internally for how awkward it sounded.

You couldn't help your giggle.

"Yeah, Frank." You grinned, tilting your head as you watched him narrow his eyes, realization dawning that you were enjoying his embarrassment just a little too much. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "I'm talking about a kiss on the lips."

His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shook his head slightly, a huff of embarrassed laughter escaping him. You grinned wider, delighted by his flustered reaction, by the way the confident doctor who used to charm everyone had been reduced to blushing over the word kiss.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and you caught the small smile he was trying to hide. "You're enjoying this way too much," he muttered.

"Maybe," you admitted, still smiling. "But you agreed. No takesies backsies."

Frank laughed and for a moment, he looked like the man you'd wanted to go on that date with ten months ago. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

"Any more questions?" you asked, your grin turning playful. "I can send you a tutorial on how to kiss if you want, too."

Frank stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. The old Frank would have fired back with something smooth that would have made you blush instead. But this Frank just shook his head with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny," he mumbled, but the smile didn't leave his face.

You grinned, warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him actually smiling. Before you could overthink it, you reached out and squeezed his bicep.

"Just write your theories for the shutdown on some paper and slip it into my locker, yeah?" you asked, still smiling up at him.

Frank glanced down at your hand on his arm, his gaze lingering there for a moment. Then he looked back up at you and nodded slowly. "Yeah."

You smiled once more, squeezing his bicep again and then you turned and walked back, disappearing into one of the patient rooms without looking back.

Frank stared after you. For a long moment, he just stood there, leaning against the desk, his eyes fixed on the empty space where you'd been. His mind was struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You wanted to kiss him.

That was still on the table. After everything, after ten months of silence, after he'd practically bailed on you, after you'd found out he was an addict and a thief, you still wanted to kiss him. He pressed his palm flat against the desk.

You wanted to kiss him.

The thought replayed itself over and over, each time feeling more impossible than the last. He'd ghosted you. Not intentionally, but effectively all the same.

He shook his head slowly.

He remembered that morning he asked you out so clearly. It had been early, barely 8am, and he'd stopped by your locker with a coffee. Your usual order, because of course he knew your usual order, he'd been paying attention for months by then. You'd turned around when he said your name, and the sight of you had hit him like it always did. Your hair was slightly messy from your commute and you'd looked so pretty it had just burst out of him.

"Dinner?" he'd said. Just like that. No smooth lead up, no charming preamble.

You'd held the coffee he handed you and stared at him for what felt like fifteen full seconds. "What?" was all you'd said.

And he'd stared back, mouth opening and closing like a fish, suddenly terrified by his own impulsiveness. But then he'd swallowed and asked again, properly this time. "Do you want to get dinner with me?"

"Dinner with you?" you'd repeated. He'd been ready to bolt at that point. But then your hand had shot out and grabbed his arm. "Hey, are you serious?" you'd asked. "You're not messing with me, right?"

He'd shaken his head immediately. "No."

And then you'd smiled. "I'd love to."

He'd grinned so hard his face hurt. "Yeah?"

You'd nodded again, practically bouncing on your toes, your excitement bleeding through even though you tried to play it cool. "Yes, yeah."

"I'll pick you up at 7pm, okay?" he'd asked, already planning it in his head, already thinking about where to take you, what to wear, how not to screw this up.

And you'd nodded so enthusiastically. "Yes, yeah. Okay. Seven."

He'd walked away from that locker on cloud nine.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head again in disbelief. He couldn't believe you wanted to kiss him.Something he'd dreamed about doing the entire time the day he asked you out. He remembered thinking about it for long stretches, letting his mind wander when he should have been focused on patients.

If he'd do it as he dropped you off after dinner. If he should go for it directly after the meal, while you were still sitting across from him, candlelight and all that. If he should stick with one kiss or let it turn into more. If you'd prefer soft and slow or something bolder. If he should grab your waist. If he should start with touching your waist and work his way up to your face.

It was like he was a teenage boy all over again.

He'd thought he had his game figured out by now. Thought he'd matured past the nervous pacing and overthinking. He'd asked girls out plenty of times before, thought he knew how this whole thing worked.

Nope. You played him down to a boy. Every time.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of the ER with a chart in his hands, realizing he was going to have to deal with this all over again.

God help him get through the rest of his shift, because he was sure he was going to stare at your lips all day. Every time you walked past, every time you spoke, every time you smiled, he'd be watching, waiting, thinking about that kiss he'd somehow managed to wrangle back into existence.

He pressed his lips together and forced his eyes back down to the chart in his hands. Focus. He needed to focus.

But before he could even finish the first sentence, a piece of paper appeared at his elbow.

He looked up to find Princess standing there, arms crossed, expression entirely too knowing. "Write your theories," she said flatly. "Now. Or you'll miss out on that kiss."

Frank stared at her, mouth opening slightly in confusion. And then he turned his head slightly and met Perlah's stare from across the nurses' station. She was leaning against the counter, a massive grin spread across her face. She'd clearly caught the entire conversation as well.

Frank just shook his head. "Can you guys like not listen in on other people's conversations for once in your life?" he mumbled, reaching for the paper.

"No," Princess said suddenly from right behind him.

He jumped slightly, when had she moved?, and shot her a look over his shoulder. She just raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered, and walked away. He sighed, turning back to the paper in his hands.

"Get it right!" Perlah shouted after him, her voice carrying across the ER with zero subtlety. He heard her immediately start gossiping with Princess again. He sighed again and ran his free hand through his hair as he walked back toward his computer.

Get it right. As if he needed the pressure.

Throughout the day, Frank was a man on a mission.

He ran from person to person, cornering anyone who looked like they might have even a scrap of knowledge about Westbridge. Nurses. Techs. A bewildered janitor who just wanted to mop the hallway in peace. He even asked Garcia.

She'd stared at him for a long moment, her expression caught between confusion and delight, before a slow grin spread across her face. "Oh my God," she'd said, voice dripping with amusement. "You're actually trying to win that kiss, aren't you?"

Frank had opened his mouth to deny it, but she'd already started laughing. A laugh that made everyone around them turn and look.

"You're pathetic," she'd informed him cheerfully. "I love it. No, I don't know anything about Westbridge, but please keep running around. This is the best entertainment I've had all shift."

He'd sighed, shaken his head, and walked away to the sound of her still laughing behind him.

Now he found himself back at the nurses' station, leaning against the counter with his elbows, feeling slightly defeated. He'd talked to a dozen people and had exactly nothing to show for it.

"Dana," he called, and she raised her head from the paperwork she'd been buried in.

"Yeah?" she said, her tone distracted but not unkind.

"You got any idea what happened to Westbridge?"

Dana considered him for a moment, then shook her head. "No, kid. Otherwise I'd be winning that bet myself." She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Why you asking?"

Frank straightened up, pushing himself off the counter. "No reason," he said quickly, too quickly, judging by the way her eyebrow shot up.

He looked around the ER, scanning faces, looking for you. It was habit by now, this constant awareness of where you were in the room. He always knew where you were. Always made sure to see you at least once an hour, even if it was just a glance across the department.

But he hadn't seen you in at least two.

His chest tightened slightly as he scanned again. Nothing. No sign of you anywhere.

"Think she's in the stairwell," Dana said quietly, and Frank turned back to her. She nodded toward the door leading to the stairs, her expression softening. "Had a rough patient."

Frank's heart dropped.

You rarely went to the stairwell. Like, truly rarely. It was your spot, he knew, the place you went when things got really bad, when you needed to be alone. But usually, you came to him first. Usually, you found him in the middle of whatever he was doing and just stood there until he noticed, until he pulled you aside and let you decompress.

But that dynamic had been broken now, hadn't it? Ten months of silence had probably erased that right along with everything else. He hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor.

Dana watched him, reading the conflict on his face. "She'll want you there," she said softly. "Go."

Frank hesitated one more second, then turned on his heels and walked toward the stairwell door.

The stairwell was quiet, the way it always was. He stepped inside and immediately looked down. And there you were.

Sitting on the lowest staircase, your back against the wall, your knees pulled up slightly. You weren't crying, which was something, but you looked tired. Frank hesitated at the top, his hand on the railing. Then he stepped down softly, one stair at a time, until he was just behind you.

