✦✧✦✧ Moving Into My Mind ✧✦✧✦
✦✧✦✧ Dennis Whitaker x Frank Langdon ✧✦✧✦
The Pittsburgh skyline, a jagged silhouette of steel and rain, framed Dr. Frank Langdon’s first view of his new apartment. The apartment was a blank slate, a place for Frank to take anew. The movers, a pair of burly men who smelled of cigarettes and damp wool, had just deposited the last of the generic boxes, kitchenware, linens, and a modest stereo system onto the bare hardwood floor.
“That’s the lot, Doc,” the older one said, wiping his brow. “Except for these last two down in the truck. You sure you wanna handle ‘em?”
Frank nodded, handing each of them two twenty-dollar bills as a tip. “Quite sure. They’re delicate in their own way.”
He descended the three flights of stairs with the movers to the moving truck, its ramp still down. Inside were the last two unassuming boxes left to move. They were, however, deceptively and crushingly heavy. Frank allowed himself a small, private smile as he hefted the two boxes into his arms, his biceps straining against the weight of bound knowledge that lay inside them. Inside the boxes were Frank’s most prized possessions, besides his kids, his medical books and journals. The solidified foundation of his life. In a world that felt increasingly more chaotic and unpredictable, these books had become his anchors in the storm. They contained the facts, diagrams, and proven methodologies. Their pages proving the human body to be a complex but ultimately solvable machine. It was a philosophy he had clung to, white-knuckled, through the past 10 months that had been nothing but grueling work on himself, and nothing but himself.
It had begun when Dr. Robinavitch had discovered his Benzo usage that fateful September afternoon, causing his whole life to be flipped upside down. What followed was a controlled demolition of his life. Frank had checked himself into a 90-day intensive treatment facility, where he went through an excruciating withdrawal from the Benzos he’d been stealing from Patients’ prescriptions, battling his addiction, and going through the steps of recovery, the 12 brutal steps of recovery.
All while navigating the surprisingly amiable, yet no less heartbreaking, divorce with Abbey. He knew it was going to happen one day, as it seemed that the pair had become so detached after Frank had taken the Senior Resident position at Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center, his twelve-hour shifts in the emergency room building a wall between himself and his family. In the mostly equal settlement, he had insisted that Abbey retain full custody of the kids. She was already their primary caregiver, and he wanted his kids to be in the best place for them, not for him.
With a soft grunt, he carried the boxes through the building’s front doors and into the quiet lobby. Releasing them from his grip slowly, setting them down with a dense thud beside the elevator doors. The polished brass reflected a man who looked like Frank Langdon, but with a new vigilance behind the eyes. He pressed the call button and waited, ready to bear the weight of his past up into the blank slate of his future.
The polished brass doors slid apart. Frank bent his knees, feeling the familiar strain of his backache, and gathered the boxes of books back into his arms. He stepped into the elevator’s interior, the scent of lemon-scented polish filling his nostrils. As he set the boxes down with another soft thud, he turned to press the button for the seventh floor.
The doors began to slide shut.
“Hold the door, please!”
A young man’s voice, slightly breathless, cut through the lobby’s quiet. A hand shot into the narrowing gap, triggering the safety sensor. The doors jerked back open.
Frank looked up as Dennis Whitaker slipped inside, his cheeks flushed from the sprint. He was a little fuller than Frank remembered from the hospital corridors, but those intelligent, earnest blue eyes were the same. For a second, Frank simply stared, caught off guard by this ghost from his former life materializing in his new existence.
Dennis’s eyes widened in recognition, then darted away nervously before snapping back. “Dr. Langdon?” he blurted out, the title hanging in the small space.
Frank let out a short, awkward laugh, the sound foreign to his own ears. “Just Frank, please. I’m not… well, I’m not at the hospital right now, am I?” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “You live here?”
“Yeah,” Dennis said, finding a spot against the back wall of the elevator. He fumbled with the strap of his shoulder bag. “Me and Trinity. We have an apartment on the third floor.” He immediately winced, as if he’d uttered a curse. “Oh, man. Sorry. I shouldn’t have-”
“No,” Frank said, his voice firmer now, cutting off the apology. He met Dennis’s gaze. “You don’t need to apologize. And neither does she.” He took a slow breath, the words he’d rehearsed in a hundred therapy sessions finding their way out with a surprising lack of bitterness as they used to. “She did the right thing. The necessary thing. Really, she… she saved me. Made me face reality when I was doing everything I could to avoid it.”
Dennis studied him for a moment, the tension in his shoulders easing into something softer. A small, sweet smile touched his lips. “She’s gonna be glad to hear you’re doing okay.”
The elevator chimed, and the doors opened on the third floor. Dennis stepped out but turned, holding the door open with his body. “Hey, um… if you need a hand with anything? Moving in? Me and Trin, we’re just down the hall, 3B. We could help. I mean, if you want.”
The offer hung in the air, simple and profound. A chance for a connection, not as a disgraced doctor and the medical student who’d witnessed his fall, but as neighbors. As people. Frank felt a familiar knot of shame and anxiety tighten in his chest, followed by a newer, quieter impulse: a fragile hope.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Actually… that would be… yeah. Thank you, Dennis. I’m in 7F. Just got here today... So would love the help,” he said, nudging the heavy crate with his foot.
“Cool,” Dennis said, his smile widening into something more genuine. “We’ll come up in a bit. Just gotta dump my stuff.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “I’ll… I’ll see you then.”
Dennis gave a quick nod and released the door. As the brass panels slid closed, Frank caught one last glimpse of the young man heading down the hall, already pulling out his phone, presumably to text Trinity.
Alone again, Frank leaned back against the wall of the ascending elevator. The nervousness was still there, a low hum in his veins. The thought of facing Trinity Santos, the intern whose unwavering ethics and loud courage had been the catalyst for his world’s collapse and, ultimately, its painful rebuild, sent a jolt of pure terror through him. But beneath it, warmer and more substantial, was a hesitant gratitude. Dennis was offering him a hand. Not as a project, not out of pity, but as a neighbor. It was a small thread, but in the blank slate of his new life, it felt like a beginning.
The elevator chimed once more for the seventh floor. The doors opened onto a quiet carpeted hallway. Frank bent down, his back muscles protesting as he lifted his anchors, his foundation. He carried the boxes down the hall to the door marked 7A, ready to unpack.
The key turned in the lock with a solid, final sound. Frank pushed the door open to his new apartment, the echo of Dennis’s offer still ringing in the ears of his mind, but it was immediately drowned out by a roaring, internal storm within him.
As he crossed the threshold, the blank white walls seemed to dissolve, replaced by the sterile, fluorescent-lit chaos of the Trauma Center hallway. That day. It crashed over him, wave after relentless wave.
