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but you know the killer, doesn’t understand

★ summary: the days without frank bleed hopelessly into one another, the wound never quite closing before salt is poured inside, because the universe, cruel and unrelenting, keeps finding ways to put him back in your path just when you start to forget how much he hurts.

★ pairing: frank langdon x reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, heavy angst, cheating, workplace affair, talks of drug addiction & rehab, general pitt warnings, medical inaccuracies, patient overdose, allergic reactions, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, toxic dynamics

★ word count: 14.7k

★ notes: part four of moon song 🌙 thank you so much for all the love i’ve received about this series!! :,) it means the absolute world to me. <3

You hadn’t heard from Frank Langdon in 3 months, which made it the longest stretch of silence between you two in nearly four years. It felt unnatural at first, like missing a step going down the stairs, your body bracing for something that never came.

After the fallout, the hospital had buzzed with it, quiet voices in corners, eyes that lingered a second too long. Work was tense that first week back, the kind of tension that clung to your skin and followed you from room to room. Rumors of Langdon’s discretions, almost everyone pulling you into the break room, or dark corners to ask you what you knew. Each time you'd shrug, and play the concerned but oblivious friend.

On your second day back, Robby called you into an office without much preamble. The door clicked shut behind you, too loud in the quiet, and your stomach dropped before you even looked at his desk. Papers were spread out in front of him, neat but damning, timestamps, logs, records pulled straight from the Pyxis.

“Langdon did use your badge twice to overprescribe, and used your numbers once to return unused vials. Which I’m assuming were diluted with saline.” Robby said, his voice flat, his fingers rubbing his temple.

All you could do was nod, “I didn’t know, I swear to god I didn’t know.”

“I know.” He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even question it, and somehow that made it worse. He sighed, leaning back slightly, the chair creaking under the weight of it all. “I believe you.” A beat passed, quieter now. “He betrayed your trust. Same way he did mine.”

You bit down on your lip hard enough to ground yourself, but it didn’t stop the sick twist in your stomach, the creeping panic that had been waiting just under the surface. “So what now?” you asked, the words coming faster, sharper. “Am I getting reported to the board when this comes out? Because they’re not going to believe I didn’t know, Robby. They’re going to assume I helped him-“

“There won’t be an investigation.”

You blinked at him, thrown. “What?”

“I didn’t report him,” he said, like it was already done. “Administration thinks he went to rehab on his own.”

“Robby.” You let out a nervous laugh, “That’s.. you can’t do that.”

“I can’t report him without implicating you. Or myself.” His gaze flicked down to the papers as he started gathering them, stacking the evidence back into something that could be hidden. “I returned everything. The drugs in the Pyxis haven’t been tampered with.”

Your head is pounding, “And Santos is just okay with that?” You scoff, thinking of the resident you’ve been spending your first week back avoiding like the plague.

“Don’t worry about Santos,” He collected the papers, shoving them in a folder. “It’s the last year of your residency, you have bigger things to worry about.”

Bigger things. The words echoed strangely in your head, like they didn’t quite belong to your life anymore. As everything that mattered had already happened, already broken, and this was just what came after. You were standing in the rubble of your life, still trying to claw your way to the surface for air.

“Robby,” you started, your voice softer now, catching just slightly as he moved toward the door. “About that night. in the ambulance bay-“

He didn’t let you finish.

“It was a bad night,” he said, not unkindly, but firmly enough to close the door on it. “I don’t blame you, or anyone for how they reacted to something like that..” His hand rested briefly on the handle, a pause that felt intentional. “Just… try not to assault any more coworkers, okay?”

The smile he gave you was thin, tired, something held together out of necessity more than humor.

And just like that, it was done. All of it was swept under the rug with a simple conversation. It would never get brought up again.

You started going home again, a little after that. At first, it was easy to fall into step with Samira and Abbot, letting their presence fill the spaces that felt too sharp to sit in by yourself. Their apartment was warm in a way yours hadn’t been in weeks, soft laughter, the hum of a TV you weren’t really watching, Abbot moving around the kitchen like routine with you and Samira falling into a fit of giggles together on the couch over a bottle of wine. But eventually you felt bad for intruding, despite their protests, and you started going home, back to the quiet. Back to learning how to live in the silence without everything unraveling.

That was when you found her, or maybe she found you.

It was late, the end of another shift that had taken more out of you than you could afford, and you were cutting through the back lot when you heard it, a shrill little meow. The dumpsters smelled like antiseptic and rot, but there she was, wedged between the cold metal, a shivering little calico with wide eyes and matted fur, too small to be out there alone.

You wasted absolutely no time in wrapping her up in your jacket, putting her in the safety of your passenger seat. You named her Chai before you even got home. She settled in quickly, like she was always meant to be there. Hundreds of dollars in cat supplies, and toys later it was official. She curled up on your chest each night, she followed you from room to room, weaving between your legs in the mornings, and lingered around the front door waiting for you each night you got home.

She gave you somewhere to put your attention, somewhere for all that restless, aching energy to go. You threw yourself into the things that were supposed to help, you started therapy again, sat on a too-soft couch, and forced yourself to say things out loud that felt too heavy to exist anywhere but inside your own head. You adjusted to a new round of antidepressants, the slow, frustrating process of waiting to feel like yourself again, or at least like a version of yourself you could recognize. You changed your hair, bought new clothes, anything you could to feel brand new. You showed up to work, you studied, you answered questions, you kept moving.

You were doing everything right, but still. There were mornings you woke up already exhausted, like your body had spent the whole night fighting something you couldn’t see. Nights where sleep came in fragments, broken by dreams that dragged him back into your life without your permission. Frank Langdon would show up in pieces; his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at you, and you’d wake up with your heart racing, your throat tight, his name sitting right there, ready to spill out before you could stop it.

And the worst part wasn’t even the fear, it was the instinct that followed. That immediate, overwhelming urge to reach for your phone, to call him, to hear his voice and anchor yourself to something familiar, something that used to feel like home. It hit you before logic could catch up, before the memories of everything he’d done could settle back into place. This is what you deserved, you thought. For all that you'd done, for all that you’ve been complicit in. Some nights you’d wake up, wanting nothing more than to drive to his house and confess your sins on their front porch, begging his wife to forgive you.

Three months. That was how long it had taken you to convince yourself that the ache had dulled into something manageable, something you could tuck neatly behind your ribs and ignore during long shifts and longer nights.

And then the knock came, sharp and out of place against the frozen stillness of a December night, and every single one of those carefully constructed defenses splintered before you even reached the door.

When you opened it, the cold rushed in first, biting and immediate, but it was nothing compared to the shock of seeing him. Frank stood there like a ghost of someone you used to know, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a faded Steelers hat sitting firmly on his head.

“Hi.”

Your voice came out thinner than you intended. “Hi.”

For a second, neither of you moved. You just stared, taking him in, cataloging every difference whether you wanted to or not. His cheeks were hollowed, the sharpness of his jaw more pronounced, his collarbones pressing against the fabric of his shirt like they were trying to break through. Rehab had stripped him down to something raw, something almost fragile. But there was something else, too. Something lighter. Like the weight he used to carry had shifted, even if it hadn’t disappeared completely.

“Can I come in?” he asked, and there was something in his voice you’d never heard before, hesitation, maybe even fear.

You didn’t remember stepping aside, but suddenly he was inside, bringing the cold with him, and your apartment felt too small, too full of him all over again.

“I have a million things to say,” he exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck, eyes darting around like he didn’t quite know where to land. “But now I can’t remember a single one.”

”Really.” You mumbled, closing the door behind him. “That’s a new one.”

His gaze snapped back to you, softer now, almost disbelieving. Like he hadn’t really looked at you before, not until now. “You look-” he swallowed, like the words caught on something sharp inside him. “God, you look beautiful.”

It was then you realized you were in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, your hair a mess around your neck. Yet, he was still looking at you the way he always did. Like you had hung the moon and the stars for him.

And it would’ve been easier, so much easier, if you could’ve hated him at that moment. If the sight of him didn’t send something warm and awful blooming in your chest, something that felt too much like relief. Because there he was. Alive. Standing in front of you, breathing, real. Not a memory, not a what-if, not the version of him you replayed in your head at three in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come.