You turned your head and met his eyes."Hi," you said softly, and you smiled.

You scooted slightly, making room, and he didn't hesitate this time. He stepped down and sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

"Hey," he finally spoke, his voice quiet. "You okay?"

"Rough patient," was all you said softly. You didn't go into details, and he didn't need you to. He knew that sometimes you just needed to sit with someone, not talk about it.

You scooted closer and put your head on his shoulder. He put his arm around your back, his hand resting gently on your far shoulder, and started brushing softly up and down.

You sighed. It was barely audible, but Frank heard it clearly. And when he noticed it was a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't believe that he was still capable of making you feel this way.

You pressed closer, your weight shifting slightly against him, and he welcomed it.

"I missed you," you suddenly spoke, your voice muffled slightly by his shoulder. You kept your head there, hidden, finally having the peace of not worrying about seeing his facial expressions or getting nervous from his pretty face.

Frank's hand, which had been brushing softly against your back, traveled higher. Until his fingers reached the back of your head and started threading gently through your hair. "Missed you too," he mumbled. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

"I'm sorry."

The words were quiet you almost missed them. You stayed still, barely breathing, to hear him better.

"For what I did," he continued, his voice even softer now. "With the date." He swallowed hard, and you felt the movement against your cheek. "I—" He stopped. Started again. "And for lying about the pills. And for stealing."

And as he said it, you both knew what he meant. You'd worked countless shifts together. Treated countless patients. Every pill you'd ever handed out, every medication you'd administered, some of those had been stolen first by him.

You'd thought about that over the weeks since everything came out. Thought about it a lot, actually. But mostly, mostly, you'd thought about it with sadness, that you hadn't noticed, that he'd been suffering right next to you and you'd been completely blind to it.

You lifted your head off his shoulder now, needing to see him. His blue eyes met yours, and what you found there made your heart break. It was pure fear. Fear of your reaction, fear that this would be the moment you finally turned away.

"You don't need to apologize to me."

But Frank shook his head immediately. "Yeah, I do." His voice cracked slightly. "I betrayed your trust. I used our—" He hesitated, the word catching in his throat. "Our relationship to steal from patients."

He didn't say friendship. You noticed that immediately. He said relationship, like he knew it had always been more than that, like he understood that what was between you couldn't be reduced to something so simple.

You stared at him for a long moment, taking in the way his eyes searched yours. And you realized that maybe he needed this. "Okay," you said softly. "Thank you for apologizing, Frank."

His shoulders sagged slightly, almost imperceptibly, relief so profound you could feel it radiating off him. You watched him for a while longer. Then you looked back down at the steps below you, breaking the intensity of the moment just slightly.

"So," you said, a hint of playfulness creeping into your voice. "How's your bet going?"

And Frank let out the biggest sigh in the entire world. It was dramatic and exaggerated. "That bad?" you laughed.

He just shook his head slowly, mournfully, his expression so defeated. "That bad," he confirmed with another heavy sigh.

You smiled softly as he kept talking, apparently needing to unload. "I've asked everyone," he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "Literally everyone. Nurses, techs, that janitor who definitely thought I was crazy. I even asked Garcia."

You raised an eyebrow. "Garcia?"

"Who gave me a bunch of crap," he confirmed, pushing a hand through his hair to fix it, a nervous habit you recognized.

You started giggling and Frank smiled. He watched you as you calmed down, your giggles fading, your shoulders still shaking slightly with the last remnants of amusement. And then you finally turned your head, met his eyes and froze.

Because he was staring at you with that soft smile still playing on his lips, the one that said he'd been watching you this whole time and enjoying every second of it.

You got shy immediately. He saw the way your eyes widened slightly, the way you broke eye contact and looked away like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Frank's smile widened. Turned cocky, even.

Because yeah. Yeah, he was still capable of this. Still capable of turning you shy, of making you look away first, of having some small effect on you after everything. After ten months and a destroyed reputation and more shame than he knew what to do with, he could still do this.

You kept your gaze fixed on the stairs, pretending to be very interested in the concrete, and Frank let himself enjoy the moment.

"Your hair's longer," he spoke finally.

His hand came up to your ponytail, tentative at first. When you didn't pull away, he gently wrapped a strand around his finger, twirling it slowly, watching the way the light caught the ends.

You smiled. "Yeah. Thought I'd grow it out a bit." You tilted your head slightly, watching him watch your hair. "You like it?"

He kept twirling, seemingly mesmerized. "Love it," he mumbled.

You smiled wider, then let your eyes drift to his hair, perfectly styled and gelled back. You raised an eyebrow.

"Yours is fully gelled back," you observed. "What happened to letting your hair breathe?" You were teasing, and he knew it. And in response he lightly tugged on your ponytail, just enough to make you sway slightly, and you giggled.

He let go of your hair and reached up to touch his own, fingers running lightly over the styled strands. "You don't like it?" he asked, and his voice was quieter now.

Your smile softened immediately. "I like it," you assured him gently. "Makes you look really serious." You tilted your head, letting your grin turn playful again. "Which I know you're not."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm serious. I can be serious."

You just looked at him, letting the silence stretch. "Frank." He held your stare, chin lifted slightly, like he was daring you to disagree. You grinned. "Sure. If that makes you feel better."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as if deeply wounded by your disbelief. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, betraying him completely.

"I'm just joking," you said, your voice gentler now. "You look as handsome as ever."

You raised your hands slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn't. Your palms cupped his face, warm against his skin, and you felt him exhale softly at the contact. One hand stayed there, resting against his cheek, while the other moved up toward his hairline.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as you carefully picked two strands near his forehead and pulled them down gently, freeing them from the gel. You rubbed the strands between your fingers, working the product out until they were loose. Then you curled them lightly around your finger, watching them fall into place, softer now. You let your hand drop back down, but the other remained on his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.

"Hm," you murmured, surveying your work with a small satisfied smile. "That's better."

Frank stayed silent. His eyes hadn't left your face. He was staring at you with an intensity that made the stairwell feel suddenly very small.

You shifted slightly under the weight of his gaze. "What?" you asked, suddenly self conscious.

"Nothing," he said, but his voice was rough.

You knew that tone, knew it meant the exact opposite of nothing. "Frank." You sighed. "Spill it."

He held your stare, those blue eyes boring into yours. For a long moment, he just looked at you, at your face, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes. "You're making it really hard to wait to kiss you."

You froze. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Then your hand dropped from his face into your lap, and you just sat there, staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Frank started chuckling. Partly at your reaction, which was, admittedly, pretty adorable, but partly because the tension had grown so thick between you that he needed some kind of release, before he did something impulsive, like kiss you right here, right now, bet be damned.

"You can't say stuff like that," you finally managed, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to compose yourself.

He raised his eyebrows, outrage coloring his features. "I can't say things like that?" He gestured between the two of you, voice pitching higher with disbelief. "You're the one who started this whole thing!"

You started giggling. "This whole thing? What's that supposed to mean?"

"The kissing thing!" Frank said, and immediately wanted to die.

Because yeah. Yeah, he'd just said that. Out loud. Like some kind of flustered teenager who'd never done this before. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, could see the way your giggles intensified at his expense.

"You know," you managed as you kept giggling, "we don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Frank turned his head toward you fully, slightly more serious. "I want to," he said sincerely. "Definitely want to."

He smiled, and you smiled right back.

Then you stood up, brushing off the back of your scrubs casually, like you hadn't just turned his entire world upside down in the span of ten minutes.

"Good," you said, looking down at him with that playful glint back in your eyes. "Well, I hope you bet right, then." You smiled, and then you stretched your hands out toward him.

Frank stared at them blankly for a moment, confused. What were you—oh.

You were trying to help him up.

His back. He hadn't even thought about it when he sat down next to you, hadn't considered the consequences of perching on concrete steps for who knows how long. But you had.

And suddenly he could feel the insecurity biting at him. The disgust curling in his stomach at himself, at all the ways he was damaged and not worthy of someone who remembered things like this.

But, you just leaned forward, grabbed his hands yourself and waited. He pushed up, using your grip for balance, and felt the familiar twinge in his lower back as he straightened. You let go of his hands immediately, as soon as he was up, pretending not to see the slight pained grimace he couldn't quite hide.