He saw Trinity’s face, pale but set with a terrifying resolve. He heard his own voice, a snarl he barely recognized, “You need to realize that you are a beginner, which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn because so far today, the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing..” The venom in his words, the sheer contempt for her integrity, made him physically flinch now. He dropped the boxes of books by the built-in shelves with a jarring thud that echoed in the empty space.
Then, Dr. Robinavitch’s, Robby’s, Shout that shook him to the core as he demanded to see Frank’s locker, “You’re done! Leave now!” The subsequent confrontation wasn’t a blur to him. It was etched into the back of his skull with hyper-clarity. The cold disappointment in Robby’s eyes, the way the evidence, the drugs, was hidden poorly within his locker. The phrase “administrative leave pending review” sounded like a death knell. The final, harsh, irrevocable severance: “YOU. ARE. DONE”
He stumbled to the one clear spot on the lounge, a lone island in a sea of cardboard, and slumped onto it. The weight wasn’t just in his muscles. It was a soul-deep crushing fatigue. God, I was horrible to her. The shame was a hot, sick feeling. He hoped, desperately, that he could find a way to bridge that chasm, to offer an apology that wasn’t just words but a testament to the man he was trying to become.
But the remorse wasn’t singular. It fractured, multiplying. Mel, Trinity, Victoria, and Dennis. His student residents. He’d been their senior, their advisor, meant to be a guide. Instead, he’d been a ticking time bomb, a lesson in what not to become.
And Abbey. The image of her tired, patient face in their kitchen, late at night, waiting for a version of him that never came home. The way he’d built a wall of twelve-hour shifts and silent withdrawals, brick by brick, until she and the kids were on the other side, mere silhouettes. He’d offered neither support nor presence. He’d just… absented himself.
A single, heavy tear escaped, tracing a path through the dust on his cheek. It felt scalding. He let it fall, then roughly wiped it away with the heel of his hand. Enough. The past was a place he could not return to. He could only build anew from its rubble.
With a steadying breath that shuddered in his chest, he pushed himself up. He found the box cutter on a nearby box, the metal cool in his grasp. The first slice through the packing tape was a release, a deliberate act of beginning.
Knock. Knock-knock.
Polite. Tentative.
Frank froze, the box cutter poised. The nervous energy he’d felt in the elevator condensed into a tight ball in his stomach. He knew. Taking a deep, deliberate breath, in through the nose, pause, out through the mouth, a technique from rehab, he walked to the door.
He opened it slowly.
Dennis stood there, changed into a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, his hands clasped in front of him, thumbs circling each other in a nervous, endless loop. He looked so earnest.
“Santos and Garcia are just getting back from lunch soon,” Dennis said, his voice soft. “But I wanted to help as soon as I could. Is that alright?”
The baby deer's eyes, wide and unsure, were seeking permission. It undid something in Frank. “Yeah… yeah, of course,” Frank said, his own voice rough. He opened the door wider, gesturing with the hand that still held the box cutter. “I’m just starting up with the living room.”
Dennis’s eyes flicked to the blade, and he took a flinched half-step back. Frank followed his gaze and flinched. “I’m so sorry,” he said, quickly setting the cutter down on a box by the door. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s already been a long day. I just said goodbye to my kids earlier. For what will probably be a while. Before I have the time and my ex-wife has the energy to let me visit.” He tried to keep his composure, but the raw admission hung in the air between them.
Dennis’s expression softened with immediate empathy. “I’m so sorry. That must be hard.”
“It was,” Frank admitted, leading Dennis into the living room. “Especially at the start of it all. But it was for the best. Just like rehab was.” He managed a small, genuine smile then, one that acknowledged the pain but also the necessity.
Dennis nodded, his gaze drifting past Frank to take in the spacious, sunlit apartment, the high ceilings, the view of the steel-gray Allegheny River beginning to peek between downtown buildings. He let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Wow. This place is… It’s easily double what mine and Trinity’s.”
Frank looked around, seeing it not as a prize but as another empty space to fill. “It’s a lot of space for one guy,” he said quietly. Then, he clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “So. Living Room. That’s the main event. You feel up to unpacking some books and decor?”
The air in the apartment shifted from the silence of solitary unpacking to something warmer, filled with the soft rustle of packing paper and the occasional thud of a book being placed on a shelf. Frank and Dennis worked in a companionable rhythm, Frank assembling the minimalist, dark-wood TV stand while Dennis began to carefully arrange medical texts by specialty.
Dennis paused, a heavy volume of Michigan Principles of Internal Medicine in his hands, and looked over at the large canvas leaning against the brick fireplace mantle. It was an abstract piece, dominated by deep blues and slashes of silver, evoking a stormy night sky over water.
“Is that a Libby Scutt?” Dennis asked, his voice tinged with recognition and awe.
Frank looked up from the Allen wrench in his hand, surprised. “It is. You know her work?”
“Love her work,” Dennis corrected, gently placing the book on the shelf. “I stumbled into her gallery over in the Strip District after a brutal twelve-hour shift last fall. Still in my scrubs, probably smelling of antiseptic and despair. I felt so out of place.”
A genuine, hearty laugh escaped Frank, the sound rich and unexpected in the empty space. “That’s exactly how I got it. Same story, different brutal shift. Saw it in the window, walked in covered in the day’s chaos, and just… needed it. It felt calm. Ordered, in its own way.”
Dennis smiled, a connection forged not in the hospital, but here, in the dust of a new beginning. “It’s a good piece.”
“Thanks,” Frank said, returning to the bolt he was tightening. A comfortable silence fell for a moment before Frank ventured, “So, how are you holding up at the Pitt? It’s a different beast, being on the other side of the clipboard.”
Dennis let out a short, slightly nervous laugh. He started unpacking another box, his movements deliberate. “It’s… it’s new. Terrifying, some days. Making a call in the moment, knowing it’s yours… there’s no training wheel version of that. But you get used to the weight of it. Santos has been a rock, honestly. And Mel and I… we really lean on each other. Check each other’s work, talk each other down from ledges.”
At the mention of Mel’s name, Frank’s hands stilled. A soft, fond smile touched his lips. “How is she doing?” he asked, his voice quieter. “She… she came to see me a few times. In rehab. When she could. I still check in on her when I can. She’s got a good heart. A strong one.”
Dennis’s expression grew thoughtful, then slightly clouded. “She’s doing the best she can. She’s a fantastic doctor. But… she’s been a little nervous lately. There’s an apparent malpractice suit. A family from a case months back. The attendings all say it’s standard, nothing to worry about, that she practiced within the standard of care.”