You forced the fondness down, clinging to your last moments together. The horrible taste of bile in your throat from crying so hard, the fear lodged in your chest at your entire life being ruined due to his selfish actions. He hadn’t just hurt you, it would be so much different if he had. Instead, he risked everything you’d worked for, your career, your reputation, your future.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said suddenly, like he could read every thought flickering across your face. “I know that. To even show up unannounced like this is cruel, and selfish. “

”Frank-” you started, but the words dissolved before you could figure out what came next.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, almost tripping over it. “I know that doesn’t even begin to cover it, I know I-what I did to you, I-” his voice broke, and he dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head like he couldn’t stand to hear himself say it out loud. “I’m m-making amends, well I’ve been out of rehab for a couple of hours so I'm starting to make amends, anyways. For the past three months, all I’ve wanted to do is apologize to you. Out of everyone I’ve hurt you the most. I betrayed your trust, I put you at risk, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I’m not even asking for it. I just need you to know, how fucking sorry I am, Y/n.”

“Do you think that showing up here out of the blue is going to make a difference?” You asked, shifting on your bare feet.

“No,” he said immediately. “I know it doesn’t. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect anything from you.” His eyes softened, something unbearably earnest in them. “I just- I needed you to hear it from me. That I’m trying. That I’m sober. That I’m-” he hesitated, as the word itself scared him. “Different.”

You studied him then, really studied him, searching for cracks in the surface. And the worst part was, you believed him. Not entirely, not blindly, but enough to make it hurt. There was a scary sincerity there that hadn’t existed before, a kind of stripped-down honesty that came from losing everything and realizing, too late, what it had cost.

His crystal blue eyes were glossy, standing in the dim light of your kitchen. His duffel bag still clutched to his side, his wedding ring still on his finger. It felt like you had fallen into freezing waters, your back straightening. He was still married. That truth sat heavy and immovable between you, no matter how much he stripped himself raw for you.

“I hate you,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your mouth. It felt ugly, the words leaving a thick film in your mouth.

He nodded like he deserved it, like this is what he had spent those months bracing for. “That’s okay.”

“I want to hate you,” you corrected, your voice breaking just slightly. “I really, really do. I want to hate you so fucking much that I never want to see you again.”

His gaze softened even more, and somehow that made it worse. “But you don’t?”

The hope in his voice made a tear streak down your cheek, “Not for my lack of trying.”

“I suppose I deserve that,” He let out a self-loathing laugh, his back pressing into the counter. “I lied about a lot of things, and I used a lot of things against you in my darkest moments. But I never lied about-” he started, then cut himself off, jaw tightening like he knew he didn’t deserve to finish that sentence.

A bitter laugh slipped out of you. “Don’t. You don’t love me, Frank. Y-you love the idea of me. The thrill, the adrenaline of it. You loved what you could get from me, and I’m so fucking stupid I just gave it to you.”

“No,” The word came out fast and sharp, “No, that’s not true-“

”Yes, it is-“

He cut you off, “I never wanted to love you, that much is true.”

His duffle bag falling to the floor echoes around the kitchen, before he takes a deep breath to continue.

“I never wanted to betray my family, that’s why I spent three years pretending that I wasn’t in love with you,” His breath was shaky, the confession making your knees weak. “I was in love with you the moment you cussed me out in front of Robby our intern year for missing that bleed on the ultrasound.”

Your hands are gripping your kitchen island to keep yourself upright, unable to move.

“Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to go home every night and sit across from my family and still be thinking about you? About the way you look at me, the way you-” his voice broke, and he exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “No one has ever understood me the way you do. No one.”

“I don’t love what you can give me,” he went on, his voice tightening, frustration and something deeper bleeding through. “I love you. You. The actual you.” His hand dragged through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I love the way you get this look on your face when you know you’re right and you’re about to prove me wrong. I love how you don’t hesitate, ever, you just move, you just act, even when everyone else freezes.”

Your breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

“I love that you’re kind in ways you don’t even realize,” he said, quieter now, but somehow more intense. “The way you stay five minutes longer with a patient even when you’re dead on your feet. The way you keep stickers and suckers in your scrub pockets for scared kids. The way you pretend you’re not soft, like it’s something to hide.” His eyes flicked over your face, memorizing, aching. “I love that you care too much and you hate that about yourself.”

“I love that stupid band you force me to listen to that are so British I don’t understand a single word they’re saying,” He laughed through his tears, “I love the way you pretend you don’t snore, I love that tattoo you got when you were in college that you hide. I love everything about you, to the point that it hurts.”

“I also know that I don’t deserve your love, I never did.” He let out a shaky breath, wiping his eyes aggressively before looking back at you. “I’m a horrible person. A coward of a man too ashamed to divorce his wife, so instead I manipulated you and your feelings, because being with you like that was better than not having you at all.”

“So,” He forced a hard out through his tears, “If you need to turn it into something else for you to hate me, that’s fine. Whatever makes it easier for you, but I just can’t- you can’t not know. I needed to tell you, one good time. I love you, Y/n. And I’m so fucking scared I always will, and that I’ve fucked it all up.”

Your chest heaves, a broken sound slipping out of you before you can stop it, tears spilling faster now, soaking into the collar of your sleep shirt. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like it might hold something in, like it might keep you from completely falling apart in front of him, but it’s useless. You feel rubbed raw, like someone had poured salt into an open wound, you just earlier thought was beginning to stitch itself back together.

Your face is wet, your throat raw, your breathing uneven as you try to steady it and can’t. You can feel the cold tile under your feet, grounding in a way nothing else is, because everything else feels like it’s slipping out of your hands.

Because you love him.

That truth settles in deeper with every second you stand there looking at him and seeing the way he’s breaking in front of you. A layer of Frank you’ve never seen before. The way he means it. The way he’s not hiding anymore. And at the end, it doesn’t change anything. Nothing at all.

“You’re still married,” you said, but it came out softer than it should have, like the words didn’t carry the weight they were supposed to.

“I know,” he whispered, and there was something broken in it, something that made your chest ache. “We aren’t together. She wants to give the kids one last Christmas, before we separate.”

You rub at your neck, wiping away the salty tears that have collected there. “You should go.” You say, not even looking him in the eye.

“Yeah,” he breathed, but he didn’t move, didn’t put the space between you that you should have. “Okay.”

One second there was space between you, and the next there wasn’t.

It was messy and desperate and completely out of control, like two magnets snapping together after being forced apart for too long. You weren’t even sure who moved first, just that suddenly his hands were on you, your fingers were tangled in his jacket, and his mouth was on yours like he was starving for it.

Maybe that’s because he was. Almost every night, even when the withdrawal had him hallucinating all he could see was your face. He smelled your body wash haunting him on rough nights, and heard your voice in his dreams.

Your fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him closer even as every rational part of you knows you shouldn’t. His hands are just as unsteady, just as urgent, like he needs to anchor himself to something solid before it all disappears again.

It all happens too fast, clothes are shrugged off as you lead him backwards into your bedroom. Hands gripping various furniture for stability on the frantic walk there, before your door is flung open, bodies falling into half-dressed heaps into your unmade bed.

Your shirt was lost somewhere in the hallway, his jeans were shrugged off on your bedroom floor. There were no words, just mouths hungrily chasing each other as if you needed it to breathe.

He drags his lips down your neck, swirling his tongue between your tits before trailing down your naval. On any other occasion, you’d gladly take his tongue against you, but you couldn't handle that tonight. Instead, you grab his shoulders, pulling him back up.

“I need you, please.” Your voice shook, his eyes filling with concern.

“I wanna-“

“Please.” You stressed, nails digging into his skin to prove your point.

He nods, to which you’re thankful for. He leans over you, and you pretend you don’t hear the metal cling of his wedding ring fall on your nightstand. You pretend not to feel the absence of it when his hand grips your hips. You try not to think about it, the way he’s never once touched you without it on.

He pushed into you with little to no warning, it hurt just the way you wanted it to. You let out a gasp at the stretch of him, wincing in a mix of pain and pleasure when his hips met yours. You wanted the pain, the bruises, the marks. It hurt, but it hurt so good that tears were springing to your eyes.

It’s a complete contrast to the last time you felt him in this way, gone were the confessions of love and gentle touches. This was primal, your teeth biting down painfully into his shoulder like you were trying to make him hurt just as bad as you did.

If anything it only spurred him on, making him snap his hips even harder, deeper into yours. His cock was splitting you apart, your legs wrapped around his hips keeping him close to you.

“Harder.” You cried out, your eyes squeezed shut.

He obliged, but wrapped his hand gently around your jaw. He whispered your name with such tenderness that it made chills run up your spine.

You shook your head, already knowing what he wanted. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t reckon with the fact that this felt an awful lot like goodbye. You spent so long thinking you had already had your last moments with him, you didn’t want to do it again.

“Y/n, please.” He spoke up, his hips slowing down, “I’ll stop if you don’t look at me.”