You just turned toward the door, casual as anything. "Want to work on a case together?" you asked, already walking back toward the ER.

Frank fell into step beside you, matching your pace. "Yeah." He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's my turn this time, though."

You'd always had this thing. When one of you got tired of working solo, you'd grab a case together. And you alternated, each time, whoever hadn't picked last time got to choose the next one.

"I remember," you said, smiling at him.

The two of you worked for a couple more hours, pulling you in opposite directions more often than not. A trauma here, a consult there, a patient crashing in between. You barely got to talk about anything else, just quick glances across the department, brief touches when you passed each other in the hallway.

At some point, Frank had gathered enough intel to form a theory.

He'd pieced together fragments from a dozen different conversations and convinced himself he'd cracked it. He'd written it down on that blank piece of paper, folded it carefully, and slipped it into your locker.

Then he'd spent the rest of his shift praying it was right.

The two of you, in your busy days, completely missed the gathering that happened near the end of the shift. A cluster of nurses and residents huddled around someone's phone. The real reason for the Westbridge shutdown had been exposed. A cyberattack.

Frank caught the tail end of the conversation as he walked past, and the color drained from his face so fast he felt dizzy.

Damn it. He had it completely wrong.

From that moment on, it was better to avoid him.

Most people could sense it. He was pissed. Terribly, deeply pissed. At himself, at the situation, at the cruel twist of fate that had dangled a kiss in front of him and then snatched it away.

At the end of the day, Frank walked toward your locker in the slowest steps possible. Each one felt heavier than the last, dragging against the floor like they didn't want to get there. He sighed to himself, running a hand through his hair, the strands you'd freed from the gel now falling naturally across his forehead.

And there you were.

Standing by your locker, holding his paper. The one with his wrong theory written on it. You hadn't opened it yet. "Walk me home?" you asked, smiling.

Frank summoned every ounce of acting ability he possessed and put on an arrogant smile. "Yeah, sure," he said smoothly, like he hadn't just lost the thing he wanted most. Like he was totally fine with waiting a little longer for that kiss.

You smiled at his reaction, turning to grab your jacket from the locker. Frank watched you for a moment, then stepped forward.

He helped you into your jacket, his hands settling on your shoulders briefly before sliding down to the buttons. He started fastening them slowly, starting from the bottom and working his way up. You watched his face, trying to gauge whether he'd gotten it right. When he reached the top button, he shot you a confident smile. He wouldn't have to keep the mask up for long, anyway. He just had to make it through the walk and to your front door.

The two of you headed out into the cool night air. You chitchatted about dinner plans, what you might make, whether you'd order in, if there was anything good in your fridge.

Soon enough, you were at your front door.

You reached into your bag and pulled out the paper. The paper that would determine whether tonight ended with a kiss or not.

"So." You smiled up at him, trying to keep your voice light. "Did you guess it right?"

Frank stood on the step below you, but he was still at your height. He grinned at you. Weakly, maybe, but a grin nonetheless. While nodding his head, he said, "Guess you'll have to see for yourself."

You hesitated when you saw the way his eyelashes flickered when he moved his head. You knew that tell. Every time he spoke with a grin and nodded his head like that, it was a lie. You'd learned that about him months ago, back when you were just coworkers who noticed things about each other.

"Power supply unit failure," you read aloud.

Frank nodded, shuffling his feet against the ground below. His eyes didn't quite meet yours.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch.

"Guess I got that wrong," he grimaced finally, a self deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. "Good thing I didn't bet any money."

You raised an eyebrow. "Was the loss here not just as big?"

You were teasing him. Obviously. Poking fun at his deflection, at the way he was trying to make this about money when you both knew what was really on the line.

But he didn't realize you were teasing. Or maybe he did, and he was worried that you were jokingly hiding your real feelings. He held your eye contact, his blue eyes steady and serious. "No, it's bigger."

You tilted your head, trying to gauge if he was lying. Trying to read him the way you always could. But his gaze didn't waver. He meant it. Losing the chance to kiss you was bigger than any amount of money.

You looked back down at the paper in your hands. Squeezed it slightly. Your fist balled up tightly around the edges, crinkling the corner, as you made a decision for yourself. Quickly, before you could overthink it, you stuffed the paper back into your bag.

You looked up at him. He'd followed your hand movements with his eyes, watching you shove the evidence away, but he still wasn't looking at you directly, like he couldn't bear to see disappointment on your face.

And then you leaned in.

It was a bit awkward, you were too shy to touch him to close the distance properly. But you were confident enough to press your lips against his. A kiss that lasted barely five seconds before you pulled away.

Mostly because Frank didn't react. He just stood there, frozen, staring at you like he was trying to catch up with what had just happened.

You fell back onto your feet. "Thought you deserved a reward for trying," you said, smiling weakly. Trying to hide the fact that he hadn't kissed you back.

Frank stared at you for another long moment, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. And then he finally spoke. "That's it?"

Your head snapped up, meeting his eyes. "What?" you asked, breathless, still reeling from what you'd done.

"That's all I get?" He tilted his head slightl.

"I—what?" you asked again, still unable to quite catch up.

He smiled at your shy reaction, the way you were suddenly flustered, suddenly uncertain, after being so bold just moments ago. And then his hands came up and framed your face and his lips were back on yours.

This time, you were the one who took a second to realize what was happening.

He was actually kissing you. Really kissing you.

You leaned in immediately, closing the small distance until you were chest to chest, your hands flying up to his biceps and gripping them tightly. His lips moved against yours and they felt just as nice as you'd always imagined they would. Better, even.

Frank couldn't help the smile that crept up his face when he noticed the taste of your lips. Vanilla. Your chapstick. You'd planned and hoped for this.

The thought made him smile so wide he had to break the kiss, his lips curving against yours until they couldn't stay connected anymore. You were grinning as well, couldn't stop if you tried. Frank kept his eyes closed for a moment, just making sure this was real. Then he opened them, needing to know if you were okay with what just happened.

You were more than okay. "Do you feel better about your reward now?" you spoke, grinning up at him.

Frank joined you in smiling, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheekbones. "Almost," he mumbled.

And then he leaned in and kissed you again.

This one was longer and slower. Your heart beat frantically against your ribs, pure happiness flooding through every part of you. You would've felt embarrassed about how hard it was pounding, if you hadn't been able to feel Frank's heartbeat against yours at the same time, just as fast, just as overwhelmed.

When he finally pulled back, your noses were still touching, neither of you willing to create any more distance than absolutely necessary.

"Still not enough," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "but it'll do for now."

You smiled even wider, if that was possible. Your hands were still gripping his biceps, your body still pressed against his, and you had never felt more alive.

He watched you for a second, his blue eyes soft for you, before a grin spread across his face. "You knew I wasn't going to get it right," he said, his tone teasing. "You just wanted an excuse to kiss me."

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing softly across your cheek, lingering there like he couldn't stop touching you. His confidence was creeping back, that familiar cockiness you'd missed so much.

"So?" you said, smiling up at him, squeezing his biceps for emphasis. "Are you complaining?"

Frank grinned. "Not at all."

[deerfawnn]

Hello! I saw that you write for langdon!! If you're taking requests could I ask for one where his partner comes to the ER, because of a burn or cut or something and she's not told him she's there so she waits until she's called cause she doesn't want special treatment and he's just concerned and wants to take care of her, pls ignore if you're not taking requests!! Love your work 💛

special treatment

pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, blood, stitching, i am no doctor so i apologize for any mistakes :) a/n: thank you so much for your request, i hope you like it, lovely :) my inbox is always open for langdon requests btw <3

You push the toe of your sneaker against the floor, back and forth, back and forth, watching the rubber squeak against the scuffed linoleum. It gives you something to do besides think about the hot throb in your hand, or the way your whole arm aches right up to the elbow.

The man next to you groans again, shifting in his chair. You try not to look at him. Try not to think about how you’ve been both just sitting here for hours.

You’re so tired. The kind of tired that makes your eyes sting and your thoughts go slow and syrupy. And the pain is worse now than when it happened.