Frank’s brow furrowed, his professional instincts, so long dormant, flickering to life. “But she’s worrying anyway. Mel doesn’t deal with that kind of bureaucratic shadow over her work. It eats at her. She takes everything so personally.”
“You can tell it’s still troubling her,” Dennis confirmed, nodding. He bit his lip, then looked directly at Frank, an idea sparking in his blue eyes. “You know… she’d probably love to see you. In a non-hospital setting. Maybe… maybe you should invite her over to help, too? I mean, if you’re okay with that. More hands, and all.”
The suggestion sent a warm wave of… not just nostalgia, but rightness through Frank. The idea of his former residents, the people he’d failed, here in his new home, helping him build it... It felt like a thread of redemption being offered, not earned, but given freely.
“I’d love that,” Frank said, his voice thick with an emotion he didn’t bother to name. He pulled his phone from his pocket. With a familiarity of a cherished habit, he tapped the number-one-favored contact and brought the phone to his ear.
It rang only once.
“Frank?” Mel’s voice was on the line instantly, bright with a happiness that was unmistakable and unguarded.
“Hi, Mel,” he said, his own happiness mirroring hers. “Would you, by any chance, be interested in helping me move into my new apartment?” He glanced at Dennis, who was pretending to be very interested in a book’s index. “I know I said I was going to do it solo, but I found a lost deer named Dennis who wanted to help, so I thought I’d invite you too.”
On the other end, Mel’s giddy laugh was a balm. “Oh my god, yes! I’m actually on the bus into downtown right now to get some new planner stickers, but I will absolutely cancel that mission to help my senior out. Send me the address!”
Frank chuckled. “Get the stickers first, Mel. The apartment isn’t running away. Get your important supplies, then come help with mine. I’m on the North Side. I’ll text you.”
“Okay, okay! Stickers first, then heavy lifting. I’ll be there soon! Take care, Frank!”
“You too, Mel. See you soon.” He ended the call, the ghost of a smile still on his face. He looked at Dennis. “She’s on her way.”
Dennis grinned, a real, easy grin. “Good. Now, where do you want this horrifyingly detailed atlas of surgical procedures? Coffee table book? Or on the shelf?”
Frank pointed to the low, rectangular table he’d just assembled. “Coffee table. A little morbidity with your morning brew never hurt anyone.”
Dennis placed the surgical atlas with a theatrical flourish just as Frank added the last of the dark blue ceramic hospitals to the mantle. The little sculptures were a whimsical contrast to the heavy texts, a private joke about his profession. He stepped back, surveying the room. It was taking shape. The bones were there, but there needed to be more comfort.
He gathered the throw blankets, a charcoal gray wool and a deep, navy blue fleece, and tossed them neatly over the wrought-iron blanket rack standing sentinel beside the bookshelf. The pillows, two in a matching charcoal case, he lobbed gently to Dennis. “Think these work on the lounge?”
They were in the middle of this final staging, shifting a box of kitchenware towards the hallway and discovering two more labelled “LIVING ROOM – DECOR,” when the apartment door, which Frank had left ajar, pushed open.
Trinity Santos stood framed in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral, holding a small Dunkin’ tray with four coffees. Beside her, Yolanda Garcia’s face broke into a radiant, unfiltered smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son,” Yolanda announced, her voice rich with affection and sarcasm.
Frank’s heart lifted at the sight of them. “Yolanda,” he said, crossing the room in a few strides and pulling her into a tight, earnest hug.
“You’re crushing me, Frank,” she grumbled, but her arms tightened around him before she pulled back to kiss both his cheeks. “God, I’ve missed you in the Pitt.” Her dark eyes flicked meaningfully towards Trinity, who was lingering just inside the door. “It was hard without you.”
Frank smirked, a familiar, old rhythm returning. “It was hard not having to deal with your frankness all the time, too.” He kept one arm around Yolanda’s shoulders, who seemed to anchor herself there, and turned his full attention to Trinity.
“How’ve you been, Trinity?” he asked, his voice dropping, the earnestness from his talk with Dennis returning tenfold.
Trinity seemed to brace herself, her grip tightening on the coffee tray. “I’ve been… okay. Dr. Langdon, I… I just want to say I’m so sorry if I had any implication in your divorce, or if you… if you blame me at all for… anything.” The words came out in a rushed, rehearsed stream.
Frank shook his head, holding up a hand to stop her. “Trinity, no. That is a shitty apology, and you need to stop it right now.” His tone was firm but kind. “You saved me. You saved me from a life of addiction, from probably killing a patient or myself. I can’t thank you enough. If anything, I owe you an apology. A massive one. The way I spoke to you that day… on your first shift as an intern… it was unforgivable. But I hope you can believe me when I say I am so deeply sorry. You did the right thing. The only thing. You carry zero blame. Put that stress down, right now.”
Trinity’s eyes, which had been wide with apprehension, welled up. A single tear escaped, tracing a quick path down her cheek, which she brushed away with a hurried swipe. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then, she took a shaky breath, a hint of her own steel returning. “And… for what it’s worth? You shouting at me like that… it changed me, too. For the better. I learned to be surer. To check and double-check with seniors and residents before assuming. It made me more thorough.”
Yolanda squeezed Frank’s side, beaming. “See? Change. For both of you. For the better. I’m just glad there’s a chance you two can be in the same room without the risk of a code grey.”
Dennis, who had been quietly observing, nodded vigorously. “Agreed.” He taped the final empty living room box shut with a definitive rip of packing tape.
The emotional intensity in the room eased, replaced by a palpable sense of relief. Frank turned back to Trinity, a genuine curiosity on his face. “How did you even know about the divorce? I never told you.”
A ghost of a smile, the first Frank had seen from her today, touched Trinity’s lips. “Princess and Perlah talk. A lot. Even if you don’t know it.”
Frank sighed, a mock-exasperated sound. “I always knew they were shit-talking me in Tagalog.”
“Tsismis will and always will happen,” Trinity said with a small shrug, finally stepping fully into the room. She extended the coffee tray towards him. “Here. Yolanda told me exactly what you liked.”
Frank looked at the steaming cup, then back at her with a soft, apologetic smile. “Thank you. That’s… really thoughtful. But I should have said, I don’t drink caffeine anymore. No stimulants. It’s a personal choice. Helps keep everything… balanced. For the sobriety.”
Dennis’s jaw dropped comically. “Frank Langdon without coffee? The world has truly shifted on its axis.”
Frank laughed, a free, easy sound. “Trust me, it was one of the hardest habits to break. But I had to.”
Yolanda, however, perked up instantly. “Does that mean I can have his?” she asked, already eyeing the extra cup.
Trinity rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. “Yolanda.”
“What? Waste not, want not! My nerves are shot from three back-to-back traumas yesterday.” She deftly plucked the intended-for-Frank coffee from the tray.
