Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thing about Mel is that she believes in soulmates. Has done so ever since her parents sat her down when she was six and told her about the concept of soulmates — two people’s souls intertwined so strongly that they were meant to be. Time stops on the day you meet your soulmate, baby, her mom told her with a small smile, slipping her hand into her dad’s, it gets stuck in a loop until you find who your soulmate is and kiss them. That’s the rule. 

They said it was so that no person would miss their soulmate — pass them by on the street and never realize that they had, in fact, met their other half. Sometimes, it takes only a day to meet your soulmate and walk out of the loop together. Sometimes, people get stuck there for years since they can’t find their soulmate in a large group of people — it happened to one of their neighbors who said that she was stuck in a Coldplay concert for three years, kissing everyone until she finally managed to kiss her soulmate. 

The good thing is, you don’t age when you are stuck in the loop and to people outside of the loop, it seems like only a day has passed. The bad thing is, well, you live one day over and over again until you get sick of it. It’s a faulty system but it’s one they have no control over.

So she’s spent the better part of her life getting extremely anxious in crowded areas. On the first day of college, she was about to have a melt down if she’s honest. What if her soulmate was somewhere on that campus and then she’d have to spend years finding them! Luckily for her, he wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the hospital either when she started her third year of med school so she’s started worrying a little bit less now. 

That should’ve alarmed her. Worrying a little less. It’s been proven to her that if she does worry about something, the odds of it happening is very slim. The trouble starts when she’s not worried. Like when she goes to that conference about the impact of socioeconomic status of different states on the emergency medicine department as one of the people presenting a poster, she ought to have been worried. 

She doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to her that somewhere in that big crowd, her soulmate might be hidden. Maybe it was the fact that she was excited about being chosen to come as part of her hospital’s team despite being a third year med student. Or maybe she had simply forgotten about soulmates and such being so overworked at school and trying to manage Bec. 

The day starts like any other. 

She and her friends — her colleagues but she’s trying to be a functional adult so she calls them ‘friends’ — are staying at the hotel. She wakes up at six a.m. like any other day, goes down to the gym for an hour of cardio, a shower and then gets ready. She usually doesn’t give much thought about what she’s putting on except that today, she has a poster she’s going to present so she wears a pair of pressed black trousers and a light pink shirt with the first button open and she even opts to wear a shiny necklace. 

She goes to different panels — she especially enjoys the one about triage differences in different states but she’s very sorry that she misses the lecture one of the keynote speaker gives on the newest ED robot addition in Washington and the panel about geriatric patient income discourse in the ER — and she has a quick lunch before getting ready to deliver her speech. It goes smoothly for the most part — she trips over a couple of words but there are about twenty people in the room she’s presenting so it’s not that big of a deal and she even earns a small applause from that group with a bright-eyed MS4 named Samira Mohan complimenting her on the speech. 

She looks around the other panels but she’s too exhausted to hang back for any of them, especially since she has to pack her stuff so that they can catch their flight the next morning. Back to Virginia she goes. She calls Becca, she packs her stuff, she falls asleep to a mostly dream-less darkness. 

She wakes up the next day, expecting to see her packed suitcase and her phone charged. 

Instead, she sees her clothes — black pressed trousers and a pink shirt — hung in the corner of the room, her suitcase certainly unpacked and her phone far from charged. 

What? 

She sits up in the bed, frantically looking for the numbers on the digital clock next to her bed — 6:02. She had set her alarm for 5:30 as she always does on travel days. She sets two back-up alarms, too, so there’s no way she slept through them. But the clock on her phone reads 6:02, her alarms are nonexistent and the phone is charged to 79% as it always is on non-travel days. 

Her first thought is that she overslept and housekeeping came in early, unpacked her things for some reason that makes no sense whatsoever. Her second thought is that she drank too much last night, except she knows she didn’t — one soda with dinner, a bottle of water before bed, the same routine she always keeps before flights.

Her chest tightens. This is fine, she tells herself. Electrical issue. Hotels are notorious for bad outlets. She’ll plug it in by the desk. She remembers there was one there — she used it yesterday while fixing the final formatting on her poster. She’ll plug her phone in and charge it to 100% and everything will be alright. Except that in her gut, she knows it isn’t. 

She feels her heart pounding against her chest, her head heating up, her palms sweaty and slack. She can’t breathe — every movement she makes is painful, her lungs stretching thin. There isn’t enough oxygen, her vision swims. This can’t be happening. This can’t be—

But it is.

She is vaguely aware — in the part of her brain that’s not swallowed whole by panic — that she’s having a panic attack if her hyperventilating is anything to go by.

Name five things around you. Bed, window, sheets, my phone, clock! Name five colors. Red, blue, yellow, purple, orange. What is wrong? I am stuck in a time loop!

Which means. She’s either dreaming and she’s going to wake up any moment or it’s an ill-advised prank on behalf of her colleagues who call her too controlling. 

Or. 

She’s met her soulmate. She’s met her soulmate in this conference and she missed him and—

Shoot. 

———

Frank doesn’t even want to be here. He told Professor Adamson that he didn’t want to go to some conference and sit there, and watch boring old doctors discuss the merits of society and its impact on the ED. He’d much rather cut people open and see their insides. That’s what interns are supposed to do and their bosses should oblige to coerce them into staying at the ED. But Adamson isn’t every boss and he told Frank that he needs to make the decision to join his ER with eyes wide-open and understand the impact of the community around them on the ER. 

So now he’s stuck here as Mohan — an MS4 with way too much excitement — drags her from one poster presentation to the other. “These are the real materials!” she chimes when he asks her why they aren’t just sticking to one panel instead of seeing med students present their shit. “It’s the innovation of people our age.” It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes and split right then and there. Robby had, after all, fixed him with a stare when he whined about being stuck with Mohan so now he’s obligated to be nice to her. 

“That was great!” Mohan says, practically bouncing on her feet as she talks to a girl with large glasses, braided blonde hair and a salmon-colored shirt. “Wasn’t it?” She prompts Frank to say something too but he’s already distracted by the sight of the girl in a tight little skirt, leaving the presentation room. If she wraps up here quickly, he can still catch up. So instead, he smiles tightly and shrugs. Mohan rolls her eyes but the girl doesn’t seem to mind. She thanks Samira and goes back to packing her things and he wastes no time pulling her out of the room. 

“What’s the rush, Langdon?” she snaps at him, freeing her arm from his grip. “You were very rude there by the way.”

He looks around, nearly breaking his neck to find the girl but to no avail. “Ugh, I lost her.”

“Who?”

“The leggy redhead,” he huffs out his breath, finally looking at Mohan. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“That you are a pig,” Samira rolls her eyes. 

“I am your superior,” he rolls his eyes.

“That doesn’t make you less of a pig,” she retorts back. “Did you even listen to any of the presentations?”

“Mohan, do you want me to lie to you?” 

“Ugh,” she lightly shoves him in the shoulder. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“I have a friend who is a girl who I sleep with sometimes,” he explains, lifting an eyebrow. “She believes in fucking soulmates anyway,” — he can’t help the shudder than runs through his body — “She’s holding out for him and using me for my body. I’m fine with that.” Samira makes a gagging motion before rolling her eyes. “Look, Mohan, you’ve pulled me to every fucking lecture today, can we relax now? Have a drink? Let loose?” He tries to put his puppy eyes but he doesn’t think they’d work on Mohan anyway. But at least she looks like she’s considering his offer. 

“You go right ahead,” she finally sighs. “I want to go over my notes from today. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. Well, better for him. He wasn’t really looking to babysit his colleague and scare leggy feisty brunettes away by the hollow look in her eyes. 

“Seven a.m. sharp, Langdon!” she shouts after him as he walks away and he simply makes a waving gesture to dismiss her. He’s already got his eyes on a new target — brunette, green eyes, adorable smile. Here he comes. 

—

He wakes up at 7:03 and already someone’s knocking at his door. It’s not even a second later that Mohan’s scream comes through the door. We’re going to be late, Langdon! 

“Deja vu,” he mutters under his breath, trying to wipe sleep off his brain. Is Mohan ever going to get a new line? She said the same thing — down to the T — yesterday when he overslept and she was worried she’d miss the keynote speech even though it was supposed to be at 10! You take literally an hour to get ready. That plus showering and you getting distracted by a million things put me on edge! She snapped yesterday when he pointed that out. Well, fair enough. 

“Dr. Langdon, come on!” Samira says, knocking more urgently. “The first panels start in less than an hour and we haven’t even had breakfast.” 

Frank is pretty sure he’s sleepy — and a bit hungover from last night’s drinks with Jenny. Speaking of which, where even is she? Cause there is no water running and she’s definitely not in bed with him where he likes them to be! — but did Samira say something about panels? They don’t have panel today. They have a flight that they are probably going to miss because he woke up late (totally worth it, though) but they don’t have panels anymore. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Frank growls, pushing himself off the bed, staggering through the room. It’s messy. He hasn’t even packed yet and Samira is already on his case. What the hell is she going to say when she sees that his pants are… Well, where are they? He ignores that question — well, he won’t let Mohan see the striped red, blue and white underwear he’s wearing — and opens the door. “Good morning to you, too, Dr. Mohan.” 

“Langdon,” she greets dryly, eyeing his exposed upper body distastefully. “I see that you aren’t dressed. Or showered,” — he runs a hand through his hair and somehow Samira’s distaste makes more sense when it comes back a little greasy — “I’m going down for breakfast. Get ready and come down. Dr. Shabani’s panel is in conference room C and—”

“Are you high, Mohan?” he interrupts. “Shouldn’t you be huffing and puffing about the flight we’re going to miss? We went to Shabani’s program yesterday and—”

“No, we didn’t,” Samira interrupts, narrowing her eyes. “Dr. Shabani’s program is today I know because I double-checked and it’s on the itinerary that they gave us. And our flight is tomorrow. Dr. Langdon, are you okay?”

Well, that’s just impossible. Because yesterday, he suffered through two hours of old men swiping at each other about the ‘importance’ of Emergency Medicine improvement strategies with no credible interventions designed to actually improve and— But how can Mohan not remember that when he clearly does? “Wait, Samira, you are in your last night’s clothes,” he says before he can stop himself, “Did you get lucky—”

“That is highly inappropriate, Dr. Longdon,” she deadpans. “And no, I am not. I specifically bought this suit for this conference and I don’t appreciate you making fun of it. Now, if you’re done antagonizing me with whatever tasteless prank you have come up with, I’ll be in the dining room.” She doesn’t even wait for Frank to get another word out before turning on her heels and walking away, leaving him wide-eyed and a little bit fried at the edges. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? Did he hallucinate a detailed day in his sleep? Is he stuck in some alternate reality? Is he still asleep? Did he have too much to drink last night? Did someone roofie his drink or something? 

Maybe Samira is finally getting back at him for all the ill-advised pranks he’s pulled. But then again that would be very bad-timing since—

His phone chimes with a message and he picks it up. Keep an eye on Mohan, reads the text except that he doesn’t have to read it to know what Robby is going to say next. He’s pretty sure he’s received the same message yesterday. Stick next to her, alright? I’m counting on you, Langdon. It was this last sentence — that he read yesterday — that compelled him to follow Mohan from lecture to lecture the previous day and it sits on his phone, new and unopened, staring at him. 

Fuck. 

This can’t be happening. All these years — twenty-seven years! — he was sure that it was all an elaborate lie. That Frank Langdon, of all people, wouldn’t get to experience it. He scoffed at Abby for not giving them a real chance and holding out for the impossible. He called it a fluke when other people came proudly, hands joined together, reeling over someone they had just met because some stupid cosmic power called them each other’s soulmates. 

It’d never happen — not to him. 

But he’s here, living the same day as yesterday — today? — and… 

He’s met his fucking soulmate. 

———

She stares at the piece of paper in front of her, blinking. She needs a game-plan. There are thousands of people in this conference and her knowledge of soulmate-ism and its rules have worn off in the years that have passed and made her more or less forget about soulmates. She jots down the things she knows about soulmates: 

1. They can be anyone you can possibly be attracted to. Lesbians have girl soulmates, heterosexual people have people of their opposite gender and well… bisexual people have it the hardest, don’t they?
2. Age doesn’t matter. (Should she go around kissing senior professors?)
3. The loop will only break when you have kissed someone. (What if you kiss a lot of people in one day? Will you know which one of them was your soulmate? If she kisses three guys and the loop breaks the next day, will she know which one of them was her soulmate?)
4. You aren’t obligated to spend the rest of your life with your soulmate. A couple in their neighborhood has chosen to forego their soulmates because how could a stranger be better fitted for them than the people they have known for years and loved? She doesn’t know what happened to their soulmates, though. Maybe she should ask. 
5. Her soulmate isn’t among the people she has known before today. Which… doesn’t limit her search all that much because she doesn’t know very many people. 
6. She should probably tell someone about this. It’s true that tomorrow morning, that person’s memory will reboot itself but at least she won’t have to work herself into a panic attack over it (again). 
7. Her soulmate is also stuck in a loop. (Maybe she should keep an eye out for anyone who seems very aware of their surroundings?)