You lift the edge of the bandage with your good hand, just a peek, and immediately wish you hadn’t. The gash is red, very red, maybe even too red. You drop the bandage quick, swallowing hard.

You shift in the hard plastic chair, trying to find an angle that doesn’t pull at the wound. But every tiny movement hurts and you can’t help the hiss that escapes through your teeth. You curl your hand against your stomach, hold it still, try to breathe through it.

All this because you wanted orange juice.

It’s almost funny in a stupid way. You’d been tired then too, stumbling around your kitchen at 8am, fumbling with the carton. The glass slipped right through your fingers. And when you bent down to pick up the pieces, because you’re not the kind of person who leaves broken glass on the floor, your palm found the sharpest piece of glass there was on the floor.

You could’ve gone anywhere. The urgent care across town, the little clinic near your apartment. But your boyfriend works here. And even though you know he’d want you to come find him, even though you know Dr. Robby would probably wave you straight back if Langdon just asked, you couldn’t do that.

Special treatment. You hate the thought of it. Hate the idea of people looking at you and whispering, oh, that’s his girlfriend, that’s why she got seen so fast. So instead you’ve been sitting here for two hours, watching the clock above the admissions desk tick so slow you’d think it was broken, watching the same people walk past with clipboards and coffee cups.

You know how bad the wait times are here. You’ve heard Langdon complain about it plenty. You know. And still, you sat down and waited. Your eyelids are heavy. You catch yourself nodding forward and jerk awake. The man next to you groans again. The fluorescent lights buzz.

But then you suddenly hear your name being called.

You blink, disoriented, like you’d been deeper in sleep than you realized. Relief washes through you as you clutch your makeshift bandage and push yourself to your feet.

The man next to you doesn’t look up. You give him a small smile anyway. Sorry for cutting in line and I hope you get seen soon.

When you reach the desk, Lupe is watching you from behind her glass. Her eyebrows are already up, perched high on her forehead. She knows you, seen you loitering near the exit waiting for Langdon to finish his shift.

“How long have you been waiting, honey?” Her eyes swept over your tired face, the clumsy bandage, the way you’re holding your arm so carefully.

“Not long.” You smile. It feels thin on your face.

Lupe gives you a look. She knows you’re lying. You can see it in the slight downturn of her mouth, the way her gaze flicks to the clock and then back to you. But she just looks down at her papers, shuffling them into neat alignment.

You hesitate, you're not sure if Langdon's working triage today, but still you'd prefer to be treated by any other doctor than him, not wanting to concern him. And you hear yourself speak before you can stop.

“Uh, could I—” You cut yourself off, but Lupe is already looking at you, waiting. Your face warms. “Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Dr. McKay will take care of you.” She nods at you as if knowing what you were going to ask.

You exhale. “Thank you.”

When you turn, Dr. McKay is already there, standing in the doorway of the treatment area with a warm smile. She lifts her hand in a small wave and you smile back, and it feels a little less thin this time.

Cassie was always kind to you. So when she smiles at you now, it's like a small weight lifts off your chest. Her hand finds the space between your shoulder blades, guiding you away from the noisy waiting room and down the hallway.

The treatment room is small and quiet. So quiet. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Loud, isn't it?" Cassie says, already pulling on gloves, smiling at you.

You nod, sinking onto the edge of the exam bed. The paper crinkles beneath you. "So loud."

She settles onto the rolling stool across from you, knees bumping gently against yours as she scoots in. She holds her hand out, palm up, and you place your injured one in it.

"Now," she says, tilting her head, "what happened to you?"

You open your mouth to answer, but then her fingers are very gently turning your hand over, resting it on your thigh so she can get a better look. The shift in angle pulls at the wound and you can't help the hiss that escapes.

Her eyes flick up to yours, apologetic. "Sorry, sorry." She lifts the edge of your sad little bandage, peeling back the tape bit by bit. When she sees what's underneath, she sucks air through her teeth. "Oh, ouch."

You grimace. "Yeah. It's—"

The door opens.

"—worse than it looks, actually," Cassie finishes for you, not looking up, because she's still peering at your palm.

"Hey, McKay, there's a—" Frank stops talking.

You watch his face cycle through about four different expressions in two seconds. Confusion first, eyebrows drawing together like he's walked into the wrong room. Then recognition. Then his eyes drop to your hand, cradled in Cassie's gloved fingers and the blood. Then it settles into something deliberately neutral.

Cassie's head has turned. She's looking between the two of you, her "oops" face already in place, clearly realizing Langdon did not know you were here.

"Crap," you mutter.

Frank is still holding the door open. He's not moving. Not coming closer, not stepping out. Just standing there, one hand on the frame and his gaze hasn't left your hand.

For a beat, nobody speaks.

Then Cassie clears her throat. "I should, um." She's already peeling off her gloves, already scooting her stool back. "I'll go check on that thing. The thing I was going to check on. Before I came here." She's standing now, edging toward the door.

Frank doesn't move to let her out. Doesn't seem to register her at all.

"Sorry," Cassie murmurs to you, and there's genuine apology in her voice beneath the sly curve of her mouth. She shoots Frank a look on her way past go easy on her and slips through the narrow gap between him and the doorframe.

The door clicks shut. And then it's just you and Frank.

For a moment he just stands there, hand still on the handle, looking at you. Then he takes Cassie's abandoned stool, rolls it close. His knees bracket yours. His fingers find your wrist gently, turning your hand over, tilting it toward the light. You watch his face as he studies your palm.

"What happened?" His voice is quiet. He lifts his gaze to yours and something in his expression softens like it always does when he sees you.

And when you meet his blue eyes, you suddenly realize how much you'd missed him.

You'd seen him three hours ago but still. You'd only gotten a glimpse of him in the early grey light. His early shifts eat up the best hours of the day, swallow him whole before the sun's even thought about rising. In the beginning you used to fight it. Set your own alarm, drag yourself upright, shuffle to the door to kiss him goodbye.

But after a while your body stopped cooperating. The alarm would go off and you'd burrow deeper into the blankets instead, surfacing just enough to feel the mattress shift as he stood up.

So, he started waking up ten minutes earlier just so you could have those ten minutes together. You'd lie there in the dark, your head on his sternum, listening to his heartbeat beneath your ear. Talking sleepily about what you should eat tonight, if he was getting home early, what plans you had for his day off.

He'd, then, kiss your temple, untangle himself. You'd hear him in the bathroom and you'd drift. But you always woke again when the mattress dipped. He'd come back to the bedside, dressed, and face-plant into the curve of your neck. His breath warm against your skin, his body heavy. You'd lift your hand, stroke the back of his head, careful not to mess the hair he'd just spent five minutes gelling. Go to work, you'd murmur. And he'd groan, press one more kiss to your temple, and finally go.

Three hours ago he did all of that. Three hours ago his mouth was against your skin and his hand was in yours and now here you are, sitting on an exam bed in his hospital, bleeding into your lap.

You miss him. It's stupid, he's right here, his fingers circling your wrist, his knee warm against yours, but you miss him. The feeling sits heavy in your chest.

You sigh, and it comes out shaky. "Dropped orange juice," you mumble. "Tried to pick it up."

Your free hand lifts and your fingers find his hair, the strand that's come loose and you tuck it back. It's softer than the gelled parts. You let your hand linger.

Frank stares at you for a beat too long, his thumb still resting against the inside of your wrist. Then his gaze drops back to your hand.

"Does it hurt much?" His voice is like he's asking any patient, like he hasn't spent countless mornings with his face buried in your neck.

"No, it's not that—ouch, what the hell, Frank?"

You practically yelp, snatching your hand back on instinct. He'd pressed right at the edge of the wound.

His jaw is set, but there's something flickering at the corner of his mouth. "That's for lying."

"You—" You glare at him, fully aware that you look more pained than intimidating. "I wasn't lying, I said it's not that bad—"

His touch gentles immediately, fingers careful now as he turns your hand back over. He didn't mean to actually hurt you, you can see it in the way his brow pinches, the way his hold softens. But he's not apologizing, either. You keep glaring for another moment, then sigh, the fight draining out of you.

"Fine," you mutter. "Work your magic or whatever."