The easy camaraderie in the finished living room felt like a warm blanket. Frank watched Yolanda teasingly try to sip from two coffees at once while Trinity scolded her, and Dennis neatly stacked the flattened cardboard. A thought, idle and curious, crossed his mind.
“So,” Frank began, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he looked between Garcia and Santos. “Are you two… dating? I mean, you’re were a package deal during the one shift I saw you both at, but…”
Yolanda nearly choked on her coffee. She lowered the cups, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. “Frank Langdon, are your observational skills still in rehab? Seriously, you can’t tell?”
Dennis chuckled from his spot by the boxes. “I literally told you they were getting lunch together.”
Frank shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t want to pry! Colleagues get lunch. Friends get lunch. It’s not a definitive test.”
“Psh,” Yolanda waved a dismissive hand, though she was smiling. “My work husband can ask me anything. You know that.”
“I know,” Frank said, his gaze softening as it shifted to Trinity, who was watching the exchange with quiet amusement. “It was more for Trinity’s sake. I didn’t want to make any assumptions.”
Trinity’s amusement softened into something more vulnerable. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I… I wanted to visit you. At the facility. A few times, I almost did. But I was always too scared that you’d look at me and just… see the person who ruined your life.”
Frank’s expression became utterly sincere. “Trinity, look at me. I never blamed you. Not once. Not even in the worst of the withdrawals. That's a lie. I did, but rehab taught me a lot about myself. The only person I saw when I looked in the mirror was the one who’d done the ruining. You were the one who stopped the collapse. Remember that.”
She nodded, swallowing hard, her eyes shining but her posture straighter. The unspoken forgiveness in the air was almost tangible.
“Alright, enough of the heavy lifting of feelings,” Dennis announced, deftly lightening the mood. He grabbed the box cutter from the mantle. “We’ve got actual heavy lifting to do. Dining room next?”
They migrated to the adjoining space, a nook with a large window overlooking a quieter side street. Dennis knelt by a box marked ‘DINING – FRAGILE’ and carefully slit the tape. As he peered inside, he glanced back over his shoulder for instruction, his blue eyes meeting Frank’s.
Frank felt a momentary, peculiar stumble in his chest. There was something in that look, the earnestness, the slight tilt of his head, that was so unabashedly kind. It was the lost puppy look, but with a depth and intelligence behind it that Frank was only now, in the calm, really seeing. He shook off the observation, attributing it to the emotional whiplash of the day.
“If you could just pass me the fancy plates and cutlery,” Frank said, clearing his throat and opening the doors to the built-in china cabinet. “I’ll stow them away.”
Dennis carefully handed over bundles of newspaper-wrapped porcelain.
Yolanda whistled, leaning against the table. “Look at this fine collection of china. You planning on hosting state dinners, Frank?”
Frank unwrapped a simple but elegant white plate with a platinum rim. “I like to fine dine sometimes. Even if it’s just for myself. It’s… a practice in not taking the easy way out.”
“Have you been to Lasa yet?” Trinity asked, brightening. “The new Filipino place on Penn Avenue? It’s incredible.”
Frank shook his head, placing the plates in the cabinet with a soft clink. “I’ve had nothing but pizza and leftovers for a bit. Trying to be… frugal. Save my money.” He paused, a wry smile forming. “For better food. And, hopefully, a date with a special someone. Someday.”
Yolanda grinned, sidling up to him. “I’ll take you on a date, pookie. We’ll get the tasting menu.”
Trinity threw up her hands in mock offense. “Work husbands only exist in the workplace, Garcia! You can’t just poach my former resident for a fancy dinner!”
The room laughed. Then, in the brief pause that followed, Dennis’s voice, slightly rushed but clear, cut through.
“I wouldn’t mind going out to eat with you, Frank.”
The words hung in the air. Frank, who had been lining up forks in a drawer, turned around. He saw Dennis, still crouched by the box, his ears turning a faint pink but his gaze steady. Frank felt a flush of warmth climb his own neck, a confusing mix of flattery, surprise, and a gentle, nervous flutter.
He laughed, a soft, slightly flustered sound, and looked down at the forks in his hand. “That’s… really kind, Dennis. Maybe we could, someday. But I think I need to… I want to wait. Until I find someone new. Properly. Just like Abbey did.”
Yolanda’s protective instincts flared. “Wait, Abbey already found someone? That was fast. I’ll cuss her out, who is he?”
Frank chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s actually a ‘she’. Her name is Chloe. She’s a teacher at the kids’ school.”
Trinity pumped a fist in the air. “Yes! Lesbian solidarity!”
The group erupted in laughter again, the tension from Dennis’s offer dissolving into the shared humor. But Frank’s tone grew reflective as he finished placing the last fork. “I’m genuinely happy for her. She found the right person for her. And I… I hope I can find the right person for me, too.” He said it to the room, but his eyes, for a fleeting second, found Dennis’s before he turned back to the cabinet, the soft clatter of china the only sound for a thoughtful moment.
The comfortable silence that followed Frank’s hopeful statement was broken by Yolanda’s sharp mind. She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Hold on. You said ‘the right person for me,’ not ‘the right woman.’ That’s a very specific, very intentional word choice, Dr. Langdon.”
Frank paused, a hand resting on the now-closed cutlery drawer. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, touched with a new vulnerability. He looked at the three of them, Yolanda with her perceptive gaze, Trinity with her quiet empathy, and Dennis, who was watching him with a quiet intensity that made the air feel warm.
“Astute as ever, Garcia,” Frank said, leaning back against the counter. “When Abbey came out as bi… it made me do a lot of reflecting. In therapy, in those long, quiet nights in rehab. I realized I’d never actually… considered my sexuality. I just defaulted to ‘liking girls’ because that’s what was expected, what was straightforward. But looking back… I had connections with a few guys over the years. Feelings I’d categorized as just a really deep, profound friendship. Admiration, even envy. Going through all that introspection… I had to be brutally honest with myself. And I realized a lot of that wasn’t just friendship. It was an attraction. I just didn’t have the language or the courage to see it for what it was.”
The admission hung in the sunlit dining nook, simple and profound. Dennis’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. He looked awestruck.
“Frank,” Dennis breathed, his voice full of warmth. “That’s… that’s really incredible. The growth, the self-awareness… I didn’t get the chance to say it earlier, but… I’m gay. So, knowing there’s another Queer man in the Pitt… I’m really proud of you. You seem like a changed man. For the better.”
Frank’s chuckle was soft, touched with a hint of bittersweetness. “Thank you, Dennis. That means a lot. I just hope Dr. Robinavitch would agree with you on the ‘changed’ part.” He looked down, his voice dropping. “I haven’t spoken to him since that day. I don’t even know how I would. ‘Hey, Robby, sorry I stole drugs and yelled at everyone,’ isn’t exactly a smooth opener.”