She looks at her list before pulling her laptop and pulling up Google. She does as much research as she can. (If she kisses multiple people in a day, she won’t know which one her soulmate would be so she makes a note to kiss one person per day — consensually, of course. If her soulmate chooses to walk away, there is nothing she can do about it. She even searched up laws about it and no State has made it imperative that soulmates should stay together. The actions of the last day — the day she kisses her soulmate — will affect her life and will be what people remember about that day so she can’t go around messing around the day because she never knows who might be her soulmate. She can leave the premises of this building but that would mean she’ll leave her soulmate behind because they are someone she’s definitely seen. But that doesn’t help. It’s a conference! She’s seen a lot of people! If you die during the loop, it won’t count and you’ll just wake up in the place you were meant to but if you die after kissing your soulmate, then it does count and you’ll be dead. Basically the magic is broken the moment your lips touch your soulmate’s lips. She was right. You don’t age in a loop but there is no time limit either.)

She ignores the knock on her door from her colleagues telling her to join them at the keynote speaker’s panel. She even ignores lunch time, deep into the reddit horror stories of people finding their soulmates (there was this girl who got looped while she went to work on a seemingly insignificant day and she had to kiss every passenger on the subway and on the street and it took her 728 days to find her soulmate. She shudders at the thought of it). By the time she has a proper game plan, the sun has gone down and she hasn’t moved from her spot. 

She’ll make a list of people she’s kissed starting tomorrow — today has been horribly unproductive and if she kisses someone and they turn out to be her soulmate on the first day, everyone will remember her as the girl who skipped all the panels and lecture and even missed out on her own presentation and that’s not who she wants to be! Not when she did it all right the first time! — and she’ll look out for anyone that looks like they are aware of a loop being present (but considering this is a large conference, that can be more than one person). 

She considers just going out, snatching a microphone and asking if anyone is stuck in a loop but then again, if there is someone and they do come forward and they suddenly kiss her or something, that’s all everyone is going to remember about the day. So she has to be subtle about this. 

Here is what Mel King does:

She knows the next day all her notes and research will disappear and there’s nothing she can do about it. So she studies the pages she’s written. Until her eyes hurt and she has a pending headache starting at the base of her skull. Until her colleagues knock on her door again and tell her it’s dinner time and she ignores them. Until she falls asleep. 

———

Here is what Frank Langdon does:

He starts kissing people. 

The rules are very simple in this alternative universe where he’s fucking stuck in a time loop. Kiss people until one of them stick and you are the fuck out of there. So he does. He kisses anyone he can get his mouths on. He foregoes Mohan because he’s a gentleman and if she were his soulmate, he’d have been stuck in a loop two months ago when she came to the ED to start her rotation — and thank God it wasn’t her because other than the fact that he can’t stand her, that was a fucking shitty day to get stuck in — but everyone else, he kisses. 

He kisses the lady serving their breakfast (she’s a surprisingly good kisser for someone who is… well, a little bit too old for him), the guy standing in the smoke room with his nerdy glasses (4 out of 10. He had very dry mouth), the girl with pigtails (now that would be kiss) and the most memorable of the day, Dr. Shabani (he wasn’t a very good kisser but Frank thinks it would just be the shock of the kiss getting to him. It’s not every day an intern jumps on the podium and kisses you in front of all your colleagues. Well, not for Dr. Shabani anyway). That’s what gets Mohan to take him by the ear and basically throw him out of the building. 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she hisses. 

Many things, he’d imagine. 

“I don’t know what you are referring to,” he grins, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms on his chest. “Should anything be wrong?”

“Don’t play dumb with me!” she snaps. “You just kissed one of the most esteemed EM professors in the country! Someone forty years older than you and a guy. Why the fuck did you do that?”

“I didn’t peg you to be homophobic, Mohan,” he tsks, shaking his head. “I should say, I am very disappointed—”

“Frank!” 

“I’m stuck in a goddamn loop,” he finally spits out. “Jesus — there, you’re happy? I was just trying to see if Shabani is my soulmate.” 

Samira blinks. Once. Twice. “Are you joking? I need to know when you’re joking, Langdon.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” he deadpans, shaking his head. “Anyway, I am really really fucked if Shabani is my soulmate. I’m going to get fired for this shit.” 

“Well, good thing he already found his soulmate then,” Mohan hums, leaning against the wall. “Christ — that sucks, Langdon. Do you know just how many people are in this conference?!” Yes, he’s aware. He’s also aware that he doesn’t give a shit which one of them is his soulmate — he just wants to kiss as much as he can so he can get the fuck out of here and go back to saving lives as quickly as he can. 

“Anyway,” he pushes himself off the wall. “That’s the hurdle. I’ll sleep tonight and tomorrow, Shabani won’t remember this and… you know, you won’t remember this either way so that’s good.” 

“You know, I know a lot about soulmates, Dr. Langdon,” she smirks, crossing her arms. “You can always ask me for help.”

He wants to scoff at that — to laugh and ridicule her out of the room. Who the fuck do you think she is, lecturing him on soulmates? Instead, he just says, “In a couple of hours, you won’t even remember that I am stuck in a loop and Google is on my side, Dr. Mohan. I’m good.” She just rolls her eyes. 

“I just hope none of the people you’ve kissed today are your soulmate,” she clicks her tongue. “But if you broke out of the loop, I can’t wait until Robby fires you.”

He just flips her off. 

—

So here’s the thing about soulmates and Frank. It’s obvious to everyone that he doesn’t care much about them. His mother married her soulmate — Frank’s dead-beat father — and then he skipped out on them when he was fifteen and never came back. So, as far as Frank is concerned, fuck soulmates. His step-dad — his mother’s not soulmate — is the best man he’s ever known. Once, when Frank asked Gerald (his step-dad) about his soulmate, he simply said that it wasn’t meant to be. 

Frank didn’t push after that. It wasn’t any of his business. But ever since then, he’s actively avoided thinking about soulmates. 

What can your soul tell you that your brain and common sense can’t? 

The problem with that logic is that every girl he’s interested in is holding out for “soulmates” so they spend an evening with them, he gets laid and the next morning — since they aren’t stuck in a time loop (he’d think everyone would be happy to not be stuck, not sorely disappointed) — they dump him with some variation of puppy-eyes and trembling lower lips and it’s not you, it’s me anecdote. Except people like Abby who do want to ‘hang out’ with him but let him know that they are out of there the moment their soulmate shows up. 

So he abandoned the idea of having someone a long time ago — around the time he fell in love with Sarah Sherman and had his heart broken after a very good night because she had been stuck in a goddamn loop for six days before finding Jake (an art major with no prospects and a cannabis addiction like a loser) and deciding a guy she doesn’t know is infinitely better than Frank (an undergrad biochem major who had gotten accepted in med school and who was decidedly not addicted to weed! If he were ever to get addicted to something, he’d go for something expensive and fancy. Like heroin. Or Benzodiazepine just to lament his position as a doctor). 

Ever since then, he’s been content with meaningless hookups and one-night stands and ‘friends with benefits’ like Abby. Abby with her red-hair and freckles and bright green eyes who decidedly doesn’t want him to be her ‘boyfriend’. Well, fuck that — he’s fine.

So unlike idiots around him — people who are holding out for someone they don’t know — all he feels is shitty when he goes to sleep at night, half-terrified that the day is going to repeat tomorrow. And well, if it is, then he’ll have fun with it. That’s all there is to life, really — fun. 

And saving people, but that’s for another day.

———

She sticks to her routine. Wakes up at 6:02 — goes down to use the gym, takes a shower, wear her uniform, hits the first conference (Dr. Shabani is quite excellent, really). She’s only half-listening to him, though, too busy scanning the room for potential prospects. She locates a ginger guy with a pair of round glasses and freckles. He’s a bit short for her but he seems sweet and he asks a ridiculously brilliant question at the end of Dr. Shabani’s lecture and that’s enough to seal the deal for the day. 

She approaches him after the end of the conference. “Hey, sorry, um, hi,” she splatters her way through her words and the guy looks up, pushing his glasses above the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowed and his face slightly confused. Well. Okay. Words. She needs to find words. “I, um, heard you ask a—”

“Sorry, um, who are you?” 

“Mel King!” she chimes. “I’m an MS3 from Virginia.”

“Uh, okay?” 

“Uh, okay?”

Mel swallows. Right. He doesn’t know her. That’s fine. That’s expected. She smiles — careful, measured, the way she does with patients who look like they might bolt. She thinks it’s working because he hasn’t run for the hills just yet.

“I really liked your question,” she says. “About rural ED staffing ratios. It was — um — really sharp.”

His ears turn pink. That’s promising. He relaxes a little, shifting his weight.

“Oh. Thanks. I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I noticed,” she says, and means it. Even if this young man isn’t her soulmate, she still thinks that it was smart of him to call Dr. Shabani out on that section of his lecture. She wishes she had the courage to do that. She gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “Do you — do you want to get coffee?”

He hesitates for half a second too long. Maybe it’s a sign! Maybe he’s stuck in a loop, too! Maybe he’s hesitating because he is thinking the same thing. But just in case he isn’t, Mel doesn’t bring it up. The less people she drags into this, the better. 

But then he nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

They walk side by side to the café in the lobby. His name is Aaron. He’s an MS4 from Ohio. He’s nervous, earnest, and talks too fast when he’s excited. He spills a little coffee on the counter and apologizes to the barista three times. Mel decides — quickly — that this is manageable. That she can do this. It would be logical and convenient if he were her soulmate. They could be good together — though she’d have to figure out the different States, obviously — but she’s getting ahead of herself. 

“I have two sisters,” Aaron says, making Mel realize she’s zoned out for quite some time. “They are younger than me. One of them is an English Lit major but our mother doesn’t quite like that route. One of them is bio undergrad student — she’s going to gun to get into a med school, too.” He sounds so happy when he talks about them. Family-oriented is on the list of his pros, too, then. 

“Um, sorry, can I…” Mel swallows, glancing at the clock. She really should go get ready for her presentation and… oh! Now that she’s here — again — she can hit that panel she missed the first time around because of the scheduling! Wouldn’t that be fun? She just has to kiss him to get that out of the way. “Can I kiss you, Aaron?”

His face flushes, crimson even in the lighting of the coffee shop. “Wow, that was forward.”

Mel shrugs, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, but I just really—”

She is cut off in the middle of talking as Aaron lurches forward — in what she can only assume is a romantic gesture — and presses his lips against hers. She hasn’t kissed that many people in her life; JC (that’s what he called himself) in eleventh grade, Tyler when she was an undergrad and James from when she got dragged to that New Year’s function by one of her classmates. So she doesn’t have much of a reference but the truth is that… Aaron is not a very good kisser. 

He moves too much, introduces tongue into the kiss which is distasteful considering that they’ve known each other for all of thirty minutes, and his hands are cold and awkward resting on her neck. Mel finds herself wishing this could be over sooner rather than later. But it would be rude to pull away. Right? 

When she eventually does, she lets out a breath she was very aware she was holding. “Um, thank you,” she stammers. “I have to — um, go now. So. Thank you. Um, come find me tomorrow, okay?” She doesn’t give Aaron time to respond — if the kiss works, they can talk tomorrow but right now, she has to get to that panel. She doesn’t want to miss it a second time! — before she runs away. 

It’s only after the hassle of the day is done — the panel attended, her poster presented (again! And this time, she didn’t even trip over the long word in the middle!) and her dinner eaten — that she gets down to evaluate the kiss. It wouldn’t be so bad if Aaron was her soulmate — they could work on the kissing skill and Mel isn’t even a big sex girl so even if it’s mediocre, she can live with that. But at least they’d be let out of the loop and she can go back to her sister and her dad. 

God, she misses Becca.

———

“Three people before we’ve even hit the lunch break,” Mohan whistles. “That’s a new record, even for you, Langdon.” Frank fake bows as he pushes the girl’s number into the back pocket of his jeans. 

“I am nothing if not efficient, Mohan,” he grins. “And they were all very nice!” They were! Sam (he doesn’t know what that’s short for. He hopes it’s Samantha but he wouldn’t mind if it were something like Samandra, too. Make it a bit unique and all. She is an intern at Presley), Sophie (MS4, USC) and Marcus (intern, NYU). All in all, not a bad day. This particular number, though, is from someone he hasn’t kissed yet. Riley (MS3, Virginia). He does plan to do it after her poster presentation though. 