Your eyes flew open, panting into his mouth. “I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He whispered, dragging his cock fully out of you slowly, just to slide back in.

Your back arched off the bed, his hand still heavy on your jaw, forcing your eyes on him.

“I need to see you,” He grunted, “I need to tell you how good you feel, how beautiful you are.”

Tears well up in your eyes, whether it's from your heart cracking in your chest or the pleasure overwhelming you, you aren’t sure. His eyes bore into yours, his pupils darkened from the pleasure.

Somehow your legs get pulled up to your chest, your nails dragging harshly down his back which only elicits soft moans from his lips.

“So. fucking. gorgeous.” He grunts, each word punctuated with a deep thrust inside of you. His long fingers slip between you, rubbing tight circles against your clit, determined to feel you fall apart around him.

Your high is approaching, you feel it creeping up behind your eyes, the pleasure burning in your stomach.

“F-fuck, Frank-“ You cry out, your eyes fluttering close as your cunt spasms around him.

Within seconds his hand is grabbing your face again, “Open up, open your eyes. Let me see,” He demanded, “Let me see.”

When you open your eyes there’s frustration licking up your spine, even as your legs shake around him, your release dripping from you. Suddenly you’re pushing him off, his back hitting the bed with a wince. He’s sitting up against the headboard, eyes frantic.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt-“

“Shut up.” You grumble, straddling him with shaky legs as you sink back down on him slowly. Scrambling what little control you had left.

“Fuck,” His head is thrown back, his fingers digging harshly into your hips.

You rock your hips back and forth, fucking yourself on him with a harshness that could only come from the anger and want brewing like a storm in your chest.

“Yeah, yeah take your anger out on me, baby.” Frank whimpered, his throat exposed. “Use me.”

“Fuck. You.” You spoke through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the moans threatening to slip out with each drag of your clit against him.

“I love you,” He panted, and your hand slid into his hair pulling harshly at the roots.

”You don’t deserve me,” You cried out, “Never did.”

“I know.” He was nearly in tears, watching you bounce on top of him. Your brows furrowed in anger, and pleasure as you used him to bring yourself to another orgasm. He keeps quiet, aside from the occasional whine slipping out as you grind lazily against him. He can feel how close you are, with each twitch of your legs. He pulls your hips down quickly, planting his feet on the bed to fuck up into you hard enough to take your breath away.

You let him, your head thrown back as he hits the spot inside of you that has you cumming again in seconds. You’re soaking him completely, your entire body trembling in his hold.

“I’m so close,” He warns you, as if he hasn’t been trying not to cum inside of you for the past ten minutes.

“Do you think you deserve to cum inside me?” You ask, your legs trembling now from your second orgasm of the night. Your hand wraps around his neck, not applying pressure, just holding him there.

“No,” He answers immediately, feeling the way his balls tighten and his stomach dips, “But p-please.”

“Please?” You nearly laugh, “Beg for it.”

He would have gotten on his hands and knees and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in right then and there. The pathetic whimpers and blubbers leave his mouth before you can even finish.

“Oh my god, please. Let me cum inside you, fill you up. I’ll make you cum a-again. I’ll do anything. Please, please, please.”

Your eyes close shut in pleasure for just a second, before you nod. “Yeah, go ahead. Fill me up.”

That’s all he needed, in a few more short thrusts he’s coming inside of you with a loud grunt of your name.

You immediately fall slack into his arms, relishing in the feeling of his cock twitching deep inside of you. The familiar warmth of his cum pooling deep inside of you feels like coming home after a long day.

He wants to cry as he watches you gain your bearings, and roll over into the sheets. Your skin is glowing, your tits bouncing, your hair surrounding you like a halo. His cum dripping out of your throbbing cunt sends a shiver down his spine, his cock aches but he feels himself harden again despite himself.

“Are you-“

“I’m okay.” You whisper, reassuring him before he could even ask.

He pulls you into his arms, the two of your bodies still fitting together like two lost puzzle pieces. Your head is on his chest as he brings the sheets over your bare bodies.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” you asked, your voice small in a way you didn’t recognize, as if it belonged to someone younger, someone untouched by this pain.

“Just let me hold you,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking on the edges, and that was all it took for you to give in, folding into him like you hadn’t spent months trying to learn how to stand on your own.

You stayed awake long after you should have, long after your body begged you to rest, your head tucked against his chest as you listened, counting each heartbeat, each breath, as if you memorized it well enough you could carry it with you when he was gone again. For a few fragile hours, you let yourself believe it meant something more than it did.

Sleep took you anyway.

When your eyes open, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, it doesn’t take long for the truth to settle in. The space beside you is empty. Not recently empty, not warm enough to pretend he just stepped away. It’s cold and distant. Like he was never there at all.

If there wasn’t the reminder of him still leaking between your legs, you'd have been convinced you dreamt the entire night.

Your chest tightens, something quiet and painful blooming beneath your ribs as you roll slightly onto your back, staring up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there instead. For a moment, you don’t move. You just breathe, slow and shallow, collecting yourself before you fall apart.

Your gaze drifts to the nightstand, where once his wedding band sat, which was now replaced with a piece of paper folded with your name scribbled on the front. You recognized the paper from the journal sitting on your desk, the PMTC pen lying haphazardly underneath it.

You pick it up, turning it over once, like you’re giving yourself one last second before it becomes real before unfolding the paper. The handwriting was rushed, frantic scribbles as if he didn’t get it out then he wouldn’t have been able to write it at all.

“I’m not asking you to wait for me. I’m telling you that I’ll love you until my very last breath. But my kids will always come first. I’m a very selfish man.”

There was a pause before the last line, like he’d hesitated, like he knew he shouldn’t write it and did anyway.

“And I selfishly hope you do wait for me.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in your chest for hours, your head dropping forward as your fingers curl around the note, crumpling it just enough to crease the edges.

You wanted to melt into the bed for weeks or to grab your keys and drive your car to his house. To scream in his face, to curse him for doing this to you. Ruining all that you had done to put yourself back together. You want to scream at yourself. For letting him in. For answering the door. For memorizing the sound of his heartbeat like it was something you could keep. For being weak enough to fall back into something you already knew the ending to.

Instead, you did what you always did, pushed it down, and went on with your day. You got up and made breakfast, fed Chai, and scheduled another therapy appointment before going to work. You washed your sheets, scrubbed your body raw, wiping away any last trace of him. You ignored the ache between your legs, the bruises on your hips, and the marks on your collarbones. Just to be haunted by the absence of him in another place, in another way.

The days blur into each other, long shifts and longer nights, exhaustion settling into your bones until it feels permanent. Weeks pass, then months, stretching out in that strange, uneven way where nothing happens and everything changes all at once.

You don’t hear from him. Not a call. Not a message.

In a way, Frank was your own addiction, a horrible thing you weren’t able to shake despite every fiber of your being telling you to. It was knowing exactly what it would cost you and reaching for it anyway. Like getting a taste of something that lit you up and then having it ripped away before you could ever feel full. The kind of thing that leaves you restless, unsettled, always half-expecting it to come back, even when you know better.

Time passes, in the unrelenting way time does. You go through the motions of being alive, rarely feeling like you’re actually living. You still find yourself sitting on your couch some nights, staring at your door as if you were a dog waiting on it’s owner to return.

Three more months passed, in the blink of an eye.

Today was just another day of waking up alone, with a small tuft of fur tucked into your side while your alarm blares too loudly. Your morning is just like any other, silently going through the motions of getting ready for another draining shift. It felt just like every other day that blended together with the rest.

Your badge swings against your scrub top, the stupid bright Barbie pin still pinned to it, clashing against your dark scrubs. It no longer made your chest ache, just made you feel his absence a little weaker each time it caught your eye.

As soon as you walk into the ED, muscle memory takes over. Over the past few months, you’ve accidentally taken Mel under your wing, guiding her through procedures and giving her someone to lean on when things with Becca become too much. There’s still a strange edge with Dana, something you haven’t quite figured out how to smooth over, but it’s manageable. Santos, is Santos. She wants to be on your cases, but you still see the way she’s unable to meet your eye, or the snide comments that make your skin itch.

You’re halfway through pushing your bag into your locker when Samira catches sight of you, her eyes narrowing slightly before softening into something almost surprising. “Your hair,” she says, stepping closer, reaching out like she needs to confirm it’s real. “You look good. Like, really good.”You pause for a second, and instinctively come up to touch it. It’s different. Softer, styled in a way you haven’t bothered with in months even as it’s pushed out of your face. It’s that you’re finally starting to care about the small things again.

You huff out a quiet laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “I feel good,” you admit, the words unfamiliar but not untrue.