Trinity stepped forward, her expression earnest. “You don’t have to worry about it alone. We can help. I think… I hope the whole team would want to help you two work things out. He definitely misses you, Frank. He’s just… sore.”
Frank shook his head slowly, a protective instinct rising. “I’m not sure forcing a reunion is the right way. Some things need to heal on their own. I don’t want to put anyone, especially him, in an awkward position because of my… journey.”
Yolanda shrugged, expertly unwrapping the final set of delicate teacups. “Your choice, cariño. But if you’re not going to try and heal that tense energy, you’d better get used to working night shift.” She said it with such casual smugness that Frank could only stare.
“What on earth does that mean?” he asked, bewildered.
“It means,” Yolanda said, placing a cup in the cabinet with a definitive clink, “that if you’re both tiptoeing around the Pitt avoiding each other, one of you will have to take nights permanently to make it work. And, no offense, but you have the circadian rhythm of the care home people we see. You’d be a terrible night-shift person.”
Frank barked a laugh, astonished by her logic. “So your solution to my interpersonal crisis is to blackmail me with sleep deprivation?”
“It’s a motivator!”
Dennis, who had been quietly absorbing everything, spoke up. “I could… I could try to help, too. Pull a few strings. Maybe arrange a… neutral meeting.”
Frank turned to him, his expression softening into curiosity. “Why would you do that for me, Dennis? After everything?”
Dennis flushed a deep, charming pink, his eyes darting away before finding the courage to meet Frank’s again. He mumbled something so quiet it was almost inaudible, but Frank, attuned to him in that moment, caught the tail end of it: “…had a friend back in Nebraska… didn’t get to make things right…”
The unspoken story hung between them, a regret, a kindness born of past pain. Frank’s heart gave a tender squeeze. He simply nodded, understanding passing between them without further words needed.
Trinity and Yolanda exchanged a knowing look but said nothing, allowing the moment its space. Trinity carefully placed the last saucer in the corner cabinet just as a bright, chiming melody erupted from Frank’s phone on the counter.
He glanced at the screen. MEL.
“That’ll be her,” he said, holding up a finger to the group. He pointed toward the kitchen, where several boxes labelled ‘KITCHEN – UTENSILS’ sat. “Dennis, you mind starting in there? I’ll run down and collect Mel from the lobby.”
Dennis straightened up instantly, like a soldier given a mission. “On it,” he said, a small, determined smile on his face as he headed for the kitchen.
Frank grabbed his phone and answered as he moved toward the door. “Hey, Mel, I’m on my way down.” He slipped out into the hallway, the sound of Yolanda’s laugh and the rustle of packing paper fading behind him. As he descended in the elevator, the whirlwind of confessions and connections settled within him.
The lobby’s quiet elegance was broken by a familiar sight that made Frank’s heart clench with fondness. Mel sat ramrod straight in one of the plush armchairs, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the elevator doors with the intense, patient focus of someone waiting for a consult in the Pitt. She looked so solemn, so Mel, that a wide, eager smile broke across Frank’s face.
Before he could even say her name, her eyes lit up. She beamed, the professional mask dissolving into pure, unguarded joy. She launched herself from the chair and crossed the marble floor in quick strides, throwing her arms around Frank in a hug that was surprisingly strong and full of feeling.
“You’re here!” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“I’m here,” he confirmed, patting her back. When she pulled back, she was already talking a mile a minute, her energy filling the quiet space.
“So I found the best stickers, these matte finish ones with little cacti and succulents for me and my sister’s water bottles, they’re so cute, and then I remembered you talking all the time in… well, you know, about wanting to hike and see trees and everything, so I found these!” She dug into her small canvas tote bag and produced a sheet of stickers depicting serene forest scenes, mountain peaks, and a particularly determined-looking kayaker. “For your water bottle. Or your laptop. Whatever.”
Frank took the sheet, touched. He’d mentioned that craving for open air, for something real and unmachined, during some of their sessions. That she’d remembered… “Mel, thank you. This is really thoughtful.” He pulled her into a quick, one-armed side hug. “You ready to help set up a brand new, utterly empty kitchen?”
“Absolutely!” she chirped, falling into step beside him as he led her to the elevator. “What floor are you on? Please tell me you’re on three. Dennis and Trinity host movie nights sometimes. Victoria and I usually go, and sometimes Samira shows up if she’s not too busy making her ‘Day in the Life of a Resident’ TikToks.”
Frank chuckled, leaning against the elevator wall as they ascended. “Seventh floor. And I really did miss a lot, huh?”
“You have no idea,” Mel said, her expression shifting into a more professional, gossipy mode. “So, we got two new med students covering your old service. Joy Kwon, third year. Seems smart but… I don’t know, she’s always got her nails perfectly done, even after a trauma code. Doesn’t seem serious. And James Ogilvie, fourth year. Textbook smart, but bedside manner of a brick. He doesn’t consider patients' emotions at all. It’s like they’re puzzles, not people.”
Frank nodded slowly, filing the information away. A mental note, tinged with a pang of longing. For when I return. He didn’t say it out loud, but the hope was there, firmer now. “Good to know,” he said simply.
The elevator doors opened on seven, and as they walked to his apartment, Mel was already peering with interest at the door numbers. When Frank pushed his door open, she bustled in and stopped short, taking in the spacious living room, the organized shelves, and the large sofa.
“Oh, we should totally have movie nights here!” she announced to the room at large. “There’s, like, three times the sofa space!”
Trinity, who was helping Dennis in the kitchen doorway, immediately perked up. “Yes! That’s what I said! Our place is basically a closet with a microwave.”
Frank and Yolanda, who was now inspecting Frank’s spice rack potential, exchanged an amused, knowing look over the breakfast bar.
Dennis emerged, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “We should probably let Frank actually move in properly before we start commandeering his living room,” he said, ever the reasonable one.
Trinity shrugged, a playful glint in her eye. “He hasn’t said no yet.”
Frank shook his head, a genuine laugh escaping him. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I need to make this place a home for me before it becomes the Pitt Annex.” He gestured around. “We still have the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. Let’s tackle those. Then, maybe, if you’re all still alive and I’m not buried under an avalanche of my own poor life choices, I’ll order dinner for everyone. Deal?”
True to form, the five of them made quick, efficient work of the remaining spaces. The kitchen boxes were unpacked with assembly-line precision: Mel arranging mugs, Trinity sorting pots and pans into lower cabinets, Yolanda mercilessly criticizing Frank’s choice of a single, mediocre chef’s knife, “This is for spreading butter, not dicing an onion, Cariño”. Dennis connected the small appliances, and Frank directed traffic, insisting the suitcases of clothes in the bedroom remain closed. “That’s a solo job,” he’d said firmly, and they’d respected the boundary.