“I’m sure they were,” she deadpans, “and partially brain-dead, I am sure. Since they agreed to kiss you.” 

“You wound me, Samira,” he sighs dramatically. “I’m a very good kisser. Wanna try?”

“You are disgusting,” she rolls her eyes. “But at least you are looking forward to the presentations.” 

That, he was but not with the intentions Samira might be thinking of — learning, science, etc. — but because he needs to monitor them and kiss them as much as he can. He has Riley’s number but power is in quantity or whatever. They get a very good kiss, he gets the fuck out of here. 

The first poster — Max, MS3, Michigan — is boring (the worst thing he’s ever seen, really) and he is very unattractive if he says so himself so he’ll save him for last if he doesn’t get out of here in a week. The next one is Riley who winks at him and he smiles back, feeling his stomach flip — not the excited kind, the I-have-to-kiss-her-god-what-wrong-have-i-done type (she really looks different in glasses!) and then, there’s this MS3 from Virginia with round glasses, a tight braid and a button nose that shakes when she speaks. He has to admit that she’s the best in their line-up. Her points really do shine through. Not that he’s here for academia — technically, he should be but that was three days ago and he didn’t do it right the first time around so…

He kisses three people after the posters. 

The next day, he wakes up on the day of the fucking conference again. 

———

So Aaron is not her soulmate. She picks up — god, that sounds so sinister! It’s not like she’s pimping herself out! She takes them on short dates, holds conversations, and asks for permission! She shouldn’t feel promiscuous but she does. She has now kissed more people in a couple of days than she’s done her whole life — another person and the kiss is better this time but still, nothing to write home about. She goes through her presentation and the third time seems to be the charm because she’s pretty sure she aces it (is it weird that she’s satisfied and excited about that despite, well, being stuck here?). 

“That was great!” the girl from the first day says with bright eyes, nudging her partner forward. She remembers him from the first day — dismissive and distant, his eyes somewhere faraway. Mel didn’t mind it much that first day — she was riding the high of adrenaline rush after the presentation — but today, he’s not distracted. Actually, his eyes are burning a hole in her skull. “Wasn’t it?” she nudges him forward. 

“Yeah, great,” he hums. “You might want to expand on the section about STEMI management in triage, though. It felt a little bit rushed.”

“Excuse my colleague, he can’t help being an ass,” the girl glares but the guy shrugs. 

“I’ll be out there, okay? Come find me after you’re done,” he prompts, walking away, seemingly following one of the other people who had given a presentation. Was he right? Did she underdo the STEMI management part? Huh.

“Sorry about him, really,” the girl says. Mel should remember her name. Oh, she does! Samira Mohan. MS4. PTMC. “He thinks just because he’s an intern he can give opinions about pretty much everything. God knows what he’ll do once he becomes a senior resident!”

She laughs at that — a bit awkwardly, if she’s honest. She’s still thinking about the STEMI thing — and hums. “It’s all good, really. I like constructive criticism.” 

“Well, he’s anything but that but I’m glad it was helpful to you,” Dr. Mohan says with a soft smile, gently touching her arm and pulling away quickly when Mel takes half a step back. “Sorry, I don’t know how to end these things. Anyway — maybe I will see you around, Dr. King. It was great.” Mel mumbles a ‘thank you’ as Samira walks away — this time, she didn’t even introduce herself! It’s such a shame — and she looks back at her flash drive. She can expand on that section tomorrow. If Darren — the guy she kissed today — wasn’t her soulmate (and now she desperately wishes that he isn’t). 

—

She falls asleep on her laptop, trying to adjust her presentation — the guy from earlier, the intern, had good advice. Well, one good advice — and so she takes and runs with it and some time around two in the morning, her presentation is sufficiently altered and so is her world. She wakes up a little later the next day, determined not to kiss anyone, actually. She needs to take the presentation for a test run before solidifying it and so she needs the day to go on as it should to get feedback and then get back to finding her soulmate after she’s happy with her presentation. 

She is hoping to see the guy today — maybe ask his opinion about the new slides. It’s not like he’s going to remember it tomorrow and he really did seem smart (albeit a bit of a jerk if she’s honest, but at least he gave her feedback!) so maybe it’ll be helpful. 

She goes down only around lunch time to grab a sandwich and then gets ready for her presentation. She doesn’t find her in the room — she looks around the crowd. The same twenty-seven people she’s gotten pretty good at recognizing and still, she doesn’t see him. Samira Mohan is there, sitting in the second row as always, looking excited and ready to devour every idea that comes out of Mel’s mouth. The intern, though, is nowhere to be seen. 

Which is strange. She didn’t think days could change unless she had a part in them. Can people’s locations change when you are stuck in a loop? Can they have independent thoughts and actions if they don’t interact with you? Aren’t they doomed to repeat that first day unless she changes them? 

Not that she can dwell on it very long. It’s her turn. 

She goes through it pretty smoothly as far as she’s concerned — she does trip over her words around the new topic but that was a given. The room seems more interested, too, more focus. She takes that as a win. When she’s over, Samira walks up to her again. “That was great!” she chimes. At least Mel can count on her to be consistent. 

“Thank you,” she smiles. “What did you think about the STEMI section?” 

“I think it was very nice that you expanded upon the idea,” she hums. “We have an attending, Dr. Abbot, he always goes on and on about how important it is to find the hook of your presentation and— Christ, why am I going off about my attending on a total stranger? Sorry — I’m Samira. Samira Mohan. MS4 — PTMC. it’s in Pittsburg.” 

Mel barely stops herself in time to tell Samira that she knows. All these days and all these small conversations and bits of information has made Mel feel like she already knows her pretty well. Not that Samira ought to know that. “Melissa King. Mel. No one calls me Melissa,” she fumbles over her words. “Though, I suppose you knew that given that you were here. Well. Yes. I’m MS3. From VA. Virginia.” 

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Samira smiles and Mel is at a loss for words. Given that today is basically a lost cause — she can’t go around kissing anyone now. Not before she’s gotten her presentation down to a dot. So, before the silence stretches on too long and before she can change her mind, 

“Do you want to get a cup of coffee together?” Mel rushes the words out before she can stop herself. She likes Dr. Mohan — she wants to get to know her and not feel so alone. She’s starting to get there — to feel like she’s the only person in the building, to be sick of the same people she sees every day but doesn’t quite connect to them. Homesick and sick to her stomach, dreading the idea of going back to an impersonal hotel room that doesn’t have her dinosaur that she sleeps with or her comfort blanket, in pajamas that are new and uncomfortable, in a bed that doesn’t have the pillow she’s missing like a limb. So. She likes Dr. Mohan. She feels like home. Just a little bit. And maybe, she, too, is lost like Mel. “it’s totally okay if you don’t and if you have to get meet with your—”

“No, I’m free!” she interrupts Mel, smiling. “I would really like it if we could grab a cup of coffee. For sure.” 

Mel feels something settle in her stomach. Like a weight being lifted. “Good.” 

—

“I have this idea,” Samira says once they are done with their teas and have moved on to the bar, sitting behind stools, each of them nursing a low-alcohol beer. “About racial discrimination in the ER. I would love to start my research about it but PTMC hasn’t been very accommodating, really. Our attending — Dr. Robby — says that I have to be a resident if I want access to that sort of data because it’s not yet obvious what specialty I’m gonna match with. But I’m starting to suspect that’s not the problem here, you know?” 

Samira is a bit of light-weight, Mel realizes. Either that, or she really wants to talk to people and is comfortable sharing everything. Mel now knows that her father died when she was thirteen and that’s why she started medicine, about how she thinks she wants to go into EM for her residency but everyone around her tells her that maybe she should opt for something softer — ‘more feminine’, she rolled her eyes — and go for psych instead. 

(Mel can relate to that because she, too, wants to go into EM. It’s especially interesting in VA around all the vets and hurt people that need help. But everyone around her says that maybe she’s better fitted for family medicine or pathology. Not that she has anything against pathologists or FM doctors. It’s just — not her dream.)

Mel knows everyone in PTMC by the way Samira talks to them. It makes her ache for a community like that — a group that connects even with med students and interns that are just passing through. In VA, it’s the only thing she lacks — the lack of friends. People who don’t check up on each other and go about their jobs very coldly until their shift is over and they clock out, leaving work and everyone in it behind, removed from their brains. It’s detached — clinical, almost. 

Lonely. 

“I understand,” Mel hums. “I wanted to do my poster on neurodivergent care in the ER but Dr. Ghani, my attending, said that it wouldn’t be appropriate for a conference like this and I better focus on cardiovascular care in the ER.” Samira looks sympathetic which Mel appreciates. 

“I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Well, I like cardiovascular care, too,” she smiles. She does — the way they sprint into action around people with STEMI, chest pain, acute HF is just remarkable. It’s a well-oiled machine, a routine that doesn’t fail if you do it right and in the golden time. She loves reading about that. “But you should do it. You research, I mean. The idea is just… brilliant.” 

Samira smiles. “You think so?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Mel,” she sighs, leaning her head against her propped elbow. “We should be friends, you know. Like I know we live far away but I like you — we should be friends. Give me your number.” 

Something tightens in her chest — like a longing to accept Samira’s friendship. The knowledge of knowing they’ll wake up tomorrow, stuck in this same day and she’ll remember the details about Samira’s life and her papers and her family and she won’t even know her name until she comes to the presentation and then cheer her on enthusiastically. It makes a knot tie itself tightly in her throat. “Sure,” she says nonetheless because she can pretend at least. 

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” Samira sighs, putting her number in Mel’s phone, handing it back to her. “Is it weird that I’m saying this? Maybe I’m a little tipsy.”

“You have a friend!” Mel chimes before she can stop herself. “The guy with you? Your intern?” Luckily, Samira is tipsy enough that she doesn’t call Mel out on the fact that she’s definitely not supposed to know that. 

“Frank Langdon?” she scoffs. So that’s the intern’s name. “He is not my friend. He’s actually no one’s friend. He wants to be Dr. Robby’s friend and Heather’s friend but he’s not my friend.”

“But he goes everywhere with you.” 

“Because we’re from the same hospital and we should stick together,” Samira shrugs. “You know, our R2 — Dr. Shen — split from us? He was here, too, but then last night, he left the conference cause his girlfriend lives nearby and he wanted to visit her. So Frank’s been really pissed about that since now he’s the one who has to ‘babysit’ me. His words, not mine.”

“He told you he was going to ‘babysit’ you?”

“Nope,” Samira pops her ‘p’. “But he didn’t have to, you know. He’s a bit of a player. He said he’s here to ‘hook up with doctors without any strings’ and personally, I think I am in the way of him getting into everyone’s pants.” 

Mel cringes at the wording of that but she’s hopeful it’s not shown in her face. She didn’t… take him for that kind of person. Not that she knows him at all and the aloofness and the fact that his eyes kept jumping must’ve tipped her off. He was — is — handsome and tall and objectively attractive. It just… he seemed like a good person is all. But what does Mel know? She’s not very good with people in general so… 

“There you are!” a voice interrupts before Mel can gather her wits to comfort her new friend and she looks up just in time to see the intern — Frank Langdon — walk towards them. “Woah, Mohan are you drunk?” 

“No,” Samira shakes her head. “Just a little — light-headed.”

“Yeah, I bet you are,” Frank clicks his tongue. “I leave you for three seconds and you end up in a bar. Maybe I should’ve left you behind a couple days ago. You could’ve let loose.”

“We’ve been here less than forty-eight hours. What do you mean a couple of days ago?” Samira scoffs. “And it’s not like I can’t make friends, Langdon. I am drinking with my new friend. Mel King!” It’s only then that Frank notices her, turning to fully look at her. 

“Oh, the poster girl,” he hums. “You’re friends with Mohan now?”

“Yes?” she says but it comes out more like a question. 

“Huh,” he hums, his eyes dancing all over her, trailing from her head to toe before he looks away at Samira. 

“You skipped the posters, Langdon.”

He grins. “Yeah, I had some business… to take care of.”

“Jesus, just say you were hooking up with someone,” Samira rolls her eyes. 

“But then I wouldn’t get to see you pretend to despise me,” he grins. “And that would violate like ten HR codes.”

“He’s right, it would,” Mel chimes because she doesn’t know when to stop and she definitely knows the HR standard rules for hospitals and disclosing your sexual relationships to colleagues is definitely in violation of the code.

“See, doctor high-hopes knows what’s up,” he smiles and it’s charming albeit a bit evil-looking. “Hi, I’m Frank Langdon, her intern. Whatever she’s said about me is slander. She just doesn’t like that I am more charming than her.”