”Are you going to finally let that paramedic ask you out?” She teases, falling into rhythm with you as you walk into the hub shoulders pressed together.

“Girl,” You roll your eyes.

One of the paramedics, Buck, had been asking you out periodically ever since PittFest. He was younger, sweet, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed. Samira’s long-standing plan had been getting you under someone else to get over ‘he who shall not be named’ as she conned him. But, the last thing you wanted or needed right now was to be intertwined with anyone romantically.

“Don’t girl me.” She huffed playfully, knocking her shoulder with yours as you walked into the chaos of the hub. “You need to get laid.” She whispered the last word obnoxiously, making you cringe.

“No I don’t, I’m taking a vow of celibacy.” You smiled, “You cannot say the same-“

Her hands reached to cover your mouth, making you smirk as you dodged her attempts. “Shhh.”

“I’m just glad I don’t have to pretend not to hear you guys anymore.” You giggled, grabbing a tablet and handing her one as well.

“That’s the last time I let you stay with us,” She grumbled, to which you just shook your head.

“Nah, you know you miss me.” You smiled, watching Robby and Abbot gather everyone around for handoffs.

It started as a normal day, your new normal anyways. Rounds went off without a hitch, night shift patients were slowly being discharged while triage filled up the beds just as fast. It's the typical morning, some stitches from dinner mishaps, a broken foot, some mysterious food poisoning, the typical mundane cases you could have done with your eyes closed. The first trauma of the day didn’t come until around 9 am.

You were mid-chart, leaning against the counter with Mel beside you flipping through labs, when Dana yelled out, “Trauma inbound, possible overdose.”

You were moving immediately, Mel hot on your tail as you gloved up to meet the ambulance in the bay. The doors were open quickly, The reality of a kid lying on in front of you hit you in the same clinically removed way that cases like this always did. His skin was waxy, his shirt soaked, the sharp, sour smell of vomit hitting the back of your throat as EMS starts talking.

“Seventeen-year-old, found down in his bedroom,” the paramedic says quickly, breathless but practiced, “unknown downtime, last seen about an hour before by a younger sibling, empty pill bottles at scene, we gave four milligrams Narcan intranasal, two IV, no response, GCS three the entire time, pupils fixed-”

“Okay, we’ve got it,” you cut in, already assessing, nurses surrounding as he was wheeled into Trauma one. “Let’s move, one, two, three.”

You slide your hands under his shoulders with Mel and transfer him over to the bed, your fingers brushing skin that’s too cool, too still, and your brain catalogues everything automatically, no purposeful movement, no withdrawal to pain, chest barely rising with the bag, pupils blown wide and unreactive when you pry one lid open. Robby’s in the corner observing as you do the neuro check, Mel readying to intubate.

“No gag reflex,” You announce, “Let’s secure the airway, suction please.”

Mel is beside you instantly. “I’ve got it.”

She suctions first, clearing what she can, trying not to think about how long it might have been sitting there, how long he might have been like this before anyone found him, and then she’s in, laryngoscope steady, voice tight but controlled.

“I see cords… tube.”

You pass it without hesitation, watching it slide into place, watching her inflate the cuff.

“Confirmed.” You nodded to her, catching Robby’s eye once again.

“End-tidal’s up, we’ve got color change,” someone calls, while others repeat his numbers from the monitors.

“Repeat neuro check,” Robby urges, and you grab the penlight once again. Prying open his eyelids, only to be met with the same fixed and dilated pupils.

Another round of meds goes in because that’s what you do. After all, you follow the algorithm even when it feels futile, epinephrine pushed, bagging continuing, but every reassessment brings you back to the same place, the same stillness, the same absence that’s starting to feel absolute. He’s not breathing on his own, has no response to painful stimuli, absent corneal reflex.

45 minutes pass, a ventilator is breathing for him, and every single test has shown zero brain activity. It was now just you, Mel, a few nurses, and Robby popping in and out.

“Any change?” He asked, as you’re half slumped against the computer in the corner, staring at the test results as if they would change something.

Mel just finished the 30th neuro check, shaking her head no softly.

“Fuck,” Robby mumbled, shaking his head as he walked behind you to stare at the tests with you.

You swallow hard, staring at the kid for a moment longer than you should, at the tube taped to his face, at the lines, at the mess of it all, and then you force yourself to look away.

“Parents are here,” a nurse says softly from the doorway, and your chest tightens immediately.

Robby immediately steps in, “I can do it.”

“Let me go with you,” You whispered, “They deserve to hear it from the Doctor who treated him. Mel can you call Kiara?”

Your gloves snapped off a little harder than you needed to, scrubbing your hands harshly while you saw the parents being escorted into the family room with Kiara in tow.

“I heard,” McKay comes up beside you from where you stood still staring at the boy through the glass of the trauma room. “I’m sorry. These are always tough ones.”

“Yup, little sister found him. It’s fucking horrible.” Your fingernails are still digging into your palms. From the moment the boy was wheeled in you were in doctor mode, now as he lay there all you could think about was Frank. What if it was him on that bed instead, one of his kids finding him on the floor with vomit pooling out the side of his mouth.

Robby’s hand falls on your shoulder, as he signals for you to follow him into the family room. You ignore the stares of pity from your coworkers as the door closes behind you.

The family room feels too small when you step inside, the air thick with anticipation, and the second they see you, they stand, both of them talking at once, voices overlapping, desperate.

“Is he okay?”

“What happened, is he-“

You hold up a hand gently, trying to ground them before you say anything that will shatter them completely. “I’m Dr. Y/l/n, I was part of the team taking care of your son.”

”And I’m Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of this ED, I was supervising his care.” Robby announced, urging them to sit back down on the chairs. You both sat next to Kiara in the chairs, as you scooted a little closer to the family.

This was something Med school never taught you, they could tell you how to do it, clinically and far removed. But each time you had to look a family in the eye and tell them you couldn't save their son was something no test could prepare you for.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, and you watch the exact moment hope fractures, the way their faces shift, the way their bodies tense like they’re bracing for impact. “We did everything we could to try to resuscitate him, we gave medications, we supported his breathing, we performed CPR for an extended period of time, but he is unable to breathe on his own. We have him on a ventilator-”

“No, no, but he’s-he’s alive, right?” the mother interrupts, her voice already breaking, already pleading.

Your throat tightens, but you keep your voice steady, even, clinical in a way that feels almost cruel. “His heart was not able to sustain a rhythm on its own; the machine is breathing for him. And on our exam and with everything we’re seeing, there is no brain activity.”

They stare at you like they’re waiting for a but, as you erase their last chance of hope.

“Your son is brain dead,” you say softly. “That means there is no function in his brain at all, and that is not something we can reverse.”

”Wait, so what do you mean? Can’t you perform brain surgery?” The mother blubbers while the husband just closes his eyes. “You’re doctors, fix him.”

“His brain,” Robby backs you up, “Went too long without oxygen. There is no chance at recovery, there’s nothing we can do. He is dead. We are so sorry.”

The father’s eyes squeeze shut like he’s trying to block it out, like if he refuses to see you then maybe none of this is real, while the mother lets out a sharp, guttural sob that seems to tear straight out of her chest.

“He was clean,” she gasps, the words tumbling over each other, frantic, searching. “He’d been getting help, he was doing so good, he wouldn’t-he wouldn’t just-”

“It’s very common for overdoses to happen while someone’s in recovery,” Kiara says gently, stepping forward just enough to be heard, her tone careful, nonjudgmental. “They take the same amount they did before, but their body can’t handle it anymore. It’s likely, this wasn’t intentional.”

The father’s head snaps up, grief twisting sharply into something angrier, something easier to hold onto than the devastation sitting underneath it.

“Yeah?” he spits, his voice rough, cracking under the weight of it. “What do you fucking know? Have you lost a son?”

Kiara stills, just for a second, absorbing it without pushing back, because there’s no winning here, no correcting this kind of pain when it’s looking for somewhere to land. She knows this and keeps a blank, soft empathetic expression on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly instead, and somehow that makes it worse.

His gaze shifts then, landing on you, sharp and searching, like he’s looking for something to blame, something to make sense of what doesn’t make sense.

”Why would he do this?” The father sobbed, “Why the fuck would he take more pills?”

“Addiction is a disease,” You say softly, “It was a horrible accident, there’s no one to blame here. I’d recommend continuing this conversation with Kiara, she has resources-“

“Addiction is a disease,” He scoffed, “What the fuck do you know? Have you ever loved an addict? Watched them tear themselves apart and still tried to put them back together every single time? Sat up all night wondering if they were going to come home? Gone through rehab, and meetings, and second chances, and third chances-” his voice breaks, splintering under the weight of it, “-and thought maybe this time it would stick?”