By the time the last kitchen box was flattened and the bedroom was arranged, bed made, nightstand set, a small reading lamp casting a warm pool of light, the late afternoon sun was slanting through the windows, painting the hardwood floors in gold. Only the bathroom, with its boxes of toiletries and towels, remained.
Frank looked at his watch, then at his crew, who were variously sprawled on the newly assembled barstools or leaning against the counters. “So,” he said. “Takeout? On me.”
Yolanda grinned, not missing a beat. “Only if it’s on your dime.”
Frank cracked a smile. “You just never change, Garcia.”
“I wish I could say the same to you...” she replied, her tone softening, “...but I can’t. And that’s a good thing.”
Dennis, who was perched on a stool, smirked softly, his eyes on Frank. “It’s definitely a better look on you, though.”
Trinity elbowed him gently, a playful scold in her voice. “Save it for the club, Whitaker.”
Mel, who had been vibrating with quiet hunger for the last hour, seized the moment. “Noodles & Company? Please? I have been craving the Wisconsin Mac & Cheese for, like, a week.”
Dennis groaned in immediate, visceral agreement, patting his flat stomach. “God, yes. I forgot to ask for food at Dunkin'. Haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’m running on fumes and… well, coffee I didn’t drink.” He shot a sassy glance at Frank.
Frank laughed, the sound easy. He pulled out his phone, navigated to the delivery app, and underhand-tossed it to Mel. “You’re in charge. Get everyone’s order. My card’s already in there.”
Mel fumbled but caught it, immediately starting a rapid-fire interrogation of preferences. As the girls huddled around the phone, debating between penne rosa and Bangkok curry, Frank slipped into his bedroom to even out the corner of the duvet he’d hastily thrown over the mattress. He gave it a firm tug, then, exhaustion and the emotional weight of the day hitting him all at once, he simply slumped down to sit on the edge of the bed.
A moment later, he felt the mattress dip slightly on the other side. Dennis had followed him in, sitting a respectful distance away, his hands resting on his knees. The noise from the living room was a muffled, happy chatter.
For a long moment, they just sat in the quiet of the nearly-finished room. Then Frank turned his head. Dennis was already looking at him.
Frank’s gaze lingered. He found himself analyzing the gentle curve of Dennis’s lips, the way they parted slightly as if he were about to speak, a habit that made him look thoughtful, almost feline. And his eyes… those clear, blue eyes were wide open, meeting Frank’s without flinching, holding a mixture of kindness and something else Frank was almost afraid to name.
Frank smiled, soft and a little weary. “Thank you, Dennis,” he said, his voice low. “For today. For being so… kind. For helping without me even having to ask. For listening. For just… being present. It’s been… a harder day than I let on.”
Dennis listened, his cheeks tinting that endearing pink again, but he held Frank’s gaze. He nodded slowly. “You’re welcome. It’s… it’s just in my Midwest nature, I guess. Can’t see someone struggling with a heavy box and not offer a hand.” He paused, his eyes searching Frank’s. “Even if the box isn’t just cardboard.”
The understanding in his words settled over Frank like a blanket. He nodded back, a silent communication passing between them. The air in the room felt charged, thick with unspoken things.
Frank cleared his throat gently, breaking the spell before it could pull them somewhere neither was ready to go. “We should probably join the girls before they decide we have to watch Grey’s Anatomy as some sort of punitive measure.”
Dennis groaned, rolling his eyes with such genuine dismay it made Frank laugh. “Ugh, don’t. I’ve had enough of that show to last three lifetimes. It’s nothing like the real thing.”
“Tell me about it,” Frank agreed, pushing himself up from the bed.
They walked out of the bedroom together, the moment dissipating but leaving a warm resonance in its wake. In the living room, Yolanda had successfully connected the TV. The opening siren of 9-1-1 filled the space.
“Ah,” Trinity said, settling into the corner of the large sofa. “The firehouse version of a medical show. Much more believable. They at least acknowledge the existence of adrenaline.”
The large, modular sofa accommodated all five of them with a comfortable ease that felt symbolic. Frank settled into the central cushion, flanked by Dennis on one side and Mel on the other. The familiar, dramatic cadence of the emergency show filled the room, but it was just background noise to the lively commentary from Yolanda and Trinity.
“See, that’s not how a pediatric drowning works,” Yolanda stated, pointing a chopstick she’d fished from a kitchen drawer at the screen. “You don’t have time to give a heartfelt speech to the patient’s sibling. You just go.”
“And the skin color of the dummy is all wrong,” Trinity added, shaking her head. “It’s too… artistic. In reality, it’s just a horrifying grey. No dramatic purple.” She looked over at Frank, Dennis, and Mel for backup, but found them in a state of peaceful, amused observation. “Oh, come on. You’re all doctors! Back me up!”
“I’m enjoying not having to think about medicine for five minutes,” Mel said dreamily, tucking her feet under her.
Frank just chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. He stretched, his body finally relaxing after the day’s labor, and casually rested his arms along the back of the sofa. His left arm came to rest just behind Dennis’s shoulders, not touching, but in the periphery of his space.
He could feel, more than see, Dennis’s attention shift. A quick glance confirmed it: Dennis wasn’t watching the chaotic firehouse rescue on screen; his blue eyes were fixed on Frank’s profile, a soft, contemplative look on his face. Frank felt a quick, internal jolt, a mix of warmth and nervous energy. He allowed himself a private, fleeting smirk, his mind wandering for just a second. He imagined what Dennis’s sandy-blond hair would feel like under his fingertips. He pictured it being that tranquil kind of softness, like cool silk, a stark contrast to the day’s rough cardboard and dust.
He shook the thought away, a gentle heat rising on the back of his neck, and forcibly redirected his gaze to the television, where a first responder was now improbably dangling from a helicopter.
The spell was broken a moment later when Mel’s phone chimed with a delivery update. She shot up from the sofa like a spring. “Five minutes out!”
Almost simultaneously, Dennis was on his feet. “I’ll get it,” he said, his voice a little too quick. He plucked Frank’s phone from Mel’s hand where it had the order tracker open. “Save you the trip down.” He was already heading for the door before anyone could respond, offering Frank a small, unreadable smile as he passed.
The apartment door clicked shut behind him.
Yolanda blinked. “Well, that was sudden.”