He releases your wrist long enough to stand, crossing to the supply cabinet. Your sad little bandage goes in the bin. He gathers what he needs and arranges them on the tray beside you.

"Why'd you wait?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.

You shrug with one shoulder. "Didn't want special treatment."

Frank's head turns. He gives you a look. The one that says are you serious?

"You were bleeding for two hours." His voice is quiet. He's making an effort to stay calm. "That could easily count as an emergency. 'Special treatment' doesn't matter."

He's mad. You appreciate the effort he's making to stay gentle. You also know you upset him, deeper than either of you are saying.

"I wasn't bleeding for two hours, Frank." You can hear how petulant you sound. You don't care. He looks up from the tray. "I had a bandage on!" You can feel your lower lip pushing out. Actually pouting, like a child, and you can't seem to stop. "A perfectly functional bandage."

"A bad one."

"You barely saw it. Cassie already took it off when you came in."

"I know you well enough to know it was bad."

That shuts you up and you look away. He pulls on fresh gloves and the sound of the latex snapping against his wrists is loud in the small room. He takes your hand again carefully, and positions the tray closer.

"Ready?" His voice is softer now.

You nod. The saline stings as it runs over the wound, and you hiss through your teeth. You can't see what he's doing, your view is blocked by his head, but you can feel it. Your eyes start to sting.

"Almost got it," he murmurs, not looking up. You don't answer. Your throat is tight. "Grip my arm."

He doesn't need to tell you twice. Your free hand finds his bicep, fingers digging into the fabric of his scrubs.

When he's done stitching, he snips the thread, discards needles, bloody gauze all vanishes into the red bin. His gloves come off with a loud snap, and then he's just standing there in front of you, hands empty, looking down at his work.

It's neat. You can see that much. Six tiny sutures, precise and even. He's good at this. "You okay?"

You shake your head. "No."

He exhales slowly, and then his arms are opening, just slightly. You fall into him. Your knees part wider and he steps into the space between, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through his scrubs. Your one good hand grips the back of his shirt. The other lies bandaged and useless against his chest. He wraps his arms around you properly, one hand spanning your shoulder blades, the other settling at your waist. You press your face into the curve of his neck and close your eyes.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Your voice is muffled against his skin.

His hand moves in slow circles on your back. "You didn't."

"I did." You pull back just enough to look at him. "You're upset. I can tell."

He doesn't deny it. His jaw shifts, that tell he can never quite hide. His hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing the curve of your cheekbones. He looks at you for a long moment.

"You know I worked my ass off to become a doctor." His voice is quiet. "The special treatment should be used."

You sigh, and it's mostly fond. "Come on, Frank. It's not fair to other people."

He opens his mouth, but you keep going.

"I saw a teenage boy in the waiting room. His ankle was the most purple color I've ever seen in my life. Like, eggplant purple." You shake your head slightly, his hands moving with you. "How is it fair that I just skip past him because my boyfriend works here?"

Frank's jaw does that thing again. He fixes a strand of hair behind your ear, tucks it gently, his fingers lingering. He doesn't say anything, but you can see him turning it over, weighing your words against his own stubborn concern.

"My point stands," he finally says softly. "Next time you come here immediately. Got it?"

You don't reply. He gives you a look and you give him a look right back. He makes a mental note. You can practically see him filing it away under Conversations To Have At Home, right next to Why She Doesn't Eat Enough At Work and The Thing About Leaving Wet Towels On The Floor.

But for now, he lets it go.

His hands are still framing your face and he smooths your hair again, tucking another stray piece behind your ear. His fingers trail down, adjusting the collar of your shirt, straightening it.

"When you get home," he says, his voice settling into doctor mode, "keep the bandage dry for twenty-four hours. After that, you can shower normally, just don't soak it." You nod. "The sutures need to stay clean. Watch for redness, swelling, any drainage." His thumb brushes your jaw. "If it starts looking angry, you come back. No waiting."

"I won't wait."

He pauses. Looks at you. "No waiting."

"...I won't wait."

He doesn't look convinced. But his hands drop to your shoulders, squeeze once, and then he's reaching for the aftercare sheet on the counter, scanning it. His other hand finds yours, holds it carefully, the uninjured one.

"Elevate it when you sleep," he murmurs, still reading. "Pillow under your arm. And take the ibuprofen before the lidocaine wears off, not after."

"Frank." He looks up. "I'll be fine."

After a while, your head drops against his chest, right over his heart. Your fingers find the edge of your new bandage, toying with the tape, pressing gently to see if it still hurts. It does, but less now. Clean and closed and taken care of.

"How's work going, by the way?" You tilt your head up to look at him, chin pressing against his chest. Your smile feels easier now, the tension finally bleeding out of your shoulders.

Frank glances down at you, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. "Oh, you know. Much better ever since my girlfriend showed up with a bloody hand."

You poke his chest with your good hand. "Very funny."

"Not trying to be funny." His voice is dry, but his eyes are warm. "Really brightened my shift. Nothing like a little relationship crisis to break up the monotony."

"Relationship crisis." You snort. "Is that what this is?"

He considers it. "Minor relationship crisis then." His thumb finds the back of your head, threading through your hair. You shove at his chest, but you're smiling now, and so is he.

The silence stretches again and his hand keeps moving in your hair. Slow strokes from your scalp to the ends, over and over.

To be honest, Frank is quite happy to have you here. Happier than he expected. He's missed you. More than he guessed.

Usually it doesn't hit him until later. Until he's finally walking through the front door after twelve hours. Until he sees you on the couch in your pajamas, some show paused on the screen, your face lighting up when you notice him. You always jump up, always wrap your arms around him like it's been weeks instead of just a day. And he holds on too long, probably, his face pressed into your hair, his arms locked around your waist. He gets clingy after long shifts. Terribly clingy. You tease him about it sometimes, but you never pull away.

That's when it usually hits him. How long the hours really are. How much of the day he spends without you.

But now you're here. Right here, in his hospital, with your head on his chest and your breath warm through his scrub top. And all he can think is that this shift, this shift that was already shaping up to be chaotic, already had him running from room to room, is about to become the longest shift of his life. Because now he'll get to wonder if your hand hurts. Wonder if you're eating enough. Wonder if you'll still be awake when he finally gets home.

He sighs and keeps brushing through your hair. His fingers catch on a small tangle and work through it carefully.

"Do you think it'll be a long day today?" Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. It's your day off, the whole empty apartment waiting for you, the whole afternoon stretching ahead. You'd been hoping, maybe, for something else.

He's quiet for a moment. His fingers still in your hair. "No," he says. "I don't think so."Something loosens in your chest. "I'll get dinner on the way home, okay?" He says it casual, like of course he'll be home at a reasonable hour, of course you'll eat together. "And please don't touch any more dishes today." He pauses. "Or anything made of glass, actually. Just to be safe."

He's grinning now, that particular slant of his mouth that means he's very pleased with his own joke. You shoot him a look. It doesn't land.

"Fine," you sigh. "But you're doing dishes for a week."

"I'll clear my schedule."

You shake your head, but you're fighting a smile. His thumb is drawing slow circles on your scalp now, and you could honestly fall asleep like this, right here, with your head on his chest and his heartbeat under your ear.

But you shouldn't. He has patients. He has work. You're taking up his time, his attention, his hands that should be on someone who actually needs a doctor—

"I should let you get back to work." You start to pull away, shifting your weight off the bed.

"Uh uh." His hand on your shoulder, easing you back down. "Nope."

You blink at him. "Frank—"

"We're going to the cafeteria." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. His palm is already open, waiting for yours. "We're making you eat something so you don't get dizzy from blood loss. Then I'm calling you a cab. Got it?"

You open your mouth and close it. He's watching you with that particular expression, the one that says I'm not asking. You've learned your boyfriend's antics well enough by now. A year of him looking at you exactly like this until you sigh and give in.

And you sigh and give in.

Once you had more than enough food in you, it was time to go back home. At the entrance of the hospital, Frank hesitates, his hand hovering over his phone. He has been thinking about driving you home himself, about having a few more moments together before the long hours of his shift swallows him again, but he knows you’d argue with him if he tried. With a reluctant sigh, he taps the cab app and summons a car. Leaning back against the wall, he gestures for you to stay close, and you do, yawning and pressing lightly against him as you fiddle with your bandage.