“I’m Melissa — Mel King. No one calls me Melissa,” she stammers, taking the hand he’s offering her and dropping it like a hot brick just as quickly. She doesn’t much like… touching. Unless it’s on the mouth and with the intent of getting her home. “I’m um, MS3. VA.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, “I saw you present.” He says it so off-handed. But Mel is pretty sure he wasn’t there. She knows that because Samira was there and she told her that her ‘colleague’ wasn’t there. She also knows that because it’s pretty hard to miss a six-foot tall man with piercing blue eyes and cocky smirks and opinions in a crowd that she’s gotten to know pretty intimately. She looks at the half-finished beer in front of her — maybe she’s tipsy, too? Maybe she misheard that or— “Where did you go, Mel King?” He interrupts her thoughts and she realizes that she’s zoned out for a good couple of minutes there. 

“Sorry, um, what did you say?”

“Do you want to have another drink?” he asks, tilting his head to the corner. 

“Don’t get fooled by him,” Samira drawls, placing her chin on the curve of her palm. “He has a thing for kissing people and I don’t want him kissing any of my friends.” Frank flips her off but Samira seems unfazed. 

“No, um, thank you,” she shakes her head, unable to shake the feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Suit yourself,” Frank nods, motioning to the bartender. “One vodka cranberry.” Mel winces at the order which he seems to notice. “What?”

“Nothing,” she shakes her head. Nothing other than the fact that the sour taste of the drink — even vicariously through Frank — makes her light-headed a little bit. She’s never had a good tolerance for sourness — it makes her skin crawl and weird goosebumps breakout through her skin — and it’s not like she’s going to taste the drink (not unless she kisses him. Which she won’t. But Samira has put the idea out there and now she can’t stop thinking about it) (but she won’t because on the off chance that he is her soulmate, then she’ll be teleported back before she can solidify her presentation). 

“Hm,” Frank only nods under his breath, his piercing blue eyes not leaving hers. 

—

It’s near midnight when they finally leave the bar — most scholars have retired for the night, a few people drunkenly leaning into each other and grazing fingers alongside thighs, the interns making moves on med students they will never see. Frank and Samira are holding onto each other, their gait unfocused and sloppy. Drunk. Mel, herself, hasn’t had much to drink — she never does. Especially not when she’s stuck in a time loop and can blab any time. “You’re not so bad when you’re not sober, Mohan,” Frank drawls, making Samira giggle as she tightens her grip around his neck. 

“You’re worse, though, Langdon,” she retorts. “The worst part is, you’d be pretty damn funny if you weren’t such a misogynistic fuckboy.”

He gasps, offended. “I am not misogynistic!”

“No objections to being a fuckboy?”

“Well, I’ve been hurt,” he sighs dramatically. “And honestly, right now it’s not about getting laid, even. I just want to go back home,” he whines and Mel feels a sudden lightning strike run up her spine. He’s seen her before even though he never showed up to her presentation today. He knew her. He suggested the change in her presentation. He wants to go back home and he is messing around with people because of it. 

Oh. 

Oh.

———

The best thing — the only good thing — about being stuck in a time loop is that he doesn’t wake up with a hangover. Still, it is never a pleasant feeling to be woken up at six-thirty in the morning by the rattling sound of the door. The thing is, he doesn’t remember Mohan coming to his door in the past week that he’s been stuck in this conference from hell but what the fuck does he knows about time-loop rules? Perhaps this alternative reality feels as bored as Frank does and it has decided to switch it up. 

He pushes his head into the pillow, grateful that the alcohol from last night — seriously, how the fuck did he make it back to his room? — hasn’t caused a piercing headache because then, he’d be forced to commit manslaughter and it never looks good on a resume to have killed your MS4 now, does it? 

The pounding on the door doesn’t stop. “Christ alive,” he curses under his breath. “Calm your fucking horses, Mohan. I’m fucking coming! Jesus.” He pushes himself off the bed, not caring that he’s not wearing a shirt (if she wants to be a menace to society, then she deserves to be flashed!) and walking to the door. He rubs his eyes as he swings the door open. “What the fuck do you want— oh.” 

Standing in front of him isn’t a curly-haired, sharp-eyed Samira Mohan but a blond girl with braids, wearing large glasses and worried brown eyed, wearing leggings and a sweatshirt, clearly on her way to the gym. He knows her, he’s sure. It’s the girl with the presentation — the one that had made friends with Mohan yesterday. Mel Something. VA. MS3. And… she’s standing in front of his room? 

Suddenly, he feels very self-conscious, standing there with his upper half exposed. She must feel the same way because her face flushes red and she stares at her feet. “Hi. I’m, um, sorry. I didn’t mean to — sorry.” He doesn’t know why she’s standing there — technically, at this point in the day, they haven’t met. Technically, she’s no longer friends with Mohan. Technically, she shouldn’t know where his room is. Maybe she knocked by accident? 

“Can I help you with anything?” he sighs, leaning against the wall, his head still swimming with sleep. “Did you get the wrong door?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I mean, yes. You can help me. I think. But I didn’t get the wrong door. I, um, brought you back to your room last night? I don’t know if you remember— Actually. That’s what I wanted to ask. Do you remember? Me, I mean.” 

He shouldn’t. Technically. But she’s standing here and she remembers and that means—

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out the words, sleep leaving his brain and his body at once. She’s stuck, too. She’s in a fucking time loop. “You, too?” 

She tries to smile — it comes out more like a wince but it’s still sweet. Adorable, even — and shrugs. “Yeah, I suppose so.” How the hell did she figure it out? He must’ve talked when he was drunk, sure that no one would remember it by the time the clock struck midnight like some twisted Cinderella retelling. She must’ve picked it up, then. Goddamn it — she knows! She’s been here, wandering this fucking place, too. “You, um, knew my name and technically we hadn’t met before so… I just — I figured I should ask.”

“At six-thirty in the morning?” 

She flushes again. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to skip any lectures and this is the only free time I have during the entire day.”

“You still go to the lectures.”

“Yeah, don’t you?” she frowns. “What if you kiss your soulmate that day and then time starts moving and then everyone will think you are incompetent and you spent the entire conference lagging.”

“I did spend the entire conference lagging,” he smirks but before he can go on, the room next to him comes to life, the doorknob crackling. Before he can think — it wouldn’t bode very well for him in his kissing prospects if he has a girl standing in front of his door very early in the morning — he grabs her wrist and pulls her into the room, closing the door behind them. She seems to have missed all that, blinking slowly once she’s inside. 

Suddenly, he becomes very aware that he’s very naked. In front of her. In a closed space. He launches to grab a shirt from the mess of clothes on the floor, pulling it over his head, adjusting his shorts, too. “Sorry, I — I thought someone was coming out and I just figured the subject matter needed some privacy.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” she blinks again, looking up. “Oh, you have a shirt on, that’s good.”

“Why? Miss my upper body?” he asks before he can help himself, wincing at his own tone. He remembers Samira repeating over and over again how much of a rake he is last night. She must, too, because she clears her throat, shaking her head. 

“No, I’m glad you are wearing your clothes. It makes the negotiation more formal,” she says. 

“Negotiation?”

“I mean, it’s good to have someone you are going through this thing with at the same time, no? Someone who’ll remember the day that’s passed.” He supposes she’s right. “What is your approach to finding your soulmate?”

The snort that leaves his throat is involuntary. “Soulmate?”

“Yes?”

“You believe in that shit?”

Perhaps that is the wrong thing to say because her face hardens. “You don’t?”

“Of course not,” he shrugs. “This is a very flawed fucking system, sweetheart. We are basically kidnapped against our will to sexually assault as many people as we can so that we may find someone who is in some twisted way fitting for us. Which is a load of bullshit because at the end of the day, she’s still a fucking stranger. So my approach to this is just to do that — kiss as many people as I can.” 

The air shifts.

Not sharply — no slammed doors, no raised voices — but enough that Mel feels it like a pressure change. Like a room where someone has just said the wrong thing and everyone knows it.

She stares at him for a second too long.

Then she nods. Once. Precisely. “Okay,” she says.

He expects anger. Or offense. Or at least a lecture. What he gets instead is her crossing her arms, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her sweatshirt like she’s grounding herself. “Okay?” 

“That’s… one approach,” she continues, carefully neutral. “Statistically inefficient, but I can see why you’d default to it.”

“How is that statistically inefficient?”

“Because,” she shrugs. “If you kiss a number of people in one day and then tomorrow, you wake up having been freed of the loop, then who is your soulmate? You will never know.”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to know.”

“Hm,” she hums, pushing her hands into her pockets. “That’s very cynical, Dr. Langdon.” 

He shrugs. He can say the reasoning behind the approach — he doesn’t think she’ll mock him for it — but why would he indulge a stranger? That’s the whole point — strangers ought to stay strangers. “Well, I did a fellowship in cynicism. What is your approach, Dr. High Hopes?”

“I kiss one person a day based on what I assume my soulmate might be like,” she explains. “I go through the motions of the day exactly as I would the first time around, I give my presentation and I see if the person kissed is my soulmate.” It sounds tiring. And long. Lord knows how many days she’ll be stuck in this goddamn loop if she goes about it like that. Still, the part that catches Frank’s attention isn’t that. 

“Based on what you assume your soulmate might be like?” he raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. “And what is that?”

“Well, I would assume that we had similar interests,” she says, “which is pretty broad considering we are at a conference with many people with similar interests. But I look for him in lectures that I find interesting. I would assume that the level of attractiveness will match, too, so I tend to go for people in the same percentile. And I get to know them before kissing them so that would be a good foundation for a later relationship.” 

He can’t help the huff of laughter that tears itself from his throat almost involuntarily. She frowns. “I’m sorry — I swear I’m not making fun of you. It’s just —  a lot of planning.” She shrugs. 

“I like planning.”

“Well, I prefer my method.”

“I can see that,” she hums. “Anyway, Dr. Langdon. It was very nice to meet you. I also appreciate the insight about the STEMI section of my presentation. If you had a respite from kissing all the people and you needed someone to talk to, you can find me.” She turns to leave and for some reason — some unexplainable tug at his heart — he stops her.

“Mel?” 

She turns. “Yes?”

“Call me Frank,” he says like a dumb fucking idiot. “If we’re stuck in a loop together, you might as well.” 

Her eyes soften, nodding. “Alright,” she hums. “See you later, Frank?”

“Sure.” He isn’t sure if he means it or not.

—

It’s not until the end of the day that it occurs to Frank; what if she’s my soulmate? It wouldn’t be far-fetched. Mel, despite the naive belief in the soulmate system, is attractive. She’s beautiful in a girl-next-door sort of way and if her system says anything, it’s that she’s smart, too. She’s on track to become an ER doctor which makes her even hotter (most of the med students in this conference couldn’t give a shit about EM. They are just here to impress their advisors and perhaps snag a beau who is an intern or a resident. She just seems really into the subject matter, though) and Frank wouldn’t mind kissing her. 

So it’s only logical that at the end of the day, he finds her. “Kiss me,” is the first thing he says to Mel. 

“Excuse me?” she turns to face him with a fury in her eyes but the moment she sees that it’s him, the fury is gone. “Oh. Hi, Frank.”

“Hi. Kiss me.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “I don’t think I will.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I have done my kissing for today,” she says. “And for the other, I don’t think you’re my soulmate.”

“Ouch?” 

She tilts her head, considering him like she’s deciding whether a hypothesis is worth testing. “I don’t mean that as an insult,” she says, calmly. “It’s just… unlikely.”

“Unlikely,” he repeats, incredulous. “Based on what?”

“Based on the data I have,” she replies.

“You don’t even know me!” he argues. He really shouldn’t feel this offended. “I could totally be your prince charming.”

She crosses her arms, chewing on her bottom lip. “I really don’t think you are.”

“Look at the facts,” Frank pleads. “We are both stuck in a loop. We’ve been kissing people for eight days and neither of us have found our soulmate. It makes sense. We can just kiss each other and be free of this.”

“I really don’t think you are my soulmate, Dr. Langdon,” she says, more seriously this time.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t believe in soulmates for one thing,” she says, “and I know more about the person I kissed today than I do about you. And I really don’t think the universe would be so unfair as to send you as my soulmate when I have waited my entire life.” She doesn’t sound angry or frustrated — just stupidly surgical. Maybe that’s the reason it hurts more.

“So you want to get to know me?” 

“That’s not what I—”

“Mel,” he interrupts. “If we get to know each other, you’ll kiss me?” He doesn’t know why he can’t just let this go. There are plenty of girls who will sell their souls to kiss him — that might be overselling himself but you get the gist! He’s hot, is the thing! — and he doesn’t know why he can’t just let this go and move on to them and share a drink every three months with this nerdy girl who is from another state entirely and a bit too naive for Frank’s taste. 