”I think maybe we need to calm down here,” Robby spoke, attempting to quell the tension in the room, “All Dr. Y/l/n was trying to say that we’re here for you. With whatever you need to make this as easy as possible.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say again, softer now, because there’s nothing else left to offer, nothing that will make this better, nothing that will undo what’s already happened.

The mother is crying openly now, her body folding in on itself, and the father turns away from you like he can’t stand to look at you anymore, like you’ve become part of the thing that took his son.

Robby gives you a look, and it’s your cue to slip out before they make things worse by asking about organ donation. By the time you’re back in the hall, you can hear the muffled yelling inside. You give Ahmed a heads up, having him step by the door in case the father decides to take anything else out on you all.

You felt rubbed raw from the guilt and pain. It sat low in your stomach, twisting, crawling up your throat as you leaned briefly against the wall, closing your eyes for just a second too long, because all you could see was that image of Frank, over and over again, refusing to let go. Your fingers gripped your phone in your pocket, resisting the urge to pull it out. To call just to see if he would answer, to hear his voicemail.

You wondered if he’d actually left her yet, or if he was back to being the ideal suburban husband.

A few more breaths, and you’re back on your feet. Slipping against the nurses' station once again, catching Dana’s eye.

“How’d it go in there?” She asked, a soft frown on her face.

You shook your head, “Not good. Pretty sure the father is this close to punching Robby in the face for asking about organ donation.”

“Just horrible.” She muttered, shaking her head. “Take a few, go eat something.”

“Nah, I’ll just end up crying,” You admitted with a shaky laugh, “Anything new on the board?”

“Don’t jinx it, woman.” She scoffed, tossing a granola bar to you. “At least go get some coffee.”

You agreed, letting the sort of stale warm coffee fill your senses before Santos was pulling you into a case.

By the time noon had rolled around, your nerves had mellowed out again. The parents escorted their son upstairs to surgery, and you felt good that they at least agreed to the organ donation. Robby checked in on you once or twice, affirming you that you did everything correctly. It was just a rough one he sighed, to which you couldn’t agree more.

“Are those new scrubs?” Javardi asked out of nowhere, her bright pink jacket hanging off her own scrubs, which matched her undershirt perfectly.

“Yup, she’s trying to impress that paramedic.” Samira teased, as she passed by you two on the way into a room.

“No- fucking ignore her,” You grumbled, “Yes, new scrubs. I’m trying to be as stylish as you. Is it working?” You ask with a soft smile.

She grins, “Yes, wait if you want I can send you some Pinterest boards I have for my outfits.”

“I’d love that,” You smiled, picking up your tablet again, “Thank you.”

“Now what about this paramedic?” She starts, making you want to run away as fast as you can.

“What paramedic?” Santos asks quickly, popping her head up from one of the computers.

“There is no paramedic-“ You start, only to be cut off by absolute chaos unfolding in the ambulance bay doors.

The doors slammed open, and the gurney nearly jolted as it was rolled into the trauma bay. You had just started to walk away, before the sudden surge of adrenaline in the room made your head snap up. It’s as if you summoned the said paramedic, as Buck stood there meeting your eyes almost immediately.

“Pediatric airway-“ You heard him mumbling to Dana, the gurney following after him with his crew in tow. As if he had jumped out rushing inside on someone’s orders to get you specifically.

At first glance, it was another pediatric anaphylaxis, except the panic that hit the room like a wave made you freeze for half a second. Frank was there, appearing out of thin air. His face drained and taut, eyes locked on his son who was lying on the gurney. Abby clung to Penny, but her attention was split, alternating between her son’s blue-tinged lips and Frank’s every move. For a heartbeat, the chaos didn’t register until you realized your tablet had slipped through your hands, your feet moving before anyone could bark out orders.

“Y/n-“ Dana was speaking as you grabbed the gurney.

“Where?” You barked, Dana automatically guiding you into trauma two. ”Get me Mel and Robby, now.”

“Severe peanut allergy,” Buck was saying somewhere behind you, voice quick, urgent, relaying details loud enough for you to catch. “Two EpiPens administered, no improvement. He deteriorated fast, lost effective respirations right before arrival.”

“Pulse?” you demanded, your tone cutting cleanly through the noise as you repositioned his airway, trying to open what you already suspected was closing.

“Bradycardic. forty and dropping,” came the reply from the monitor side, the numbers confirming what your hands already knew.

”Father insisted you’re the best at peds airways,” Buck breathed out, making your breath hitch as you completely forgot about the family following behind you as you’re parked in the trauma room.

Robby had slipped inside, his eyes wide at the scene unfolding around him. No one even had the time to process it was Frank before everyone slipped into crisis mode.

Frank was frantic, yelling out orders over the already chaotic room. Trying too hard to control the moment, your hands shook as you palpated his throat, stethoscope against his chest as Dana started an IV.

Robby was there behind him, hands raised as he could somehow tether Frank’s panic. “You need to calm down! Step back!” His voice trembled. Frank didn’t hear him. Frank barely even noticed him. You could hear Abby’s sobs, her daughter's cries as you tried to focus.

You went to work immediately, assessing Tanner: generalized urticaria, angioedema swelling his lips and eyes, stridor rasping through his throat, hypotensive, oxygen saturation at 87%.

Abby kept trying to look past it all, trying to see Tanner, but there were too many bodies in the way. “What’s happening?” she kept asking, her voice breaking. “Why isn’t it working? We gave him the EPI, Frank, we did what you said-”

“I know,” Frank said, but he didn’t look at her. He was still looking at you.

“Come on, Tanner,” I muttered under my breath, more habit than anything else. His pulse was thready, barely there under my fingers, and his chest was moving less and less effectively with each breath.

You barked orders with precision: “Full tidal volume. IV access now! Prepare fluids, repeat a dose of EPI. STAT.” Nurses snapped into motion, attaching the oxygen mask, priming the IV line, and drawing up the next dose of epinephrine. Mel swooped in, grabbing Penny before she could watch her brother suffer, murmuring soft reassurances that fell on ears too young to process, yet calming enough to keep the child from watching all of this unfold.

Frank stepped closer despite it all, drawn in like he couldn’t physically separate himself from what was happening. “You need to intubate,” he insisted, his voice rising, hands flexing like he was fighting the instinct to take over. “You’re losing time-”

“We’re trying to manage without it,” you shot back, not looking at him, your focus locked on Tanner as you reassessed, recalculated. “His anatomy is difficult, the swelling, you know the risks-“

“I know his anatomy,” Frank snapped, the words edged with panic. “He’s my son-”

”He’s just a little boy,” Abby cried, clinging helplessly off of Frank’s arm.

“And right now you’re not his doctor,” Robby’s voice cut in as he entered, taking in the entire scene in a single glance. The failing airway, the compressions, you at the head of the bed.

He stepped forward, placing himself just enough between Frank and the bed to create space. “You’re his dad,” he continued, firmer now. “And you need to step back.”

“I can help,” Frank argued, but there was already a crack in it, something unraveling.

“No,” Robby said, unwavering. “You can’t. Not here.”

For a moment, Frank resisted, shoulders tense, jaw tight, every instinct pulling him toward the bed. You tuned out the bickering, watching as the last EPI dose did little to stop the swelling. One more dose would bring him up to four, and the last thing you needed was him to start seizing.

“Sats down to 78%,” Dana warned, and you cursed. You watched his small body wheeze underneath the oxygen mask.

“Fuck,” You barked, “Ready ketamine and roc, prep for intubation.”

You turned at this, meeting Frank’s eyes for the first time as you grabbed the laryngoscope.

“Y/n,” Frank breathed out, your name was stripped down to something raw, something that bypassed every professional boundary you’d been clinging to. “Y/n, please. I’ve asked for too much of you already, but fuck please. Please save him.”

The room stilled for a second, the tension boiling down into the few seconds of eye contact.

“Get them out,” You ordered, pulling your eyes away from his. “I’m not letting them watch me intubate their son.”

The bed is angled back, as Dana hands you the ET tube. “I’m a doctor-“

“You’re a father first Frank,” You pleaded, “Please, let us work.”

He’s pushed by Robby’s arms gently, corralling them into the hallway. Doing his best to at the very least block Abby’s view of you sticking a tube down their son's throat.

“Should I push the meds?” Dana asks, ready at the helm while your eyes are stuck on his sats.

“Yes-“ Robby starts, and you cut him off with a, “No.”