“Careful with that,” he mutters for the third time, snatching your hand gently from your bandage. You sigh and he just shakes his head, brushing the hair out of your face instead, letting his hand linger there as you waited.

Frank exhales slowly, feeling the warmth of your body next to his. It was the kind of warmth that made him painfully aware he wouldn’t see you for another seven hours.

You look up at him and smile softly. “Thanks for taking care of me, by the way.”

“No need to thank me,” Frank smiles softly, brushing his thumb lightly over your cheek. “Next time, you visit me without a bloody hand, yeah?”

“Will do,” you murmur, smiling back. You glance down at the street just as the cab pulls up, then back at him. “Take care of yourself, okay?” you say softly. “I’ll see you at home.”

Frank nods, reaching out to cup your hand gently, inspecting the wrapping one last time. “I’ll try to be home as soon as I can. Be careful, please,” he murmurs.

Instinctively, you lean in to kiss him, your good hand sliding up toward the back of his neck. Out of habit, you try to tug him down to you, the way you always do, but you forget about your other hand. The bandaged one presses a little too firmly against the side of his neck as you reach, and a small groan escapes before you could stop it.

Frank reacts instantly. “Hey—” His hands are already gently lifting your injured hand away from him. His brows pull together, concern flashing across his face as he cradles your wrist carefully. “Easy.”

He turns your hand over in his, brushing his thumb lightly across the inside of your palm. “Let me do the work, yeah?” he murmurs softly.

This time, he steps closer instead of letting you strain toward him. One hand slides to your jaw,the other still loosely holding your wrist so you wouldn’t forget and reach again. He leans down slowly and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. His mouth moves softly against yours and for a second you forget about the throbbing in your hand, forgot about the shift waiting to swallow him whole.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead brushes yours, his nose grazing lightly against your cheek. “See?” he murmurs quietly. “Much safer.” You huff out a quiet laugh.

He studies your face for another second, before finally straightening just enough to look at you properly. A teasing glint returns to his eyes.“No dishes tonight, yeah?” he says, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “No cleaning. No heroic attempts at doing anything one-handed.”

You roll your eyes at him, though your smile gives you away. “Yes, doctor.”

He shakes his head lightly, thumb brushing once more over the inside of your wrist before finally letting you go — reluctantly.

[mariasont]

handle with care

5 times frank langdon manhandles you and the 1 time you manhandle him back

bet u wanna read my masterlist! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing: frank langdon x intern!reader warnings: fem!reader, sunshine!reader, intern!reader, power dynamics, mild manhandling/rough physical guidance, touch-starved characters, mutual pining, mean!langdon, slow burn, frank langdon is grumpy asf, mild panic attacks and dissociation, caretaking to the MAX, i had my med student best friend proof read this so if it’s wrong blame her not me!!!! wc: 4.4k

1 Unauthorized Draping in a High-Risk Zone

Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. It’s not a conscious thing you do, but you move anyway. You figure it’s your nervous system trying to siphon off all the anxious energy that perpetually resides within you.

This is just how your body chooses to cope, with tiny, repetitive motion, as if it can shake the dread loose before it calcifies into tears or sweat or both.

You make an effort to stop. To try and plant your feet, tell yourself to be good and normal and someone who belongs in this intimidating world.

But your brain pipes up with its favorite playlist: don’t touch anything blue, don’t lean on anything that costs more than your rent, don’t talk unless someone with a PhD says your name first, don’t be weird, don’t be you.

Not you-you. Not the klutzy, apology-powered wind-up doll who says “sorry” when someone else steps on your foot and once high-fived a paper towel dispenser by accident (don’t ask).

“Wrong hallway. Wrong badge.”

Shit.

Every neuron in your body slams on the brakes at once, and when you turn, it’s with the same slow, dawning horror of someone realizing they’ve just wandered into the morgue by mistake, except instead of toe tags and chillers, you’re greeted by six feet of brutal posture and eyes that look like they haven’t seen joy since the inventions of pagers.

You look down at his own badge and frown. Dr. Langdon. The senior resident with the god complex and the too-loud temper and the rehab stint. 

He’s severe. That’s your first thought. Gaze that makes your mouth dry up and hate how immediately attractive you find him in that hyper-competent, morally disapproving kind of way.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, hi, sorry, I swear this was an accident, maybe even please don’t kill me but you don’t get the chance, because he’s already moving.

Coming close enough that you can see the indent on his chin, flexing with every angry breath he takes.

His hand then moves to your shoulder while the other catches the tie at your gown and tugs it with quick efficient impatient.

What is happening?

Your ears burn, heart going loud, obnoxiously so, like it’s trying to escape your ribcage and run laps around the hallway.

This is the part where you do something. Step back maybe? Speak? React? Anything that might come across to the effect of: hey stranger danger why are you touching me like that?

Instead, you freeze completely, letting him reposition you like an object with poor spatial awareness, standing there like the world’s most pathetic statue. 

“I — wait, I thought —” you squeak, and it’s not a strong performance, not even close, just a frantic jumble of syllables strung together with the blind optimism that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let you explain yourself.

He doesn’t. He talks right over you, his words slicing through your sentence. 

“You’re not cleared,” he says, cool and direct, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it ends it. Then, as if the knife needed twisting: “No one told you to suit up.”

He undoes the final knot, as if he’s unwrapping an inconvenience instead of peeling the last bit of your dignity off your shoulders, and when you don’t drop the gown fast enough he just takes it from you, tossing it in the linen bin.

He shoves a chart into your hands.

“Triage notes need updating,” he says. “Do that.”

You’re still rooted to the spot, stunned into inaction, gripping the clipboard like it's the only thing keeping you upright. 

You manage one step backward. Then another. It feels like learning to walk again.

Behind you, he adds, “And drink some water. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

2 Manual Dexterity: Failed Check

You’re staring at your hands. More specifically, the gloves that reside there. They feel weird on your skin, too loose at the fingertips, too bunchy on the palms.

There’s this awful puff of air trapped between your fingertips and the latex, and you keep flexing your hands like that’ll make it better, but it only makes the squish-snap worse. 

You could take them off and grab a better-fitting pair, but that would involve drawing attention, and you’re already pushing the acceptable intern limit for “visible fumbling.”

Especially not with Dr. Langdon standing nearby. Dark hair, cutting eyes, that carved-from-contempt expression that already seems to say you’re wasting his time just by existing. His whole aura screams, I have better things to do than acknowledge your carbon footprint, and it works, you’re been trying to stay out of his way since the Gown Incident (capital G, capital I), but he has this unnerving talent for appearing exactly where you don’t want him to be. 

And you could maybe cope with that, if your body didn’t decide to implode every time he got close. Five feet is the threshold, apparently. Any closer and all the blood rushes to your cheeks.

You’re so focused on pretending to be normal (chin up, shoulders back) that you don’t even realize he’s moved until it’s already happening.

A common theme, apparently.

His hand is around yours, lifting up your own like it’s some sort of misfiled lab result and brings it up under the light. He turns it over once. Then again.

You think for a second he might have forgotten it’s attached to a living, breathing person.

His brows furrow in what you assume is either concentration or deep disappointment. Probably the later.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, because that’s all your vocal cords will give you right now and you’re deeply afraid of drawing more attention than he already has.

He doesn’t answer, but rather just releases you hand. The loss of contact leaves a strange chill behind.

He stalks off toward a shadowy corner of the room that apparently hides a second supply cart.

A cart you’ve walked past, what, twenty times? He crouches, grabs a glove box from the bottom shelf, glances at the size like he’s memorized your hands from the quick thirty second glance over he gave them, and straightens in one fluid motion.

He’s back in front of you before you can fix your face, reaching for your hand to unpeel the glove in a way that makes your knees whisper things like maybe buckle now?.

The material slides away with a snap, leaving your hand bare and tingling in the open air. 

“I can do it,” you hiss, “I knew they looked weird. I mean, not my hands, the gloves obviously, my hands are normal, at least I think they’re normal, unless you — no, sorry, what I meant was — I just didn’t know there were any smaller ones and I didn’t want to slow anyone down and —”

He positions the new, correct-sized, glove and slides it onto you, smoothing it down with expert hands. 