From her spot on the sofa, Trinity let out a knowing, quiet chuckle. She didn’t take her eyes off the TV, but a small, smug smirk played on her lips. “Oh, I know exactly what that meant,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Frank, however, had barely registered their exchange. He was zoning out, staring at the door Dennis had just vanished through. His mind replayed the day in snapshots: Dennis’s steady hands passing him books, his empathetic nod when Frank mentioned his kids, the blush on his cheeks when he’d offered to help with Robby, the way he’d lay beside him on the bed in a moment of quiet understanding. Dennis hadn’t just carried boxes; he’d carried a piece of Frank’s burden today, without fuss, without judgment. A life saver in the most mundane and profound sense.
“Frank?” Mel waved a hand in front of his face. “You still in there? The guy in the show is about to get crushed by a collapsing slide, if you’re interested.”
Frank blinked, refocusing. “Hmm? Oh. Right. The waterslide.” He leaned back again, but his attention was no longer on the drama unfolding on screen. It was tuned to the faint sound of the elevator in the hallway, waiting for the soft click of the door that would signal Dennis’s return, bearing not just noodles, but the continuation of this new thing unfurling between them.
Frank felt a sudden, familiar tightness in his chest, the feel of anxiousness as his mind wandered about what this thing between him and Dennis was. He couldn’t let it take root. Not here, not now. He ruffled a hand through his hair, the physical motion a deliberate attempt to disrupt the building stress.
“Overwhelmed, Mel?” he asked, his voice a little too bright. “Want some water?”
“Sure,” she said, eyes back on the TV.
Frank retreated to the sanctuary of the kitchen. The act of retrieving two clean glasses from the cabinet they’d just stocked, hearing the solid clink as he set them down, was grounding. He turned to the fridge, filling the glasses from the dispenser, the steady hum and the cool feeling on his fingers pulling him back to the present.
When he turned around, the atmosphere had shifted entirely.
Dennis was already back, moving with a quiet efficiency that bordered on feral hunger. He had the large paper bag on the island and was digging into it, extracting the noodle bowls. Yolanda, Trinity, and Mel immediately descended, a well-coordinated flock, claiming their orders with happy exclamations. Frank slid Mel’s water across to her with a soft smile.
He watched as Dennis pulled out the final bowl, Frank’s Japanese Pan Noodles. But as Dennis’s hand emerged, he winced, a sharp hiss escaping his lips. He’d caught the side of his pinkie on the sharp, stapled edge of the bag. Blood welled up instantly.
Before anyone else could react, Frank was in motion. It wasn’t thought, it was pure, ingrained instinct. The lethargy, the introspection, the social anxiety, all of it sloughed away. He was a doctor, and there was a minor, manageable injury.
“Under the sink, left side,” he said, his voice calm and authoritative as he slid to the side of the sink. He’d memorized the placement of his first-aid kit while unpacking. In one fluid motion, he knelt, retrieved the red clinic box, popped it open, and selected a small bandaid. He took Dennis’s hand gently but firmly, his touch clinical yet careful.
“Just a small cut. A deepish one,” Frank murmured, his focus entirely on the task. He cleaned the tiny wound with an antiseptic wipe, the scent of alcohol briefly cutting through the aroma of spices, and then wrapped the bandage neatly around the slender finger, applying just enough pressure. He finished with a gentle, securing pat.
He looked up, meeting Dennis’s wide-eyed gaze. A soft, genuine smile touched Frank’s lips. “There. You’re officially my first patient post-rehab.” The statement was light, but it held a world of meaning for him, a return to his core purpose, in the smallest of ways.
Dennis stood frozen, a deep, spectacular blush spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears. He was still holding Frank’s noodle bowl in his other hand, forgotten.
Frank, his doctor-mode receding, gently plucked the bowl from Dennis’s loose grip. “Thanks,” he said, his smile turning playful. He turned and walked back to the sofa, collapsing into his spot with a contented sigh. He popped the lid open, the steam wafting up, and took a hungry forkful.
Only then did he seem to remember the blushing man still rooted by the island. Frank turned, mouth full, and waved his fork. “Dennis. Come sit. You’re not a lost puppy, you know.”
Trinity snorted into her Bangkok Curry. “Could have fooled me. That’s his default stance at Blue Moon, too. Big, blue, lost-puppy eyes in the corner of the bar.”
Yolanda swatted her arm lightly. “Don’t mock our puppy!”
Dennis finally shook himself out of his stupor, his blush deepening into a flush of mock indignation. “I am not your puppy,” he grumbled, grabbing his own bowl and stalking to the sofa. He squeezed in next to Frank, their shoulders brushing.
Mel, ever the conduit to the past, piped up around a mouthful of mac and cheese. “Hey Frank, whatever happened with that puppy? The one you were debating on, surprising Abbey and the kids with? You showed me pictures of a shtitzu on your phone that one shift.”
Frank, who had been enthusiastically scarfing down his noodles, choked slightly. He coughed, took a swig of water, and shook his head, a wry, sad smile on his face. “Ah. That. No, never happened. The… the rehab, the divorce… it all kind of took priority. The puppy idea was just a… a dumb fantasy. Something I thought would fix things, from a shift where I was probably already not thinking straight.” He poked at his noodles. “It was a silly thought.”
The admission cast a brief, sobering shadow over the room, a reminder of the fractured reality that lay just beneath this evening’s camaraderie. But it was a shadow they all acknowledged, and then, by silent agreement, allowed to pass, choosing instead to focus on the warm food, the bad TV, and the fragile, mending connections in the warmly lit room.
The second episode of 9-1-1 ended with a predictably dramatic crescendo, and almost in unison, Trinity and Yolanda set their empty bowls on the coffee table with a satisfied clatter.
“Alright, I’m calling it,” Yolanda announced, stretching her arms over her head. “Day shift comes at you fast, and I need my beauty sleep to properly terrorize interns.”
Trinity nodded, collecting the discarded bowls. “Same. Garcia’s scary, but I’m scary and perky on no sleep. It’s a bad combo for everyone.” She gave Frank a warm, lingering look. “Tonight was really good, Frank. Really good.”
Mel checked her phone and gasped. “Oh, shoot, I promised my sister I’d Facetime before her bedtime. I gotta run too. This was awesome.” She bounced up and gave Frank a quick, fierce hug. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
Frank returned the hug, touched. “Never. Thanks for everything, Mel.”
As the three women gathered their things, offering final goodbyes and promises to text, Frank’s attention subtly shifted to the fourth person in the room. Dennis was still on the sofa, calmly finishing the last of his noodles, in no apparent rush.
When the door closed behind Trinity, Yolanda, and Mel, the apartment settled into a new, more intimate quiet. Frank turned fully to look at Dennis, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Dennis looked up, meeting his gaze as he swallowed a bite. “I’m off tomorrow,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
Frank couldn’t help but laugh a little, a soft puff of air. “So… you’re just going to… hang out? Here? With me and my half-unpacked bathroom?”