“Sats are back up to 80%” Dana announces, as you lean over the boy stethoscope pressed to his chest, the tube and scope still heavy in your hands.

“I don’t want to intubate unless I have to,” You said quickly, “He’s too small, and has a history of asthma. I want to avoid bronchospasm, or hypotension.”

No one questioned how you knew he had asthma, they all just watched you push the oxygen higher than it could go. Your hand wrapped around his much smaller one, holding it in your fingers as you listened.

The minutes passing felt like the longest minutes of your life, what didn’t help was that you could hear Frank and Abby through the thin glass doors.

“What the fuck was that?” She yelled, making everyone side-eye each other in the room. Your eyes were stuck on the little boy beneath you, keeping your eyes locked on him.

“Abby can we please not do this right now-“ Frank was cut off, Abby’s sobs making your legs feel weak.

“Is that her?” She asked, loudly. Straight to the point.

No one said anything besides the occasional announcement of the sats rising, Robby tensed behind you. Outside the room the air was thick, no one even bothered to act like they weren’t listening. Frank was silent, and that’s all Abby needed as an answer, but she couldn’t stop the words from leaving her lips.

“Is that who you’ve been fucking behind my back?”

The words sliced through the air like a gunshot, the room went silent. Pens were dropped at the nurses' station, jaws were dropped.

The intimacy of the glance you had shared with Frank moments ago hadn’t escaped Abby. Nor did the familiarity in which you said each other’s first names, in a way that coworkers didn’t. From the moment he was barking your name in the ambulance until now, when she spotted that bright pink Barbie pin attached to your badge. She knew, deep down. Her chest heaved, tears streaking her face, and even in her hysteria, she realized. She knew, it was a woman’s intuition after all.

You let your eyes flutter closed for just a second, the air leaving your lungs like you’ve been punched in the chest.

“Abby,” Frank’s voice broke.

“I fucking knew it,” She shook her head, taking steps back from them.

“He’s stabilizing,” I said, mostly to anchor the room again. “Let’s get steroids on board. Continue fluids. I want a second set of labs in fifteen. Call PICU so we can get a bed.” Your voice wasn’t as firm as you would have liked, not with Robby’s gaze so heavy on your back it burned.

“Sats up to 90% and rising,” Dana nearly cried out of relief, switching with another nurse to get ready to contain the chaos that was adorning right outside of these doors.

When Tanner finally let out a weak, hoarse cry, the entire room exhaled.

“He’s perfusing,” Robby said quietly, checking the monitor. “Pressure’s coming up.”

You stepped back, hands shaking only slightly now that the immediate crisis had passed. “There you go, Tanner.” You said, “Don’t worry, you’re okay.”

He was still drowsy, as Dana opened the doors, making the yelling echo in the room.

“In front of everyone, Frank?” Abby spat, as Dana filtered between the two easily.

Dana’s voice cut through, calm and cutting: “Your son is in good hands. Keep the drama out of my ER. You can stand here quietly, or go into the room with your daughter. Your choice.” Her glare was sharp enough to make both Frank and Abby pause, even as Abby’s chest heaved with indignation and fear.

”I-“, you started, having to clear your throat, “I need to update them that the transport team is on their way to transfer him up.”

Robby, who seemed to still be in a state of shock up until that point just let out an unamused laugh. “Yeah, you do that.” His tone was biting, and you’ve never felt as small as you do right now. You rolled your shoulders and slipped out the doors with shaky hands.

Frank and Abby were standing exactly where Dana had left them. Abby’s mascara had dried in faint streaks under her eyes, her hands trembling.

“How is he?” she asked, despite the anger boiling beneath her skin.

“He’s stable,” I said. “We’re transferring him to PICU. The epinephrine worked. We didn’t need to intubate. He’ll need monitoring overnight in case there’s a rebound reaction.”

Frank exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour. His shoulders dropped. His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, he looked straight at you.

“Thank you,” he said, your eyes meeting for a few seconds too long.

That was all it took to remind her of everything that was just enough. Abby’s gaze shifted between us.

“How long?” she asked, her tone clipped.

You blinked, “Probably just a few hours before we know if he’s out of the woods-“

Her eyes locked onto mine. “How long did you know he was married?”

Everything in the hallway stopped once again, Santos and Whittaker pausing at the nurses' station. Samira was watching with a deep frown, probably the only person in this entire hospital who had an ounce of empathy for you.

Frank’s face drained of what little color it had regained. “Abby-“

“No,” she said, still staring at me. “Just answer me.”

“I think we need to-” Dana started.

“How long?” Abby repeated.

I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. Because there wasn’t an answer that didn’t confirm it. “Dr. Robby will be taking over his case.” You settled on, cold and clinical.

Dana physically stepped between Frank and Abby and gestured toward the family consult room down the hall. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t optional, she ushered them away with the promise of grabbing Penny and heading upstairs with Tanner.

Abby didn’t take her eyes off of you as she walked past. Frank hesitated for half a second and gave you the saddest apologetic glance he could muster.

That was his last mistake, because Robby saw that too.

And whatever fragile neutrality he had left evaporated. That was all the confirmation that anyone needed.

The ED took a breath, then it slowly settled back into its normal pace. Doctors remembered where they were, techs left the halls.

Santos let out a low whistle before she could stop herself. “Well,” she muttered, not quietly enough, “guess that explains the carpooling.”

It wasn’t even malicious. It was a reflex. Gallows humor. But it landed like gasoline onto an already out-of-control fire.

Robby shot her a look. “Not helping.”

Mel came hurrying back from where she’d taken Penny, hands still slightly outstretched like she expected to receive a child again. “Okay, they got her. What did I miss?”

You would have laughed if it wasn’t for how dizzy you felt.

”Dr. Y/l/n” Robby spoke, grabbing your arm gently to pull you down the hall into an empty room.

”This isn’t Jerry Springer,” Dana yelled harshly when she came back, her hand slapping the counter. “Get back to work, now.”

Once you were in the quiet of an exam room, you slumped your back against the wall, your hand pressing harshly to your beating chest. Robby wouldn’t even meet your eyes, content to stare at the chipped paint next to your head.

“Tell me that wasn’t what it looked like,” He sounded like he was begging, begging for any explanation that wasn't the obvious.

You knew you couldn’t do that, so there was no point in even lying as you stayed quiet. Only the ragged sound of your breathing and the anger in his.

He shook his head once, sharply. “Jesus.”

”I-I thought you knew,” You choked out, “That night in the bay-“

“I didn’t fucking know, Y/n,” Robby cut in immediately, the restraint snapping just enough for the anger to bleed through. He finally looked at you then, and the disappointment in his expression hit harder than anything else could have. “If I had known…”

“What?” You cried out, “You would’ve reported him?”

“Yes!” He laughed, “And I would have kicked you off my service.”

You stand up straight at this, “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” He laughed, barely able to contain his anger. “Now I can’t even believe you didn’t give him your fucking badge for the pills.”

“I didn’t, I fucking didn’t Robby. I swear to god, that had nothing to do with all of this-“

“Like hell it does,” He scoffed, “What were you even thinking? He’s fucking married, Y/n. He has kids. A kid you should have never treated given the conflict of interest.”

“I know.” You closed your eyes, “I fucked up- “

“Oh, you more than fucked up.” He laughed again, cruelly. “Every ounce of respect I’ve ever had for you, is gone.”

The tears you’d been holding back slipped free, blurring your vision as you dropped your gaze, your hands coming up to cover your face like you could hide from it, from him, from everything you’d just lost in the span of an hour.

“For what?” he went on, quieter still, like he was asking himself now. “For him?”

The silence stretched, before he pushed open the door. “I can’t even look at you.” He spat in disgust, before he left.

Your chest heaved with it, the adrenaline, the guilt, the grief all crashing down at once now that there was nothing left to hold it up. You sank to the floor, staring blankly at the wall ahead of you, unsure where you even go from here.

The door hadn’t even finished settling into its frame before it opened again, the quiet you’d collapsed into shattered just as quickly as it had come. You didn’t look up at first, your forehead still pressed to your knees, your hands clenched in the fabric of your scrubs like they were the only thing keeping you from coming apart completely.

“Get up.”

Dana’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried in a way that made it impossible to ignore. You dragged in a shaky breath, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand before you even lifted your head. Your eyes burned, your chest still tight, but you forced yourself to look at her anyway.

”You don’t get to sit here and have a pity party,” She ordered.

Your throat tightened. “Dana-”

“No,” she cut in cleanly, not raising her voice but leaving no space for argument. “We don’t have time for this. There are patients out there who need a doctor, and whether you like it or not, that’s still you.”