“Dr, Langdon—”

“Frank.”

“Okay, Frank,” she sighs. “That’s not entirely the point. We are not compatible.”

“You have known me for like fifteen minutes! And five of those minutes have been arguing about kissing each other!”

“But you have been consistent in your conduct!” she argues. “And this might not be a big deal to you, but it’s a big deal to me.” 

Frank laughs, sharp and humorless. “Jesus. You’re acting like I kicked a puppy.”

She winces. Not because he’s loud — because he’s wrong. “No. I’m acting like someone who is trying not to make a mistake she can’t undo.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate,” she says. “If I kiss the wrong person and the loop breaks, that’s it. That’s my life. There is no redo. No reset.” She looks at him, really looks at him now. “You don’t seem to understand the asymmetry of risk here.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Tries again. “You’re assuming I’d be the wrong person.”

“I’m concluding it based on evidence,” she corrects.

“Which is?”

“That you don’t take this seriously,” she says. “That you treat the loop like a prison break instead of a filter. That you’re optimizing for escape, not outcome.”

“And what if escape is the outcome?” he snaps. “What if I don’t want some cosmic fairytale? What if I just want my life back?”

She nods. Once. “Then you definitely aren’t my soulmate.”

The finality of it hits harder than he expects. Not because he thinks she’s right — but because she’s already done with the question.

“So what,” he says, quieter now. “You’re just going to keep doing this? One person a day? Playing soulmate roulette until you’re eighty?”

“I don’t age,” she says. “And I don’t mind waiting.”

“That’s insane.” 

Something hardens on her face but she doesn’t snap at him. She just shrugs. “I don’t mind it if you think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mel. Geez. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think this whole thing that we’re stuck in is crazy and I’m sorry. Christ. Okay — so what do I have to do to convince you to kiss me?”

“Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Because I have a feeling about this,” he shrugs.

“I thought you didn’t get feelings,” she hums. 

“Well, humor me, sweetheart,” he sighs. “Maybe I’m bored — maybe I need a challenge. If you don’t mind waiting, then you can’t begrudge me this, can you?” She seems to consider this, thinking. 

“You need to stop kissing other people,” she says after a while. 

“What?”

“If you want to kiss me,” she explains. “You need to stop kissing other people.” 

“So will you?”

“I kiss methodically, I don’t see why I should stop doing that,” she crosses her arms on her chest. “And you need to get to know me before you kiss me.”

“Done.”

“And — you need to go to the lectures,” she adds, wincing as she looks at him. 

“Are you intentionally making this harder for me?”

“On the off chance that you are my soulmate,” she says like it pains her to utter the words, “I don’t want you to be fired or demoted after the conference and if you spend the day gallivanting—”

“No one even says gallivanting anymore,” Frank rolls his eyes. 

“Well, I just — that’s my condition,” she says. “You’re not obligated to accept, Dr. Langdon.” She doesn’t seem offended by his jabs nor does she seem agitated at the off-chance that he doesn’t agree to it. That only makes him more determined to accept. He doesn’t suddenly believe in the idea of soulmates. Truth be told, if this is who she is, he doesn’t even really think that she is his soulmate. But he’s bored out of his mind and agitated and so fucking sick of bumping into the same twelve people every day. And she’s interesting and strange and honestly, challenging. And Frank never says ‘no’ to a good challenge. 

“Done deal, Dr. King.”

“I’m not a doctor yet.”

“Oh, but you will be,” he smirks, leaning close. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll be there to see it. You know, if we’re soulmates.” He doesn’t give her the chance to come up with anything to say, pulling back, satisfied with the flush on her face. “See you tomorrow, Mel,” he says, sweetly, as he walks away. 

———

“Good morning, sweetheart.” She looks up to see Frank Langdon hovering over her table at breakfast, a coffee in his hand. She blinks — once, twice — but he doesn’t vanish. Instead, he sits across from her with a smirk on his lips, pushing a cup towards her. “Coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” she winces. 

“You don’t?” he frowns. “How do you wake yourself up, then?”

“By… an alarm clock?” She isn’t sure exactly what they are talking about. 

“Huh,” he says, taking the coffee back. “That’s okay — more for me. What do you drink, then?”

“Tea,” she shrugs. “Chamomile, Masala. Black tea, in the mornings.” She lists off and then reminds herself that it’s more likely than not that he’s not interested and he simply asked to humor her. Then, she cuts herself off, wincing. “Well — not that it matters.” 

“It does,” he takes a sip from the coffee. “I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t.” 

She just hums. She isn’t sure what to say about that, really. Or about anything they are talking about. What are they talking about? “Um, sorry, did you need anything, or…?”

“No,” he shakes his head, standing up. “Just wanted to say ‘good luck’ for today’s quest. And you know, I am in this corner. Attending lectures and not kissing people.” He smiles, a rare sight that reveals his teeth, making his eyes crinkle in the corner and she feels a sudden rush of blood to her face. If he notices, he at least has the decency to not mention it. 

“See you later, Mel,” he says, walking away. 

She isn’t sure if she returns the sentiment. 

—

The guy today is named Jordan. She finds him at Professor McFaden’s lecture and he’s entirely enamoured with the subject matter — which is good because Mel likes pedes. It also doesn’t escape her notice that Frank is in the same lecture, yawning until he somehow looks up to meet her gaze and gives her a lazy grin with thumbs up. She looks away quickly. 

The kiss with Jordan is chaste, mostly innocent. He laughs after it, says that he’s feeling light-headed. 

She feels nothing at all. 

—

“That was great,” he says, pushing Samira as they walk to where she’s just wrapped up her presentation. “I especially loved the STEMI triage segment. Very informative.” She feels the familiar heat crawl up her spine and spread all the way in her skin. He seems very self-assured about the changes that Mel has made to her presentation. For once, she’s grateful no one else remembers the events of the past because Samira looks properly dumb-founded. 

“Yes, Dr. King,” Samira nods. “It was amazing. The best student presentation of the evening, no doubt.” Though she’s heard Samira complimenting her time and time again — exactly nine times, to be precise — every time, the words make her stomach do a little dance with happiness. 

“Thank you,” she says, putting her laptop into the bag. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Yes, it was exquisite,” Frank says, leaning on the wall — she has never seen him not leaning. It seems like he always needs a wall to keep him straight. Like he doesn’t care and he can’t be bothered by using his spinatus muscles to keep him upright. She tenses by his words — not that she’s very good at recognising it but it sounds more like a jab than a compliment. Samira seems to have the same opinion as she narrows her eyes at her colleague. “Would you like to have a drink with me, Dr. King?” 

“Christ, Langdon,” Samira rolls her eyes. “Sorry, Dr. King. Thank you, for the great presentation. You, come with me.” She pulls Frank away by the sleeve of his shirt as he turns around at the last possible second and sends a wink her way. She ignores it and packs her stuff, getting out of there as quickly as she possibly can. 

———

Frank doesn’t see her at breakfast. Which doesn’t mean anything but that the masala he’s gotten her keeps getting cold (he’s gotten her black tea, chamomile and boba so far and between the three, she’s made the most moaning noise as she was drinking black tea. He’s hoping masala will break that record). He doesn’t see her at Dr. Shabani’s lecture. He doesn’t see her at lunch, sitting in her corner, eating the same rotation of food (not that he blames her. The options are pretty limited). But the strange thing is that she doesn’t show up for her presentation. He sits there as the organizers make calls and whisper in each other’s ears and then they chime that they ought to end the evening and thank them for their attendance. 

“I gotta go,” he tells Samira as soon as they are through the doors. All day, he’s tolerated her jabs about how ‘quaint’ he’s become and how it’s making her feel eerie that he doesn’t ogle at other people’s asses (he does. It’s just more subtle now that he knows Mel is looking. Not that Mel was looking today. Because she’s not here. Fucking hell — he hasn’t even looked at anyone’s ass today!) so he doesn’t stick around to hear her take more jabs at him and instead darts towards Mel’s hotel room. He’s panting by the time he’s knocking on the door. 

“Um, sorry, can you go away? I don’t need maintenance today,” her voice comes from inside after three rapid series of knocks. She sounds muffled and subdued — like she has the mumps. Can they get sick inside of the loop? Is that something that happens to people? 

“Not maintenance, Mel,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “It’s Frank.” 

For a few seconds, there are no replies. Then, a shuffling sound and Mel opens the door to reveal herself, her eyes bloodshot, a tissue in her hands and her blanket tightly wrapped around her. “Oh, hi,” she says, her voice stiff and laced with something Frank can’t quite name. “Sorry, I, um, don’t want company right now. If that’s okay—”

She immediately shuts up when Frank reaches out to put her palm against her forehead. Nope, No fever. “No fever,” he reports as much. “Is it an allergy? Are you feeling sick?”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen you all day,” he says. “Where have you been?”

“I just needed a day for myself,” she says, her eyes filling with tears and Frank feels a surge of panic travelling quickly through his veins. He isn’t quite sure why — it’s not like anyone can die when they are stuck here. So what has gotten her so choked up. “I, just—”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, surprised by his tone — tender and soft and so fucking worried. The sort that he used with children that come to the ER when Adamson is hovering close and he wants to be a kiss-ass. “Jesus, Mel, tell me what’s wrong.” He doesn’t know why he cares — he ought to turn right back and leave her alone now that he knows she’s alright but he can’t. The question seems to have broken the dam because her face crumples into itself, her nose becoming impossibly crimson in one split second before she starts crying. “Fuck — Jesus. Fuck. What did I do?”

She shakes her head, hiding her face in her palms as she walks back into the room. The open door is invitation enough for Frank to follow her. “Nothing,” she shakes her head, her voice heavy. “I just — I miss home. And I couldn’t leave the room because I kept missing home.” 

It’s something that hadn’t occurred to Frank — he doesn’t have that, really. He has Abby who isn’t his girlfriend and who only thinks of him when she’s lonely. He has his parents who call him on national holidays and his birthday. And he has work. He doesn’t really have a home to miss. But Mel must have something beyond this; people who are looking forward to her coming back to them. People she misses. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes the words out, walking closer to her. She shakes her head. 

“I just — I wanted to take a day. Since it all restarts tomorrow. No one will remember this. I didn’t even kiss anyone today so…” Which Frank appreciates, really. He doesn’t know what it is about her kissing other people that unsettles him — he has been glaring at Jordan, Nick and that douche that wants to go into surgery named Jaden (even his parents hate him if they have named him that) and pretty much everyone he’s caught a whiff of hanging around Mel. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t get to kiss anyone or maybe the fact that Mel sure knows how to pick them. Which is… Not the point here. “It’ll restart.”

“It’s okay to miss them, you know,” he says as she sits on her bed and slowly, he sinks into as well, suddenly acutely aware — just like the first morning — that they are alone in a hotel room. “Are you close to your family?”

She nods. “I have a sister. Becca. And my dad. We all live together. I go to school and I work and my dad and Becca make the food and sometimes, she goes to this center we have in our neighborhood. It’s not very good but it gets the job done and anyway, my dad always wants her around. It’s — well, my sister, Becca, she has autism and my dad wants to help but he has onset Parkinson’s and— sorry. You don’t want to know about this. I just — I miss them. And they don’t know that I’ve been stuck here for two weeks now. They think I’m coming home tomorrow and in their reality, I am. But right now, I am not getting out of here and—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head like she can’t fathom the idea of letting more words out into the universe. Like everything is too much, too fast, too sudden. 

“They seem like lovely people, Mel,” he says, trying to keep his voice as soft as he can, bumping his shoulder against hers. “It’s only natural that you miss them.” 

She nods. “Yeah. I just — miss hugging them.” 

“And your mom?”

“She died when I turned twenty,” she says, suddenly looking even more depressed. Frank wants to kick himself in the nuts for that question. “Cancer. The doctors said that maybe the mental toll of that caused my dad’s Parkinson. Like losing his soulmate was too much.” She sniffles, pulling her legs up to hug them, resting her chin on her knees. Frank wants to make it stop — to help her, to make this better. 

“I have two brothers,” he says before he can stop himself. It’s only fair that he shares something, too, isn’t it? “Well, half-brothers. My dad — my mom’s soulmate — left us when I was three and then she married my step-dad and had two kids with him. He’s… great. Really. Growing up, I really did think of him as my own dad but then, I don’t know… like every parent loves their own kids more, right? And I don’t blame him — or my mom — for liking my brothers more. Because… you know how I’m a dick right now? I was even a bigger dick when I was in high school. I was a pain in the ass. So — yeah. I don’t understand what you are referring to. But — I am very glad that you have people you are so close with that you miss them.” 