He has really nice hands you realize. You mourn the second the go out of view.

“Wrong size compromises dexterity.”

“Oh,” you say, and then immediately regret it, because oh is not a real response to anything, so you tack on a breathless, “Thank you. I mean — for noticing. And fixing it. Sorry again.”

You’re smiling now. Why are you smiling?

“Don’t thank me.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “No, yeah. I didn’t. I mean, I did, but… un-thank you. Consider the gratitude rescinded. Retracted. Gone.”

What a loser.

You wish the floor would do you a solid and just open up, suck you in, maybe relocate you to a dimension where you’re not inventing new ways to embarrass yourself in front of the grumpiest man alive. Preferably somewhere tropical and remote. With no gloves.

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether or not to dignify that with a response.

Then: “You done?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, “Done. Done talking. So done.”

He lifts his chin, gestures down the hall toward curtain three, and starts walking.

You follow like a kicked puppy. A very polite, professionally dressed, medically licensed kicked puppy.

3 Redirecting a Human GPS Malfunction

“She’s hyponatremic but still alert, which makes me think it’s chronic rather than acute, and the reflexes were intact except for a slight delay on patellar, so I’m leaning away from neuro, but if her cortisol’s low again I think we need to rule out secondary adrenal insufficiency, especially since her ACTH levels haven’t come back yet and nobody seems concerned about the mild orthostasis.”

Dr. Langdon hums low in his throat. It’s not disapproval. But it’s not agreement either. It’s a sound that lives somewhere in the neighborhood of try again, but smarter.  

“And if the ACTH comes back low?”

“Then I’d want a CRH stimulation test to see if the pituitary’s response because if both ACTH and cortisol are low, we could be looking at hypothalamic suppression instead of adrenal failure, and at that point, imaging the pituitary would be the next step. Unless she’s been on chronic steroids, but I didn’t see anything in her med list to suggest that.”

“Good. But keep an eye on the sodium trend, if it spikes with fluids, you might be chasing the wrong diagnosis.”

Good.

It’s one word. One syllable. Not even said warmly, more of a clinical stamp of temporary adequacy. But your brain grabs onto it like a starved plant seeing sun for the first time in weeks.

You want to keep your face still. You really try. You train every muscle into neutrality, schooling your expression like a child behind glass. But inside… inside it’s glowing. Confetti. Champagne. Tiny internal high-fives.

You got a good. From him. From Dr. Langdon, who looks at most people like they’re bad test results. Who’s allergic to praise. Who speaks in critiques and glares and weaponized silence.

“Yep. Sodium. Absolutely,” you nod eagerly. “You know, I read this case study once where a woman presented with severe hyponatremia after a hot yoga retreat and it turned out she’d been drinking like three gallons of water a day because she thought it was detoxing her live, and her sodium dropped to 118, which is horrifying, but she was totally asymptomatic until she passed out in her car.”

He looks at you. “You ever do that?”

You blink. “Sorry, do what?”

“Hot yoga.”

“I have! Um, I went through this whole phase junior year where I was like, trying to become one of those ‘balanced’ people who wake up early and do gratitude journaling and drink matcha and just like, glow all the time? So I signed up for a free week at this studio that was supposed to be ‘soul-transforming,’ which in hindsight should’ve been a red flag, but I was optimistic, and kind of desperate — anyway, I made it halfway through the first class before I realized I’d accidentally worn fleece-lined leggings, and then I couldn’t leave because the instructor locked the door for ‘heat-integrity,’ and —”

His fingers close over your collar, tugging you just enough to redirect you a few steps to the left before you cheek meets drywall.

“— and I was already sweating like crazy but trying to act normal because everyone else looked so serene, and then —”

He stops walking. You stumble to a halt just behind him, trying to get a handle on your breathing and your mouth, which have both been sprinting ahead without a permit.

“Watch where you’re going,” he says, flat and unbothered. “I’m not doing that again.”

You’re not quite sure what he means, but apologize anyway, “Right. Sorry.”

He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. “And stop apologizing.”

“Mhm. Got it.” You give him a weird little salute. Loser strike two.

“Go check on your patient.”

“Going!”

You make it three steps before his fingers wrap around your elbow. He spins you back around with minimal effort. “Wrong way.”

You glance sideways. “Thought you weren’t doing that again.”

He doesn’t let go yet. Just raises one eyebrow. “Don’t be a smartass.”

His mouth twitches. A small, tiny flicker of amusement. It feels like a secret you weren’t supposed to see, so you pretend not to.

4 Medical Intervention (Sandwich Required)

You’re not even sure when you stopped standing and started leaning, all you know is the supply cart is cool and metal and solid under your palm, which is more than you can say for your knees.

Sixteen hours in, eight traumas logged, and your internal organs are currently operating on a diet consisting of two cups of hospital coffee (burnt and betrayal flavored) and a single saltine you found crumpled in your pocket.

You blink against the sudden fuzz crawling at the edges of your vision, but it’s no use, the black spots are doing synchronized jumping jacks now. Little warning flares that you’re probably pushing your luck. Again.

Dana steps into your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “You okay, kid?”

You slap on a smile like a band-aid over a bullet wound. Your special-sauce if you ever had one.

“Yup! All good. Just needed a minute. Long day. A lot of… exciting cases. You know how it is.” You do a vague jazz-hands motion. “Crushing it.”

Your vision pulses again. You do not, in fact, appear to be crushing it, you’re very sure of that. Maybe in the way a soda can gets crushed under a steel-toed boot. 

“And I’m the Queen of England.” She takes one long look at your pale face and glassy eyes. “Sit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Gloria why we lost one to stubborn optimism.”

“I promise I’m fine! I just — stood up too fast.”

“Bullshit.” 

His hand appears at the same time as his voice, both faster than your excuses.

One moment you’re vertical and the next you’re yanked with just enough force, like he knows how much pressure you can take without crumbling.

His grip is all calloused heat, palm pressing into your arm as he pulls you into the chair.

The world tilts once, then slams back into place. Cold metal bites into your thighs. His hand lingers a second too long, fingers flexing like he’s still gauging whether you’ll tip over again. 

“I could’ve sat on my own, you know,” you grumble half-heartedly.

You glance toward Dana, hoping for backup, or at the very least a supportive eyebrow raise. She meets your gaze, chews her gum, and shrugs one shoulder in a perfect display of girl, please. Entirely unsympathetic. Possibly amused.

“Nope,” she says. “You were about one sway away from eating tile. Survival of the smartest, sweetheart. ”

“Don’t care if you could’ve,” he says as he crouches. “I’m not scraping you off the floor because you’re too much of a hard head to sit when you’re clearly crashing.”

Then, without asking (because when does he ever ask), he takes your wrist in his hand, thumb pressing gently into the inside. You try not to squirm.

“There’s a difference between committed and careless.” His brow furrows as he counts the beats under his thumb. “Right now, you’re leaning toward the wrong one.”

“I wasn’t trying to be careless, I swear. I just lost track of time, which is funny because I’m usually really good at that, like I even set alarms for hydration, but I ignored all of them because I didn’t want to miss rounds and then one trauma turned into five —”

You stop when you realize he’s still holding your wrist. And staring.

He exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.

“You’ve got ten minutes here with food,” he says. He jerks his chin at Dana, who nods and heads for the cart without needing more. “Then fluids. Then, and only then, you can check on the lac in bay four.” His eyes cut back to you. “And if I see you wobble even once, you’re off the board for the night.”

“Yes. Yes sir – uh, not sir, just — yes. I’m staying.”

Dr. Langdon nods once, brushes his fingers briefly over your shoulder in what might be the lamest pat in human history (the universal ‘don’t make me come back’ signal), and walks off without another word.

Dana returns with a sandwich and a raised brow.

You unwrap it slowly. “Is he always so — uh — intense?”

She barks a laugh. “That was him being gentle.”

5 Objects in Motion (You) Meets Immovable Force (Also You, Apparently)

“—I’m telling you, he’s been on my ass before the sun even showed up,” Santos grumbles, tapping her pen against the desk. “I said good morning, and he looked at me like I suggested we kick a puppy together. Someone pissed in his Cheerios, and now I’m the one getting crucified for it.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe he just needs a snack. Or like… a hug.”