You swallowed hard, pushing yourself up on unsteady legs, using the wall for support when the room tilted for a second. She didn’t move to help you immediately like she would have any other day, she just watched, like she was making sure you did it yourself.

You picked yourself up, adjusting yourself the best you could with her eyes on you.

“I’m not surprised he did something like this,” she said after a beat, her tone shifting just slightly, enough that it landed deeper. “Frank Langdon has a history of bad decisions, and apparently he hasn’t learned a damn thing.”

There was a pause, just long enough for you to think maybe that was all she was going to say. Then she looked at you fully.

“But I am disappointed in you.”

The words hit harder than anything Robby had thrown at you.

”You’re better than this,” she continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Or at least, I thought you were.”

You didn’t have anything to say to that. There wasn’t a defense that didn’t sound hollow, wasn’t an excuse that didn’t make it worse. So you just stood there, taking it, your hands trembling at your sides as you tried to hold yourself together.

She uncrossed her arms finally, stepping closer, her grip firm but not unkind as she took your elbow and steadied you. “You can fall apart later,” she said, her voice dropping just slightly. “Right now, you work.”

You nodded because it was the only thing you could do.

When you joined the hub, you saw the hushed whispers and glares and kept your eyes cast down. You grabbed a tablet, and let Dana assign you wherever she needed you. You worked on autopilot, trying to do your best to pretend that just a few floors away the family that you just tore apart wasn’t sitting next to their sick son.

“You okay?” Samira whispered at one point, pulling you into her arms briskly.

You just nodded, because you didn’t trust your words. The next time you spoke you’d be breaking down, and you still had a few hours to get through before you allowed yourself that.

Every time you stepped back into the hub, it was there, that weight, that awareness, like something had been stamped onto you that everyone could see. The whispers you couldn’t quite hear, the conversations that paused just a beat too long when you got close.

Santos didn’t let up either.

Little comments slipped in where she could fit them, sharp and pointed under the guise of frustration. A muttered “unbelievable” when you took over a case. Nothing overt enough to call out without making it worse, but enough to make sure you felt it.

In room four, as you were explaining discharge instructions, she cut in with, “You might want to double-check those meds,” like you hadn’t already. When you gave an order, she repeated it back with just enough emphasis to make it sound like a correction instead of a confirmation.

It sat on your skin, heavy and suffocating, like a mark you couldn’t scrub off. Like a scarlet letter pinned to your chest for everyone to see.

You were suturing up a forehead laceration when her comments got louder, angrier. She all but tried to snatch the needle from your hands, to which you questioned.

“Figured you might be… distracted,” she said, just under her breath. “Don’t want you to butcher their face.”

It wasn’t loud enough for the patient to clock it, but it wasn’t quiet enough to be kind either.

“I’m not,” I replied evenly, keeping my eyes on the wound.

“Good,” she said. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re not focused on patient care today.”

The patient looked between us, sensing something off without understanding it. You just gave them a soft smile of reassurance before you tied the stitch, clipped it, and finally glanced up at her. “If you have something to say, say it after the room clears.”

She gave a tight, humorless smile. “Oh, I think everything that needed to be said already got said out there.”

Then she walked out, making you drop the tools on the cart louder than necessary. “I’ll get the nurse to bring you discharge papers and aftercare instructions.” You told them, before throwing the curtain open, you let it slide. You deserved the hits, you’d take them as they came today, but you could only take so much.

She was sat charting, when you came up behind her. “Do you have a fucking problem?”

A silence fell again, Santos immediately letting out a cackle. “Nope.”

“Bullshit,” you shot back, stepping closer, your hands braced on the counter as you leaned in just enough to make it clear you weren’t backing down. “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like me. That’s not my problem. My problem is you being unprofessional and running your mouth while I’m with a patient.”

“Oh, so now-”

“I’m talking,” you cut her off sharply, your hand slamming down against the counter with a crack that made a few people visibly jump. The last thread of your restraint snapped clean. “You want to take shots at me? Fine. You want to hate me? Go ahead. But you do not get to compromise patient care because you’ve got something personal to say.”

The words came faster now, angrier, months and years- of pride in your work colliding with the humiliation of the last few hours.

“I am a damn good doctor,” you continued, your voice rising despite yourself. “That has never been in question. Not once. Not by attendings, not by patients, not by anyone in this department. So don’t you stand there and imply I’m distracted enough to screw up someone’s care because of what? Gossip?”

Santos’ expression shifted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“If you have a problem with me,” you went on, jabbing a finger lightly against the counter for emphasis, “you take it to Robby. You take it to Gloria for all I care. You handle it like a professional. But you don’t get to make comments in front of patients, you don’t get to undermine me while I’m working, and you sure as hell don’t get to turn this entire floor into your personal fucking commentary section. Get off your high horse.”

The silence around you had thickened now, heavy, charged. You could feel the eyes on you, everyone pretending not to listen while hearing every word.

“And that goes for everyone,” you added, your gaze flicking briefly across the station, catching the glances away, the guilty looks. “Whatever you think you know, whatever you’ve heard, keep it out of the rooms. Keep it out of the patients'. Because the second it starts affecting care, it becomes a problem I will absolutely escalate it to Gloria myself.”

“It’s also, quite frankly none of anyone’s fucking business.” You laughed, grabbing your badge off your scrub top aggressively.

Santos just stared at you, her jaw tight now, whatever smart remark she’d been ready to fire back clearly reconsidered under the weight of everything you’d just said.

”Since you think you’re a better doctor than me, Santos, you can have my fucking job,” you spat, voice sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the nurses’ station. The words were a declaration, a surrender.

You were shaking with adrenaline as you walked to your locker, slamming it open with enough anger to make passersby jump. You shoved your sweatshirt over your scrubs, movements sharp and careless, grabbing your purse like you just needed to go anywhere but here. You didn’t stop when people called your name, didn’t turn when someone asked if you were okay. The elevator button took the full force of your hand, a harsh, impatient press that didn’t make the PICU floor come any faster.

You stopped at the café on the way, already irritated with yourself before you even reached the counter. Ordering a latte and a black coffee as if it was somehow going to make up for ruining their marriage, or at least helping end it.

By the time you reached Tanner’s room, your chest had tightened all over again.. You hesitated just outside the door, staring through the small window for a second before knocking lightly.

There was no Frank to be seen, just Abby sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair. You took a second to look at her, really look at her. She was gorgeous, the true personification of sunshine. You’re sure she was a great mother, an even better wife for forgiving Frank, no matter how much he hurt her. You were complicit in that. The thought made your fingers twitch against the warmed coffee cups.

She was sitting beside the bed, one hand wrapped gently around Tanner’s, her thumb brushing back and forth over his knuckles in that absent, instinctive way people do when they’re trying to soothe someone they love. The room was dim, quiet except for the steady rhythm of monitors, and she looked up when you knocked, her expression hardening in recognition.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” you said, your voice quieter now, stripped of all the sharp edges from earlier. “But I wanted to check on him before I left.”

You held out one of the cups for her, as if it were a peace offering.

Her brows pulled together slightly. “You’re leaving?”

A humorless laugh slipped out of you, your grip tightening around the cups. “Pretty sure I just quit my job. Or I was going to get fired anyway, either way it’s okay.”

She frowns at this, staring at the cup you were holding out for her.

“How is he?” you asked, glancing over at Tanner, shaking away her heavy gaze. .

“He’s good,” she said softly, reaching out to take the cup from you with a small nod. “He’s stable, they said his little body is exhausted so he’ll probably be asleep for a while.”

You nod, “That’s normal, good even. He needs the rest.”

“Thank you,” she added, looking back at you, her voice sincere. “For earlier, I’m not going to say sorry for how I reacted,” she admitted. “But I am grateful he was here. That you were here.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping slightly. “I deserved it,” you said quietly. “I would have done it with anyone’s kid, I was just doing my job.”

There’s a soft beat of silence, before you set the extra coffee down on the side table. “I got this for Frank, just when he comes back. I’m so-“

“Sit,” she said gently, nodding toward the chair beside her.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said sit,” she repeated, softer this time, but firm in a way that didn’t leave much room for argument.

So you sat, the seat a few feet away from her. Watching Tanner’s chest rise and fall as he slept like a rock. The silence is heavy, but not as uncomfortable as you thought it would be. Her kindness for that weighs over your head.

“How long?” She breaks the silence, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You knew what this was, the part where you have to lay the truth out in front of her, because she can’t believe him. Each truth will cut her like a knife, and you have to squeeze your nails into your thighs to steady yourself.