“Frank…” Her voice is soft.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about himself. That was only a peace treaty — something to tell her that it’s okay that she talks about herself. That they are even now. “It’s okay, Mel. i’m fine.” She seems to understand his words. Please let’s not talk about me. Please. 

“I just wish I could see them, you know,” she says quietly. “Becca and dad.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What?” 

The idea occurs to him suddenly and all-consumingly. “Why don’t we take a train or I don’t know steal a car and go back home so you can see them?”

“Is that how the loop works?”

“Fuck the loop!” he exclaims. “If we get out of here at six in the morning, we can be in VA by the time it’s three in the afternoon. You can spend time with them and boom, when we wake up we’ll be back here and so will the car.” 

“Are you suggesting a felony, Frank?”

“Borrowed car,” he corrects. “Temporary. Victimless. The universe resets.”  She looks unsure — goody two-shoes and all that. He bets she doesn’t even have a speeding ticket — so he sighs, adding, “Or we can rent a car. I have money.” Which sounds like a brag but whatever. He makes more than she does — it’s a fact. 

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. He can practically hear the gears grinding. “We don’t know that objects reset the same way people do,” she says finally. “There could be consequences.”

“Like what?” he asks. “The car wakes up back in its parking spot with existential dread?”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” he says. “I’m serious. You want to see them. You’re miserable. We have a magic undo button. This is the cleanest use-case I’ve seen.”

She presses her lips together, staring down at her knees. “I don’t like uncertainty,” she admits. “And I don’t like breaking rules.”

“Neither do I,” he lies smoothly. “But this rule is stupid.” As are most rules but he suspects that’s not the argument he ought to choose while dealing with Mel King. 

Her fingers twist in the blanket. “What if it doesn’t reset? What if we’re stuck there?”

“Then I’ll help your dad cook dinner,” Frank says without hesitation. “I’m good with knives. Professionally.”

That earns him a huff of laughter before she can stop herself. She clamps her mouth shut like she’s betrayed herself. He smirks, leaning back on his arms, allowing her to think it through. He can be silent — he’s noticed that she operates better when there is silence and she can work through her problems all by herself before he adds more information. It’s only when she lets out her breath, turning to face him does he add, “It’s just a suggestion, Mel. If this makes you miserable, then what is the harm on skipping a day of a conference we basically knows forwards and backwards at this point? But if it scares you too much and the thought makes you uncomfortable, then fuck this. We’ll stay. We’ll listen to Dr. Shabani’s bullshit one more time.”

“He actually makes very good points, so I wouldn’t call it—” she starts, then interrupts herself, shaking her head. “Sorry, not the point.”

“No, I’d be more than happy to listen to you defending the old man,” he smirks, “you know he’s not a half bad kisser either.” 

Her eyes widen almost comically, too large behind her glasses. “What?”

“I’ll tell you some other time,” he shrugs. “What is it, Dr. King? Sink or swim?”

“Which one would be sink?”

“Staying here,” he says and finds that he means the words. He’s sick of the same people — of the blonds that make eyes at him, the brunettes that brush their fingers on his thighs, the red-heads that he follows creepily. He’s sick of the same batch of doctors who have nothing to say and all the ego in the world to inflate. Mel King isn’t like that — she’s hardworking and kind and determined and sensitive and somehow the person in the world that Frank wants to stick by in this fucking mess. Not that he’d ever admit that to himself. Not that he’d ever tell her. 

She takes a moment and Frank allows her, staring at the ceiling. Then, “Swim. Definitely swim.” 

Frank grins before he can help himself. “Swim it is, then.” 

——— 

“The speed limit is sixty!” she chimes, closing her eyes as she holds on to her seatbelt, counting backwards from ten. Frank doesn’t seem to have heard her or if he has, he chooses to ignore her. All the while though, he eases his foot off the accelerator — not all the way, but enough to placate her. The speedometer dips to sixty-two.

“I am effectively at the speed limit,” he says.

“That is not how numbers work,” Mel replies, still gripping the seatbelt. “Sixty-two is not sixty.”

“Rounding error.”

“In physics, rounding errors kill astronauts.”

“In medicine, they kill patients,” he counters. “Yet here we are, both alive.”

She opens one eye, glaring at him. Or well, her version of it. She doesn’t seem to be very good at the entire ‘glaring’ ordeal. Becca tells her it’s because she’s too soft and she needs to ‘toughen up’. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, “you’re still in the car.”

She exhales, then forces herself to unclench her hands. “I agreed to swim, not to drown.”

“We’re not drowning,” Frank says. “We’re cruising.”

She allows herself to stare at his side profile for a second, studying him. In the days that she’s known him, she’s never had much time to just look at him. It always seemed like too much when he stared right back at her with those piercing blue eyes. Right now, though, his eyes are on the road and she’s allowed so she takes advantage of it. 

He has a jawline is the first thing she notices — his neck is tight and his sternocleidomastoid muscle is perfectly intact, flexing as he tilts his neck slightly, his eyes focused on the road. His nose is good — perfectly angled in her opinion — and his lips are full and lovely. She likes his chin dimple most of all and in her light-headedness, she feels the urge to just reach out and stick her finger there. Just to see how it would feel. Not that she does — instead, she looks away quickly, feeling her face heat up. What is the matter with her?!

“Enjoyed the show?” he asks, a smirk on his face. Of course he noticed. 

She doesn’t say anything, instead staring at her own fingers. 

“I look at you, too,” he says after a beat. “So, you know, it’s only fair that you look at me.”

“You look at me?”

“Of course,” he glances at her. “You’re hot, Mel.” 

Right. Not that she thinks she isn’t beautiful. She knows she’s cute. Her previous boyfriends from college told her as much. She’s ‘pretty’, ‘cute’, ‘homely’ but not many people call her ‘hot’ (though she’s strangely popular with lesbians. She tried to see if she was attracted to girls but nadda. She decided to move on from it then). So. When Frank tells her she’s hot — Frank who has a certain type — she finds it hard to believe him. “Okay,” she clears her throat. 

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not really, no,” she shrugs. “I mean, it’s nice of you to tell me. But I know your type.”

“What is my type, Mel King?”

She hums. “Red-heads mostly, I have noticed. Though I’ve seen you around with a couple of brunettes. Tall. Fashionable, too. They are really beautiful girls. I don’t blame you,” she tries to sound non-judgmental (it’s not her lifestyle but Frank is welcome to kiss as many people as he’d like, really) but if the hard line of his mouth is anything to go by she has failed. 

“They aren’t my type,” he says dryly.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Frank. I just—”

“Mel, seriously,” he interrupts her, turning fully to face her which makes her a little anxious considering he’s driving. But also because his eyes are so impossibly deep and serious and… she’s never not seen him with a twinkle of humor in his eyes. It’s a bit unnerving to be honest. “Just because I do shit like that, it doesn’t mean that they are my type. They don’t…” His voice drifts off, shaking his head as he turns to lock his eyes on the road. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Nothing at all. Do you want a slushie? I need to fill the tank and we can get something to eat to hold us over. Do you like slushies?”

“Yup,” she nods, deciding to let it go.

—

“Sweetheart!” her dad comes to the garden, shaking a little bed, leaning on his cane to keep himself upright. The second she hears his voice, she feels her throat tightening, a knot lodged there. She’s missed him. Oh, God — she’s missed him. But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that she hasn’t seen him for more than two weeks. “What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t be back—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence though because she cuts him off, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He seems to understand the desperation — to allow her to inhale his scent and take him in and hide her head in his chest. “Okay, honey,” he says softly, letting the cane fall to the ground as he gently runs his shaking fingers in her hair. “Hi, honey,” he whispers against her hair. 

“Hi, dad,” she says, her voice laced with unshed tears as she pulls away. 

“Mel,” he says when he sees her filled eyes, tilting his head, his wrinkly hand moving to cup her cheeks. “Is everything okay?”

She nods. “Yeah, they let us go early,” she lies. She doesn’t lie to her dad but she doesn’t want to explain the whole loop to him now. Maybe she will later today but right now, she just wants to stick to his side — have some of his famous potato salad, go pick up Becca from the center and sit around watching trashy shows on the television that their dad doesn’t understand. Except that someone clears his throat. Oh. Right. “Dad, um, this is Dr. Frank Langdon. He’s… my friend.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he says, politely reaching out to shake her dad’s hand. “I have heard so much about you.” If her dad is curious, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he shakes Frank’s hand and smiles. 

“Nice to meet you, too, son. I’m always glad to have Mel’s friends over. Come on in, kids. Don’t just stand there.” Mel follows him inside and Frank follows her inside, pushing him to sit on the sofa.

Her dad settles into the armchair with a small grunt, waving them off when Mel hovers a little too close. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Sit. Both of you.”

Mel perches on the edge of the couch, hands folded tightly in her lap. Frank takes the other end, long legs stretched out, posture carefully non-threatening. He looks out of place here — too tall, too sharp-edged for the soft clutter of the living room, the crocheted blanket folded over the back of the chair, the framed photos of Mel and Becca at various ages lining the walls. But he’s trying. Mel can tell. He’s gone quiet in a way that feels deliberate.

“So,” her dad says, smiling at Frank. “You’re a doctor?”

“An intern, sir,” Frank replies. “Unfortunately.”

“What are you gunning for?”

“EM,” Frank says and it’s news to Mel. She knows that she technically met him in an EM conference but it’s just… she thought he’d end up specialising in surgery or something more… arrogant. “Hopefully.” 

Her dad studies him for a moment longer than is comfortable. Mel recognizes the look — protective, assessing, the same one he used to give her lab partners when she was younger. Finally, he nods. “Mel doesn’t bring people home very often.”

Frank flicks his eyes to her. “I’m honored, then.”

She feels heat crawl up her neck. “This isn’t— I mean—”

“It’s okay,” her dad says gently. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Mel looks at the three of them, at Frank who has never seen her dad before and who has only known her for a handful of days, and who doesn’t know their life story and still fits in. at her dad who’s shaking slightly but still has a lovely smile on. At herself who missed this so much. 

And yeah. She is glad they are here.

———

“I could’ve picked her up myself,” Mel says, sitting in the passenger’s seat, looking at him as he navigates the streets he’s never driven through before. He glances at her through the corner of his eyes. This Mel — VA Mel, he’s started to call her in his head — is different from the tense girl he knows from the conference. VA Mel laughs loudly at her father’s jokes and raves about his potato salad to Frank and blushes when he reaches over her head to grab a plate she was too short to reach. This Mel squirms and hums and plays her favorite CD on her dad’s truck — he insisted they take the truck because Becca doesn’t like the feel of new cars and the one they rented felt ‘new’ — and sings along to the lyrics of Meghan Thee Stallion’s song. 

“Just tell me where to turn, Mel,” he dismisses, staring ahead at the road. 

“Here,” she says and he obliges, making the turn. The care center squats between a dentist’s office and a nail salon, beige and apologetic, with a banner out front that reads Community Enrichment Program in peeling blue letters.

Mel exhales as Frank pulls into the parking lot. “Okay,” she says, already unbuckling. “She’ll probably be outside. She doesn’t like waiting in the lobby.”

“Noted,” Frank says. He kills the engine and follows her out.

Becca is exactly where Mel predicted — sitting cross-legged on the low brick wall near the entrance, headphones on, notebook balanced on her knees. Her hair is braided tight, practical. She’s rocking slightly, pen moving fast, lips shaping words that don’t quite make it out.

“Becca,” Mel calls, soft but clear.

Becca looks up. For a split second her face is unreadable, then it breaks wide open. She’s on her feet in an instant, notebook abandoned on the wall.

“MEL.” It’s not shouted, just emphatic — every letter given equal weight.

She collides into Mel, arms wrapping tight around her middle. Mel laughs, the sound startled and full, and folds herself around her sister like muscle memory.

“You weren’t supposed to be back today,” Becca says into her shoulder.

“I know.” Mel presses a kiss into her hair. “Change of plans.”

Becca pulls back, eyes flicking — too quick, too thorough — taking in Mel’s clothes, her face, then landing on Frank. She freezes.

Mel clocks it immediately. “This is Frank,” she says. “He drove me.”

Frank lifts a hand in a small, non-invasive wave. “Hi, Becca.”

Becca doesn’t respond. She tilts her head instead, studying him like a puzzle she didn’t ask for. Frank holds still, instinctively — no looming, no sudden movements. He just asks himself, What would Mel do? and does the exact same thing. Which would be to just — shut up. 

After a long beat, Becca says, “You’re tall.”

“I get that a lot,” Frank replies evenly.

Another pause. “Your shoes are loud.”

Frank glances down at his boots, then back up. “I can walk quieter.”

Becca considers this, then nods once. Decision made. She turns back to Mel. “Did you bring the truck?”

Mel smiles. “Of course.”

