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“Mel.” Frank sounds tense and serious. She doesn’t like when he’s tense and serious, especially not when she thinks that it might be because of her - why else would he not reply to her picture? “What are we doing?”
“We’re - we’re trading pictures, Frank, like we said we would -”
“Yeah, I know, but… are you seriously gonna tell me that you’re not sending ones where you look hot on purpose?”
The air leaves her lungs in a large, violent breath. She feels like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Or like she’s been caught leaving secret, encoded messages on a post-it note inside the lid of the cookie jar without telling anyone the post-it note or even the cookie jar itself is there. She wanted to take cute pictures to send to him this week in the hopes that he would like them, but she didn’t know that he noticed how hard she was working for it, didn’t realize that he realized - oh, God, is her new push-up bra that obvious?
“I’m not - I didn’t - um -”
“Are you alone right now?”
“Yeah, I’m alone.”
Frank sighs on the other end of the line, and she waits patiently for it all to come crashing down.
“What are you wearing?”
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FRANK LANGON IS A DESPERATE LOSER FIENDING FOR A FLASH OF MEL KING’S ANKLE‼️