“5 months,” You answer truthfully, “He ended things the day before he went to rehab.”

”Was that the last time?” She asks, and you already know she knows the truth.

“The last time was the night he got out,” You whisper the words, heart aching when a soft cry escapes her lips.

She shakes her head, wiping away the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

“I always knew he was married,” You started, “I mean you might not remember but I’ve met you in passing at work events. You deserve to know that I was selfish, and a horrible person.”

“Did he say he was gonna leave me?”

“Once or twice.”

“And did he?” She snaps slightly, making you flinch.

“No, he did not.” Your voice was small.

“I’m sorry,” She says quickly, turning to face you. “I think what you did was horrible, but I know Frank. I know how he can be when he wants something. You’re not innocent, but you weren’t the one married.”

You sit there, barely breathing, your hands clenched in your lap so tightly your knuckles ache. The guilt is suffocating, thick and heavy in your chest, crawling up your throat until it burns. You expect anger, you almost want it. Something sharp, something deserved. Something that would make this easier to carry. Swallowing her understanding feels like swallowing razor blades.

She exhales slowly, her shoulders rising and falling as she steadies herself, and when she finally looks back at you, her eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but there’s no hatred in them.

”Does he love you?” She asked, her heart breaking with every word.

You wipe your eyes harshly, “I think he thinks he does.”

“Do you love him?”

You turn away, unable to meet her eyes. “For a long time now, yeah.”

“Makes sense,” She sniffles, “he’s easy to love.”

You blink hard, tears spilling over again, your voice barely holding. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she says softly, a forced smile pulling on her lips.

Before anything else can settle, there’s a knock at the door, and it opens just enough for a nurse to step in. His expression is careful, but there’s urgency threaded through it.

“Mrs. Langdon?” he asks gently.

Abby’s head lifts immediately. “Yes?”

The nurse hesitates for half a second, like he’s choosing his words. “Your husband is downstairs in the waiting room. He appears to be having some kind of panic attack. We tried to keep him seated, but he’s not doing well. He keeps asking if he’s allowed to come back up.”

The shift in Abby is immediate. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way her hand tightens slightly around Tanner’s. Her gaze flicks to her son, then back to the nurse.

“We can bring him up for just a moment,” The nurse adds quickly, “It might calm his nerves seeing Tanner is still okay.”

Abby gives a curt nod, not once letting go of her son's hand. You go to gather your purse, readying to slip out of the room before you’re able to see Frank in passing. Time is not on your side, as you hear the hurried footsteps coming from the hall.

Frank stumbles in like he’s barely holding himself together, his breathing already uneven, chest rising too fast, too shallow. His eyes immediately lock onto Tanner, like he needs the visual confirmation, like seeing him will fix whatever’s happening inside his chest.

“He was fine,” Frank says, his voice already cracking, hands dragging through his hair as he paces once, then stops, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “They said he was fine, but I-I couldn’t-he’s been-seeing him like that was-”

”Frank,” Abby says, standing now, her voice gentle but uncertain, like she doesn’t know how to reach him from where she is. “He’s okay. He’s been sleeping, nothing’s changed-”

“I know, I know,” he rushes out, but the words don’t settle. His breathing stutters, chest hitching as he tries to pull in air that doesn’t seem to reach far enough. “I just can’t breathe.”

Abby’s eyes slide over to you, where you were still standing in the corner, purse hanging from your shoulder as you were a bystander in this too-personal moment. Frank’s eyeline follows hers, and he nearly loses his footing seeing you in the room. The sound that escapes his lips makes Abby flinch, a harsh wheeze from his chest. As if this were his last straw, his world tumbling around him.

“I f-feel like I’m having a heart attack.” Frank’s hand now squeezed at his chest, and Abby looked hopelessly around as her attempts to comfort him went unnoticed.

“You’re not having a heart attack,” You spoke up softly, letting your bag fall to the chair. “Are you having chest pain?”

He nods helplessly.

“Because you’re not breathing.” You stress, “Frank, take a deep breath, in and out.”

He shakes his head, hands gripping the guardrails of Tanner’s bed. You don’t know what to do, as you stand there. Your hands outstretched, wanting nothing more than to try and calm him down.

Abby looks towards you again, a small nod of permission.

”Hey,” you say, softer now, grabbing your stethoscope from your bag, stepping closer but not crowding him. “Look at me.”

He tries, but his breathing is still too fast, too shallow, his chest rising unevenly. “I can’t-” he starts, shaking his head, panic threading through every syllable. “I can’t get air-”

“Breathe with me,” You cooed, trying your hardest to breathe with him as his body shook. “This is just a panic attack, that’s all it is. You’re safe. Tanner is safe. Penny is with Mel. Abby is here.”

He shakes his head, still trying to focus on his breathing. His panicked eyes were still locked on yours.

“Can I touch you?” You ask, grabbing his wrist gently to check his pulse. You give a small nod of reassurance to Abby as she watches. He was panicked, heart rate elevated, but not enough for it to be anything serious.

You slip the stethoscope from around your neck, holding it in your hands.

“Come here,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t argue. He can’t.

You guide him toward the bed, your hand wrapping lightly around his wrist, steadying him more than directing him. Abby watches, silent now, her hand still anchored to Tanner, her expression tight, torn between gratitude and something that looks a lot like pain.

“Put these in,” you murmur, helping him with the earpieces when his hands don’t cooperate. Your fingers brush his briefly, steadying the motion. “Good. Here.”

You guide the stethoscope to Tanner’s chest, positioning it carefully over his heart, your hand covering Frank’s long enough to keep it steady.

”Just listen.”

His shoulders drop a fraction. His breath stutters, then lengthens, like his body is finally finding something real to anchor to.

“He’s breathing,” you murmur. “Hear that? Slow. Steady. He’s okay.”

Frank swallows hard, his eyes squeezing shut as another breath leaves him, shaky, but deeper this time.

”How are his breath sounds?” You asked, moving your hand that was covering his around, giving him a better sound of his lungs.

“G-good,” He choked out, his eyes falling closed. “Equal sounds.”

His body, whether it was subconscious or not, leans against yours. His weight settling against your side, his head nearly falling into your neck.

You let him stay there for a few seconds longer, letting the sound settle into him, letting it override the panic still clawing at his chest. Not wanting to startle him as his heart rate went down.

Across the bed, Abby exhales slowly, but she doesn’t look relieved. Her eyes are on you, on the way your hand steadies his, on the way he listens to you like it’s instinct. The way you knew exactly what he needed, before she could even process what was happening.

After a moment, you gently pull the stethoscope away, your fingers brushing again as you take it back, and for a twisted moment, it reminds you of your intern year.

Frank’s breathing is still uneven, but it’s better. Controlled enough that he’s no longer spiraling. You step back immediately, putting space between you like it’s something you owe her.

Abby moves in then, her hand finding his arm, her touch soft, and familiar. He rightfully falls into her chest, sobbing quietly into her blouse.

You flush, grabbing your purse for the final time today.

“I know you hate me, but if you need anything.” You spoke up, “Anything, let me know. The nurse can give you my contact information.”

“Hating you doesn’t fix anything in my life,” She shrugs, like she made up her mind long before today.

All you can do is give her a curt nod, before slipping out the door. You don’t stop for the elevator this time. You take the stairs, gripping the railing harder than you need to, your breathing uneven as you descend, one step after another, as if you slow down even a second everything might catch up to you.

Did you really quit your job?

The thought lands heavy, almost unreal, like something you said in the heat of the moment somehow became permanent. Years of work, of sleepless nights and sacrifice, and wanting this so badly, and you walked away from it in the span of a few minutes because everything inside you finally snapped.

Your nerves feel shot, like every sound is too sharp, every thought too loud. Your heart aches in a way that feels physical, like something is pressing against your ribs from the inside.

You press your lips together hard, your throat burning, your vision blurring again as you push through the hospital doors and into the cold air outside. It hits you immediately, sharp and biting, but it doesn’t clear your head the way you want it to.

You’re halfway out the hospital doors when you hear him, a long shout of your name. You spin just in time to watch Frank pause. He’s a few feet away, like he ran the whole way, his chest rising and falling, breath visible in the cold air. There’s something reckless about it, about the fact that he’s here, that he followed you, that he left them upstairs to come after you.

“If I call you, will you answer?” He asks,

The question is so mundane it almost makes you laugh. After everything, that’s all he has to ask.

“One day you’ll call and I’ll say no.”

He swallows, his gaze fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment, like he already knows where it’s heading. “When will that be?”

You shrug, and you know if you had any more tears left to cry they’d be streaming down your cheeks.

“I don’t know.”