Becca hums approvingly and scoops up her notebook. As they walk, Frank falls half a step behind without thinking, letting the sisters set the pace.

Inside the truck, Becca claims the back seat immediately, buckling herself in with practiced efficiency. She leans forward between the seats, peering at Frank.

“What music do you listen to?” she asks.

Frank hesitates. Too slow.

Mel jumps in. “Becca has a playlist for the drive.”

Becca grins, victorious, and reaches forward to plug in her phone. The speakers crackle, then a bass-heavy beat fills the cab.

Frank winces — just slightly — then relaxes, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Well, it isn’t his type of music (his type of music is either gritty, punk-rock tunes that no one listens to anymore or cheesy bubblegum pop music that every radio station plays. So this is definitely an upgrade from… that) but he doesn’t mind it. He would just like it to be a little quieter but as he reaches out to adjust the volume, Becca’s voice comes.

“Volume stays here,” Becca says. Not a request.

“Understood,” Frank says.

As they pull away, Becca starts talking — about a woman at the center who won’t stop tapping her pen, about a puzzle she finished upside down because it was “more efficient,” about a dream where the walls breathed. Mel listens with her whole body, nodding at the right moments, asking clarifying questions Frank wouldn’t know to ask. 

He just sits there silently, observing the King sisters. They seem to be on the same frequency. Mel laughs more when she’s with her sister — her eyes are bright and open and alert, her body relaxed. He wonders why she doesn’t carry herself with the same ease everywhere. She looks more beautiful than before — tangible, real. So much that he feels his chest constricting when he thinks about it. A strand of hair has fallen out of her braid and despite the fact that he should be paying his full attention to the road in front of him, he wants to reach out and push it back, tuck it somewhere secure knowing that he’s touched her. He doesn’t, of course. But his body longs to. 

He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, really. He has never been the romantic type — the type that thinks about anything beyond the surface things. He’s not a dick, exactly — he buys his dates flowers and he takes them to good restaurants and he picks them up and drives them back home and makes sure they get in safe, he’s never late and he always wears cologne and he walks on the side of road so his date is safe and he asks them questions and listens when they answer and he makes sure they have at least three orgasms a night. But he isn’t the type of guy that memorizes the outlines of your body and worships on his knees and gets hard at the sight of a loose strand of hair or a hearty laugh. He doesn’t get butterflies when the girls scrunch up their noses with amusement and get flushed when their sister says something witty. He is definitely not the type to cross state lines to get a girl home and meet her dad and sister. Well, he wasn’t, at least.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore if he’s honest. 

Mel King’s friend is one word for it. He hopes there is another. 

—

Her dad insists that he stays the night and it’s not like he has to drive back to the conference — they’ll be there anyway when they wake up. Probably — so he agrees to forego a hotel and instead crash on their couch. Mel gets her a set of pillows with a blanket and he sets camp on the couch, getting comfortable as everyone says their goodbyes and heads to their rooms. Mel, though, lingers behind. 

Mel hovers at the edge of the living room like she’s unsure whether she’s allowed to exist there after hours. The lights are dim now, the house settling into its nighttime creaks and sighs. Frank has kicked off his boots and loosened his collar, sleeves rolled up, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he belongs there. Which is… alarming, actually. He looks like he’s done this before. Like he fits.

“You don’t have to stay up,” he says, quietly. “I’m good. I’ve slept in worse places than this.”

“I know,” she says, twisting her fingers together. “I just— wanted to say goodnight.”

He watches her for a second, really watches her. The VA version of Mel is softer around the edges but there’s something taut underneath it now, like a string pulled too tight for too long. “Hey,” he says, lowering his voice even more. “You okay?”

She nods automatically. Then pauses. Then exhales. “I am… better,” she corrects. “Than I was yesterday. Or this morning. Or—” She shakes her head. “Being here helps. Thank you. For suggesting it.”

“Anytime,” he says. And then, because apparently his mouth is no longer consulting his brain, he adds, “I’d do it again.”

That makes her look at him. Really look. Her eyes narrow, thoughtful, not suspicious — evaluative. Like she’s filing this statement away for later analysis. He is half-tempted to reach forward and tug her down until she’s sitting on his lap and then try to pick her brain apart; to crawl behind her eyes and make his way to her frontal lobe and understand how she stores away information. What she thinks of him. 

“You say things like that,” she says slowly, “and they imply patterns.”

“Yeah?” His lips twitch. “And?”

“And patterns imply intent.” She swallows. “Which is… confusing.”

“Mel,” he says, gently but firmly, “I am many things. Subtle is not one of them. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

He wants to be there. Not in this house — not necessarily, anyway. He wants to be where she is. Faintly, he remembers his mom talking about his dad when he was younger — one of those talks that infuriated him, thinking that she’s such an idiot for ever falling for someone like Lyall Langdon. Being far from him was impossible, Frankie, she’d say, chewing gum as they sat on the porch. Maybe it was the damn soulmate thing, baby, but I always wanted to be where he was. But he didn’t feel the same, I think. He always wants to be where she is. It’s only gotten more intense as the days go on. 

Vaguely, distantly, somewhere in his brain reminds him that this entire thing is a gamble he isn’t willing to make. Soulmates aren’t real — they don’t mean a thing. And she knows the data. The possibility of him being her soulmate is low. 

And still. 

He wants that part of his brain to shut. He wants her. Everywhere, all at once. All the time. He wants to pick up Becca again. He wants to meet Mel’s dad again and have him remember him. He wants to wake up with her in the same room and sleep on her couch and then sneak up to her room once everyone’s asleep and hide her face in the croak of her neck. He wants to get on flights during the weekend and come to VA to visit her and then bug her about moving to Pittsburg once she’s done with med school so they can be in the same hospital. So he can see her every day.

The thought is too much — too big, too encompassing. It makes him want to run. It makes him decidedly stay in one place. 

In the haze of his thoughts, he realizes that she’s neared him. He can just reach out and tug at her wrist and she’ll probably fall into his lap and then he can kiss her. He wants to kiss her. So he does just that. There isn’t much resistance as she flops down on the couch. “Jesus,” he breathes out the word, his thoughts a mess as he looks at her lips. “You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he says. 

She just whimpers which is a bigger punishment than he deserves because it sends his thoughts into a frenzy — uncontrollable and all over the place. He doesn’t know what this is — he hasn’t felt this way before; the pounding of his heart, the aggravating headache, his vision blurring. She actually might be killing him. 

“I can’t kiss you,” she blinks, pulling away. 

Suddenly, the world returns to normal, all his thoughts scattered. “What?”

“It’s just — we’re here and if we are soulmates—”

“You said that we aren’t—”

“But on the off chance that we are,” she shakes her head. “Then the day won’t restart tomorrow. I need it to restart tomorrow to do things right.” 

Do things right. Find a date. Spend a couple of minutes getting to know him and then kiss the new boy-toy. She’s right. He’s not her soulmate. He can’t be. Not when she’s so real — so small and lovely and kind. And he’s so broken. But maybe not so much that he can’t pull himself into resemblance of man even remotely worthy of her and her clean handwriting and drawn-up notes and intricate research and her glasses that almost swallow her face whole and look so lovely on her. But maybe so broken that he can’t be the right person for her — the person who believes in fate and destiny and saving yourself for that one special person. The person who isn’t as damaged as he is. The person who misses his family like she does and the person who…

Belong. Her type — nerdy, a little awkward, starry-eyed and smart. 

Right. 

His jaw snaps shut, his bone aching as he presses his teeth together. “Right,” he nods. “That’s fine, Dr. King.” Mel lingers a second more and bitterly, Frank wants to snap at her to go to bed. He doesn’t have to, though, because she sighs. 

“Good night, Frank.”

“Good night,” he says. 

The next morning, he wakes up in a hotel room.

———

She looks for him in Dr. Shabani’s lecture, determined to ask about why and how he had kissed him. But he’s not there. Which is not surprising. Maybe he’s attending some other lecture — Dr. Riordon’s essay reading is pretty interesting, too — except that she didn’t see him in breakfast either. He usually shows up, equipped with a new kind of tea for her to sample (sometimes, he even goes to the cafe down the street to get it when the cafe inside the building doesn’t have a new kind) but this morning, he was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t ask Samira either because she doesn’t know Mel and Mel is trying to do everything right today so this evening, she can… 

Kiss him. 

She thinks this might be it, actually. That despite all the logical fallacies, he might be her soulmate. How else would someone justify the feelings she gets around him? Light-headed, giddy. Like she never wants the day to end — like she wants to hear every single thought inside of his head and pick him apart until she knows every atom in his body?

She hates that thought the second it settles. It feels indulgent. Dangerous. Unscientific. She presses her lips together and forces her attention back to the lecture, scribbling notes she’s already memorized in a notebook she doesn’t need, underlining phrases twice just to feel like she’s doing something productive.

Frank doesn’t show up.

Not at the coffee break. Not lingering by the doors. Not slouched in the back row pretending he isn’t listening while listening to everything. By lunch, the absence presses at her ribs.

By mid-afternoon, it has teeth.

She checks her phone for the tenth time, even though she knows he doesn’t have her number. That in itself feels like an oversight. A flaw in her planning. She had meant to fix that. She had meant to do a lot of things right today.

When the evening session dissolves into polite applause and shuffling chairs, Mel doesn’t linger. She makes a beeline for the hotel, heart ticking too fast, brain cataloguing possibilities.

He overslept.

He switched conferences.

He needed space.

He regretted last night.

He regretted coming home with her and seeing her dad and her sister and her life outside of this little bubble was too much for him. 

That last one sticks.

The hallway is carpeted in that anonymous hotel pattern meant to hide stains and time. Her footsteps sound too loud to her own ears as she reaches his door. She hesitates, hand hovering, then knocks once. This isn’t the first time she’s come here but last time, she was buzzing with discovery. Right now, she’s shaking. Is it fear? Is it anticipation? A faint part of her feels like this might be their last night in this hotel — that tomorrow time will start moving again and she’ll finally have someone. Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Right? So she knocks again. Then again.

Nothing.

She swallows, knocks harder.

No reply. She feels her heart hammering in her chest. Her mind immediately starts chanting a rap song, her lips moving, the lyrics whispering under her breath. That’s how she knew she’d be alright. He’s still out, no doubt. She just needs his number so she can call him and find out. She finds herself at Samira’s door before she can stop herself, knocking down the door. She opens the door thirty seconds later, standing in her unbuttoned shirt and shorts she must’ve just changed into. “Dr. King?” she asks, frowning, “What are you doing—”

“You don’t know me,” she interrupts her, getting the words out before she can lose her nerve and walk right out. “But I know you. And it sounds creepy, I know, but I’m stuck in a time-loop with your friend, Frank Langdon. And it’s a very long story and if we get out of the loop tonight, I will explain everything to you tomorrow but to do that, I need his number because I haven’t been able to get a hold of him today and so… yeah, his number would be nice.” 

Samira stares at her.

Not in the polite, confused way Mel is used to when people don’t quite follow her logic. This is sharper. Assessing. Like a clinician deciding whether the patient in front of her is having a panic attack or a psychotic break.

There is a long, painful beat.

Then Samira sighs and rubs a hand over her face.

“Okay,” she says.

Mel blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Samira steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in, Dr. King.”

“Mel,” she corrects. “We’re friends. I mean, I know you don’t think we are. But we are friends.” a certain sense of melancholy spreads through her chest as she utters those words. It’s so unfair that she won’t remember drinking together at the bar, that she won’t remember every wide-eyed compliment she paid to Mel, all the warmth that Mel felt because of her. She’s so tired of this loop — of making memories only to lose them the next day. She needs to find Frank and she needs to get out of here. 

“I’ll give you Frank’s number,” she says. “But do you think he’s your soulmate?”

“I… do,” she says eventually. He shouldn’t be. He’s loud and arrogant and Samira’s called him a fuck-boy one more than one occasion and he’s told her time and time again that he doesn’t believe in soulmates and this is all a game to him. But if he really believed that, then why did he come to VA with her? Why did he spend time with her family? Why does he bring her tea every morning and attend the lectures and not kiss anyone else and look at her like… that? No one’s looked at Mel like that before — like it hurt to look at her. Like she was so bright. Why doesn’t she ever want to spend any time apart from him when it was so easy to dismiss him the first few days that she knew her? 

But the truth is, even if he isn’t. Even if he’s just some guy who isn’t linked to her by her soul, she doesn’t care. She wants him. Even if he is right and soulmates don’t mean a thing and they are just strangers that they bump into, she’d still want him. She’d find the stranger and kiss him and then run away with Frank. Because he isn’t a stranger — he is her friend and he is the part of the equation that she’s spent all these years looking for. He’s the person she used to miss when she laid in her bed some nights and looked at the sky wondering if she’d ever feel encompassed by another person just like everyone said she would. 