She snorts without looking at you. “I was thinking more along the lines of a double whiskey and a week locked in solitary with nothing but his own guilt complex, but sure. Hugs. Why not.”

“That’s so mean! Dr. Robby is not that bad. He just… glares at people like they personally ruined his life on occasion. He’s usually very kind.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me he’s just misunderstood and has a good heart underneath it all.”

“I mean… yeah. I kind of believe that about everyone. Doesn’t mean I’m right, but like… I’m not not hoping.”

Santo swivels in her chair, stares. “Even Langdon?”

You falter there. Step back. Physically, even, as if that’ll help distance you from the question, from the thought, because now it’s in there. 

Dr. Langdon. Frank Langdon. The man who speaks in flat tones and judgmental silences. Who glares like it’s a sport and you’re always losing. 

And now you’re thinking about him with… layers. Like, not just as a terrifying force of workplace intensity, but as someone who maybe carries all that stormy energy because he doesn’t know what to do with the softer parts.

Someone who maybe, just maybe, has a good heart buried underneath a mile of barbed wire

You chew on the thought like it’s an overcooked piece of gum — rubbery, bitter, sticking to the inside of your skull even as you try to spit it out — and you’re not even sure what part is more disturbing: the possibility that Langdon has hidden depths, or the fact that your brain insists on exploring them like a museum exhibit you weren’t emotionally prepared for. 

But before you can get to the part where he maybe owns houseplants or secretly feeds stray cats behind the loading bay, the thought shatters, violently, like someone dropped a wine glass in the middle of your mental dinner party.

Noise. Sudden. Loud. A voice shouting something urgent, boots hammering the floor, movement that feels too fast for the space.

You flinch instinctively, start to pivot toward the commotion, but before your body can even decide what direction to go, a hand snaps around your waist and then you’re moving, pulled into something broad and unyielding and extremely human-shaped.

Specifically, Dr. Langdon-shaped.

Your cheek brushes the starchy edge of his scrub top. His arm curls in front of you, protective like a steel beam, while a crash cart screams past, inches from where you were just standing, the air it kicks up biting against your skin.

You realize, distantly, that you would’ve been directly in its path if not for him.

You can feel his heartbeat through the wall of muscle between you and everything else.

You can smell him, too. Clean, masculine soap invading your senses.

You shift, just slightly, enough to tilt your face upward.

He’s looking down at you like you’re a particularly complicated equation he’s trying not to solve out loud. And for a second, you don’t breathe. Not really. Because his grip tightens and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“Jesus,” Santos mutters, breaking the spell as she peers after the cart. “You good? That thing was flying.”

You blink, realizing a second too late that Santos was talking to you.

“Huh?” You clear your throat, a sound that comes out way too dry. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

At the same moment, Langdon steps away. Lets go. And the absence is bizarrely loud, like someone hit mute on the part of your body that had been braced against him.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of not being touched. Of gravity reasserting itself. Of how your arms feel too light and your chest feels too tight and none of it makes any damn sense.

“You could’ve gotten flattened,” he mutters, jaw tight. It sounds like criticism, but there’s something else under it. Concern, maybe. Or frustration aimed more at the situation than at you.

You rub at your forearm, pretending it itches instead of tingles. “Yeah, well. I’m thinking of investing in high-vis tape and a ‘please don’t run me over’ sign.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with that signature flat, heavy-lidded expression like even he can’t believe how often he has to save your life from your own proximity to disaster.

You can’t really believe it either.

“I won’t say thanks,” you say. “I know you hate that. And apologizing. But uh… I didn’t die. That’s… cool. For both of us. I mean, mostly me. But also you, probably, because paperwork would’ve sucked. I’m gonna leave before I say something dumber than that, which is a very low bar, so —”

“Do you really believe that?” he says behind you.

You stop. 

“What?”

“What you said earlier. About everyone?”

It takes a second. He’d heard that?

You scratch your cheek, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “I really do.”

+1 Please Just Stay

The stairwell is freezing, cement bones and rebar spine, and you’re crumpled against the wall like a misfiled piece of paper. It’s quiet here, except for the stupid way your breathing bounces off the walls and makes it sound like someone else is crying too. 

But it’s just you. It’s always just you. The tears keep coming, hot and salty and mortifying. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, again and again, but they just keep returning, stubborn as guilt.

Everyone said it wasn’t your fault. In serious tones people use when they want to sound very sure. As if it makes a difference. It really doesn’t. 

It was your first patient death.

He was somebody’s father. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s son. And in the end, you were the last person to touch him. You watched the monitors go still. You felt his hand lose its warmth. 

Footsteps echo up the stairwell. 

Your body reacts accordingly, jolting upright like you’ve been caught doing something illegal (crying isn’t illegal, you remind yourself, but it sure feels like it), and your hands fly to your face.

Both of them. Too rough, too fast, trying to erase the emotions by brute force.

Your shoulders curl in, chin tucking down so far it could hit your collarbone. Hide, hide, hide. You try to stop the sniffling, will it down your throat, but it stutters out of you anyway, weak, wet, pathetic. Perfect.

“Oh — shit. Sorry.” It takes you half a second to recognize the voice. A half second too long, because by the time it clicks, it’s already too late. Dr. Langdon. 

Your stomach flips so intensely it feels like it’s trying to escape through your throat, a sudden swoop of nausea and disbelief tangled together. Of all people. 

You hear the shift, his footsteps faltering, uneven now, breath snagging mid-step before everything goes still. The stairwell swallows the sound. 

Then: “You’re crying.”

You let out a exhale that stumbles out halfway between a laugh and a cough.

It sounds pathetic, honestly, but you don’t have the energy to care. “That obvious, huh?”

Silence stretches long enough to get awkward, and you start to hope maybe he took the hint. Maybe he backed away, quietly, like a decent person who knows how to pretend they didn’t just catch someone crying their face off in a desolate place. Maybe you get to keep your breakdown private.

However, you aren’t so lucky.

“First time I lost a patient, I threw up in the supply closet.” He doesn’t sound embarrassed by it, just matter-of-fact, like he’s naming a side effect. “I told the attending that it was food poisoning. It wasn’t.”

You twist toward him, shoulders still hunched, face hot and raw. You’re sure you look like hell, and he sees all of it, but he doesn’t react. No flicker of discomfort. No awkward glance away.

“Does it… ever get easier?”

It sounds fragile on your tongue. Like you’re scared of the answer, but more scared not to ask.

He looks past you for a second. 

“No,” he says. Then, almost like an afterthought, “If it did, that’d be worse.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He nods and you see the look on his face that suggests maybe he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

“Take a minute. If you need anything…” He hesitates. “Come get me.”

He turns, just slightly, like he’s giving you privacy. Respect. Distance. 

And maybe that was what you needed. What you thought you wanted not even two seconds ago. But not anymore.

Because the second he turns, the second his body shifts and his presence starts to pull away even by the smallest degree, panic claws its way up your chest like a reflex, like a toddler reaching out in the dark, and your hands shoot forward without asking permission from the rest of you, both of them closing tight around the soft fabric of his scrubs. Clumsy and fast and maybe too hard. 

You don’t even know what you're holding onto exactly, not really, except it’s him, and he’s warm and real and not going anywhere, not unless you let him, and for a second you just stand there like that, fists full of fabric, heart full of please don’t leave.

“Don’t —” you choke, the word cracking like it’s too big for your throat, and you bite it down fast, try again, quieter this time, like whispering might make it less desperate. “Can you just… stay. Just a minute. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a terrifying, breath-holding moment, you think maybe you misread it, maybe he’s about to step back, untangle himself from your grip, do the polite thing and leave you to cry in peace like people do when they don’t want to deal with someone else’s damage. 

His eyes drop to where your fists are bunched in his scrubs

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah. Okay.”

His arms come around you. Not expertly either. It’s real and maybe a little uneven, a little unsure, like he’s not totally certain where his hands are supposed to go.

But he does it anyway, one hand finding the back of your head, fussing with the tag on the back of your shirt, the other curling around your back.

And for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re falling.