Dennis flushed but held his ground, a hint of playful sass entering his voice. “Do you want me to leave, Frank?”
“No!” Frank said, perhaps a little too quickly. He shook his head, smiling. “No, I didn’t mean that. I just… I don’t want to impose on your time off.”
Dennis’s grin returned, softer now. “I’m messing with you. I just… wanted to see if there was anything else I could help with. Before I go.”
The simple kindness of it, hit Frank with a sudden, overwhelming force. A wave of emotion surged up, bypassing all his controls, and a single, hot tear escaped, tracing a swift path down his cheek before he could catch it. He looked down, embarrassed, swiping at it with the back of his hand.
“Sorry,” he muttered, then took a shaky breath. “Thank you, Dennis. For your… your Midwest charm. I think maybe… I think I actually need an early night myself. It’s been… a lot.”
Dennis’s expression softened into pure understanding. He didn’t pry, didn’t offer empty platitudes. He just nodded. “Of course. No problem at all. I’m just four floors down, okay? If you need anything. Anytime. As long as I’m not on shift.”
Frank yawned, a real, bone-deep exhaustion finally claiming him. “I might take you up on that,” he admitted, his voice gravelly.
Dennis stood, taking his empty bowl to the kitchen. Frank followed him to the door, his heart doing a strange, fluttering thing in his chest. In the dimmer light of the entryway, Dennis’s features seemed even softer, the gentle curve of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead. Frank’s mind, tired and stripped of its usual guards, replayed the feel of Dennis’s hand in his, the blush, the quiet steadiness.
As Dennis reached for the doorknob, the words were out before Frank could vet them. “Dennis?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you… would you want to go out for dinner tomorrow? Like you offered?”
Dennis froze. His hand fell from the knob. He turned around slowly, his eyes wide. A profound, crimson blush bloomed across his face and neck. “You mean… like a date?” he breathed, the words barely audible.
Frank’s own heart was hammering. He let out a short, nervous laugh. “Do you want it to be a date?”
It was a genuine question, an open door. Dennis stared at him, his mouth opening and closing slightly, utterly flustered. He seemed to short-circuit, mumbling incoherently, his eyes darting anywhere but Frank’s face.
Seeing his panic, Frank backtracked, the older, more cautious part of him taking over. He laughed again, a gentle, letting-you-off-the-hook sound. “As friends, of course. Just… dinner. Between friends.”
The tension whooshed out of Dennis. He sagged slightly against the door, his blush fading to a pink flush. He looked almost… disappointed. “Right. Friends. Yeah, that… that sounds good. Dinner. As friends.”
“Great,” Frank said, smiling though it suddenly felt tight.
“Great,” Dennis echoed. He gave a clumsy little wave. “Okay. So… tomorrow. Text me. Goodnight, Frank.”
“Goodnight, Dennis.”
The door clicked shut.
The moment it closed, the strength seemed to drain from Frank’s legs. He leaned back against the wall, then slid down it until he was sitting on the floor of his own foyer, amidst the discarded packing tape and the quiet.
He dropped his head into his hands. The day’s toll, the moving, the memories, the confessions, the forgiveness, the sheer emotional whiplash, crashed over him in a relentless tide. But riding the crest of that tide was one clear, insistent image: Dennis Whitaker.
Those earnest blue eyes, wide with shock and something else. Those lips, parted in a soft ‘o’ of surprise. The imagined silk of his hair. His quiet strength, his unexpected sass, the way he’d blushed a dozen different shades of pink. The way he’d said, “I’m just four floors down.”
Frank groaned into his palms. He was exhausted, raw, and utterly, completely preoccupied with a resident who lived four floors down and had just agreed to a ‘friend’ dinner that neither of them, in that charged moment by the door, had actually wanted to be just about friendship.
Frank pushed himself up from the floor, his muscles protesting. The silence of the apartment was no longer welcoming; it was heavy, full of echoes of laughter and confessions and the soft creak of the door. He moved through the rooms on autopilot, turning off lights.
In the bathroom, he avoided his own gaze in the mirror. He brushed his teeth with mechanical precision, the minty foam doing nothing to cleanse the lingering taste of noodles and nervous energy. He splashed cold water on his face.
The bedroom was a sanctuary of half-shadow. The suitcases of clothes still sat, unopened, a task for tomorrow. He stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt as he slid into bed. He lay on his back, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the faint light from the city painting shifting patterns across it.
His mind, however, refused to settle. It was a whirlpool, pulling every moment of the day into its vortex.
The crushing weight of the book boxes, his anchor. Dennis’s voice in the elevator: “Dr. Langdon?” The raw fear and relief in Trinity’s eyes when he thanked her. Yolanda’s fierce hug. Mel’s beaming smile and the forest stickers.
But the current kept circling back, pulling everything toward one gravitational center.
Dennis’s steady hands passing him books. Dennis laying on the edge of the bed, sharing the quiet. The way his hair fell across his forehead in the lamplight. The searing blush when Frank bandaged his finger, his “first patient.” The open, vulnerable question in his blue eyes by the door: “You mean… like a date? The palpable, dizzying charge in the air after. His own cowardly retreat, “As friends, of course.”
“God,” Frank whispered into the dark. He rolled onto his side, clutching a pillow. What was he doing? He was a wreck of a man, fresh out of rehab, navigating a divorce, trying to rebuild a career. Dennis was… whole. Young, principled, kind, with a bright future ahead of him at the Pitt. He was Frank’s former student, for Christ’s sake. The power dynamics, the history, the sheer mess of it all screamed that this was a terrible idea.
But the memory of that blush, the shared silence, the feeling of Dennis’s hand in his, it didn’t feel like a terrible idea. It felt like a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of his new life. It felt like the first genuine spark of something that wasn’t about survival or penance, but about… connection. Possibility.
He thought of Abbey, finding her happiness with Chloe. He had meant it when he said he was happy for her. But it underscored his own loneliness, the vast, empty space in his life where a partner should be. Did he dare to hope he could fill it? And with Dennis?
The questions chased each other in endless, exhausting circles. The weight of the day, physical, emotional, finally grew heavier than the whirling thoughts. His eyelids, gritty with fatigue, began to droop.
The last conscious image behind them wasn’t of the jagged Pittsburgh skyline, or the boxes, or the medical texts. It was of a pair of sincere blue eyes, wide with a hope that mirrored his own, and the soft parting of lips that had asked a question he hadn’t yet found the courage to answer.
Sleep pulled him under, not into peace, but into a deep, dreamless quiet where the chaos of the day was momentarily suspended, leaving only the faint, persistent whisper of a name.
“Dennis”