He makes her feel infinite. Like there isn’t a world in this universe she doesn’t belong to. Not as long as she’s with him. 

She needs to tell him. 

“You do know that he doesn’t believe in soulmates, right?” Samira says, sounding sad and sorry for her as she scrolls through her phone. 

“It’s okay,” Mel shrugs, accepting the number she’s giving her. “Neither do I.”

And she doesn’t. Not in the sense that the world has taught them. She believes in them — in the undeniable link between them. It can’t have been a lie. She’d know if it was. 

But it was alive and ever engulfing. And he feels it, too. 

She is sure of it. 

—

He picks up after three rings. “Yeah?” Frank’s voice crackles through the line. Rough. Tired. Awake.

Mel freezes in the hallway, breath knocking out of her lungs.

“Oh,” she says. Brilliantly. “Good. You’re alive.”

There’s a pause.

“…Mel?” he says. “How did you get this number?”

“Samira,” she says. “I can explain later. Are you in your room?”

“No,” he says. 

She waits for further explanation but nothing comes. She feels an unease settle in the pit of her stomach. Her fingers tingle, the sensation climbing all the way until it reaches her spine and wraps itself around her nervous cords, spreading through every neuron. She feels a knot tighten itself in her throat, pushing a dam behind her eyes. She takes a deep breath. It’s only catastrophizing. 

“Where are you?”

“New Jersey,” his voice comes, “I — needed to see about something.” 

Something drops in the pit of her stomach. “What?”

“I went to see my mom,” he huffs out his breath. “Mel, I don’t want to do this over the phone. Just — I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll explain everything.”

“You didn’t say goodbye,” she says and her voice rings so hollow to her ears. He left the conference and he didn’t tell her anything. He didn’t tell her goodbye. 

“Mel,” he breathes her name out like it means something. Maybe it does. God, she hopes that it does. It would probably kill her if it didn’t mean anything to her. “I didn’t leave — I’m here. I’ll — come back. I just — believe me, I had to check something, okay?” 

“You won’t leave tomorrow, too?” she sounds like a kid — sulking and damp like a towel. But she can’t help it. She did everything right today. This was supposed to be their last day — they were supposed to have this figured out and have tomorrow go on. He wasn’t supposed to be across the country. 

“I won’t, sweetheart,” his voice comes, warm and a little broken. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see,” he hums. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mel.”

And she believes him. It scares her that she does but she suspects she’s at the stage that she’ll believe everything he ever says. 

But most of all this — I’ll see you tomorrow.

———

Frank Langdon is a coward. He knows it — he suspects everyone around him knows it, too. So the moment he wakes up in a hotel room after spending the night at Mel’s childhood home, he packs his bags and gets on a plane to go to New Jersey. 

Because Frank Langdon is a coward but he’s also the most selfish person he knows. If he was a better man, then he’d let Mel go — he’d tell her to go on kissing people who make sense for her and find her soulmate between them and live happily ever after. If he was a better person, he’d accept that he’s not half good enough for Mel King — who is the most amazing person he’s ever met, who is kind and quiet and so bright. Someone who sings along to rap songs and who picks up her sister from the center, who still lives at home to take care of her dad and who works relentlessly on her presentation not because she wants to be praised for it but because she truly believes in EM despite being a third-year med student. Mel King who is sensitive and who Frank would mark as sensitive and weak but is actually the strongest person he knows. 

But he wants to be good enough for her. Wants to believe that his soul — his broken, twisted, crooked soul that hasn’t quite been the same since his father walked out on him when he was a kid — is worthy enough of the bright spark inside of Mel King. he wants to make sure that his rotten DNA, the part of him that is destined to be a careless fucking jerk who goes around kissing people, won’t harm her. So he goes back to the house he grew up in — a place that produced him. 

When his mother opens the door, she seems shocked. “Frankie,” she says, her accent going strong. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?” 

“I needed to know something,” he says, walking in, feeling like his nerves are on fire. It’s been a long time since he last came home — since he last saw her mother in the same apron he’s worn since he was born and the same painted nails (always red, always long and manicured) and the same mouth, always chewing gum. He feels something inside of him crack. 

When he left this house, he swore that he’d avoid it as much as he could. That he’d leave behind the bitterness that he felt in these walls — the bitterness of his dad leaving and his brothers growing up with a dad that loved them so much and Frank always felt like the outsider because of his own ego that wouldn’t accept his step-dad loved him, too. The jealousy and the incompetence that he felt in this house. But he never left them behind, did he? He must’ve buried them so deep that even he wasn’t aware of them. But now, he’s here and his head is full of thoughts of childhood and… 

Mel. Mel. Mel. 

He feels his throat tighten, a knot in his throat as he leans in and hugs his mother, allowing her thin arms to cradle him, to let himself fall apart just a little bit in a way he hasn’t since he was a child and realized that his dad wasn’t coming home. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” his mother asks and he can’t find the words to say it. He just stays there. “Frankie,” she coos. “Tell me what’s wrong…”

And he tells her everything. From the girls to the conference to the time-loop. And Mel King. Most of all, he talks about Mel King.

— 

“What if I can’t have soulmates?” he asks. “What if, like dad, I am designed to leave my soulmate? What if something’s wrong with me?”

“Frankie, you’re not your dad,” her mom says once they are sitting across from each other and he’s sipping from the cocoa she’s made him just like when he was a kid and the air was cold outside. 

“But what if I am?” he insists. “What if I hurt her?” 

“Isn’t that given in any relationship?” she asks. “But Frankie, you really aren’t your dad. Sure, you’re as charming as he was, baby, but he wasn’t as kind as you. D’ya remember when you were small and you found a hummingbird in the yard and you took care of it until it could fly? Your daddy would never do that, baby, cause he was cold. Even cold people have soulmates and that’s the universe’s bad but Frankie, trust me when I tell you you aren’t like him and you do have a soulmate.”

“What if she isn’t my soulmate?” he asks, the question that scares him. What if Mel King, who is undoubtedly the single most amazing woman Frank’s ever met and the only person he’s ever wanted with every fiber of his being, doesn’t want him because some stupid cosmic, unseen thread doesn’t bind them together? What if, like Abby, she thinks that the bond with some stranger will mean more to her than the one she has with Frank?

“What if she is?” his mother counters. “And what if she doesn’t care even if she isn’t? How do you know she doesn’t feel the same way?”

Because she’s waited her whole life for her soulmate. Because she has a plan for everything and what if I don’t fit into her plans? What will I do with myself then? 

“You gotta talk to her, baby,” she says, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. “That’s the only way you’ll know. And either way — if she loves you, too or if she doesn’t — you’ll figure it out from there. But the Frankie I raised wouldn’t run away from something like this.” He wants to laugh. Yes, he absolutely would. He’s spent so long of his life running that he even did it today. Instead of owning up to his mistakes, instead of just talking to her, he ran away. But he doesn’t want to — because if there is the tiniest chance that she’ll have him, then he’ll take it. 

Because he wants to be there. He wants to break out of the loop together and go down to VA and spend time with her. He wants her even when she is laser-focused on her studies and her family and forgets about him and when she is sitting across the room, listening to some professor’s lecture and when she’s distracted by a new paper published. He wants her to read it out loud to her while sitting in his lap and he wants to get new flavors of tea for her and assess her moan-levels for each one of them and remember them.

And he wants to be right. 

For her. 

Before he can say any of those things, though, his phone rings. Unknown number. He picks up. 

“Oh. Good. You’re alive.” 

———

Mel sees him in the lectures the next day — put together albeit a little pale — and when he comes over after Dr. Shabani’s words (God, she’s getting so sick of hearing the same information over and over again!), it takes everything in her to tell him that they’ll talk at the end of the day. Still, just for the sake of caution, she doesn’t kiss anyone. But for the sake of stomping her foot around to express that she’s very displeased with Frank, she does avoid him for the rest of the day. It’s only after her presentation — once more a raging success. Her best one yet, she thinks — that she agrees when Frank shows up with puppy eyes a drooping half-smile. 

“Can I steal you for a second?” he asks and he sounds so defeated that Mel can’t help but nod and walk away with him. He paces back and forth once they reach a corner where it’s quiet, cracking his knuckles. She stays in one place, just looking at him. She isn’t sure she can speak without tearing up a little bit.

He stops pacing abruptly, like he’s hit an invisible wall. For a second, he doesn’t look at her at all — just drags a hand down his face, exhales through his nose.

“I fucked up,” he says. Direct. No preamble. “I shouldn’t have left without telling you. But — I don’t know, Mel. I panicked.” 

“About what?” she asks, her voice sounding dull and heavy. 

“Everything,” Frank sighs, rubbing his forehead, shaking his head. “The thing is, Mel, that… I… okay — here’s the thing. My dad left us when I was young. Like really young — like, I barely remember him young. And I’m not saying that as an excuse but it shaped me. It — I don’t know, changed me I think. He was my mom’s soulmate and — well, it essentially fucked me up, you know. So I did a fellowship in cynicism, you know — renounce all this soulmate bullshit,” — she can’t say that hearing Frank call soulmates ‘bullshit’ doesn’t hurt but she keeps herself from flinching, at least — “and I just pretended that I was better off alone. Even when I was stuck in this goddamn loop, I thought I was better off alone. That none of it meant a thing…”

“Okay,” she says, hating that she sounds just as she feels — on the verge of crying. She isn’t sure why she’s saying all this to her. Why hurt her so thoroughly and completely? “Frank, you don’t have to say all this to me. I don’t need an explanation.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, crouching in front of her so they are the same height, on his knees as his hands hover over hers. “May I?” he asks softly and Mel’s chest is cracked wide open — exposed for everyone to see, the ragged edges shining even in the dim light. She nods. It’s all she can do. His hands envelope hers, big and warm. It’s the first real touch they’ve shared. A touch with intent. She feels the heat of tears behind her eyeballs. 

“What I’m trying to say — and obviously, failing to say — is that… I don’t think like that. I — well, I still think it’s bullshit to call a stranger your soulmate but the thing is, my dad made me feel scared that I was just like him. That if I ever tethered myself to someone like that, I’d end up hurting them the same way my dad hurt my mom and I but… I want to be your soulmate, Mel. I want my soul to be tethered to you. Fuck, I want to melt into you, Mel King. I want to be the guy for you. But — I was scared, you know? I am fucking scared. Because — what if I’m not your soulmate? What if you kiss me and the loop doesn’t break and this fucking cosmic bullshit decides that I am not the guy for you? What then?” His voice breaks at the end and when Mel dares to look away from their interlinked hands and into his eyes, all she sees is a vast sea of blue, boundless and lovely. Stormy and terrified. 

“Oh, Frank,” is all she manages to say. How can he not see? How can he not hear that her heart is pounding in her chest just because he’s there and he’s so close? How can he not know that she wants him? Not someone else — not whoever the universe has for her (though she knows in her bones that he is her soulmate, that no other man would possess her soul this vehemently, that her heart will never call anyone else’s name as strongly as it does his with every beat and that must mean that he is her soulmate. He’s engraved in her DNA and even beyond that) but him. Frank Langdon. 

“Mel,” he whispers her name and it sounds like a prayer — like he’s at the alter on his knees, worshipping her. She’s never been seen like this before — she’s never had men on their knees for her. 

“I want you, Frank,” she whispers, hoping her hears her because the thought of more words is unbearable. She wants to kiss him instead of talking — wants to punch her want into his skin instead of wasting breath and letting words echo in the space between them. Frank seems to read her mind because his eyes darken, growing cold and animalistic before his right hand lifts to curl at the nape of her neck. 

“May I?” he whispers and she isn’t done nodding before his lips crash into hers. The whimper that leaves her lips at the contact isn’t voluntary but Frank swallows it nonetheless. His hand travels to the back of her waist, practically pulling her off the chair in one swoop so that she’s sitting on his knees as his other hand tilts her head so he can get a better angle. “Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he pierces the words into her skin with every kiss, moving to the corner of her mouth, her jawline, on her carotid pulse before coming right back to her lips. 

He is everywhere, overwhelming and every present. Too much. Too much. Too much. Except that Mel doesn’t care for once — her brain isn’t screaming at her to pull away, to get some respite, to take a breather. She wants him induced in her DNA — she wants to be one and the same with her, to (to her terror) indulge in him in almost a cannibalistic way. She wants him inside of her in every sense of the word. She wants to wear his skin and have him wear hers. It’s a kind of connection that can’t be explained — a sort of desire that has been written in her fate centuries ago before humans even existed. 

And she has never been good at reading people but his thoughts are clear as day in her eyes. He wants the very same things — he wants to merge with her, to have their souls entangled now and even in the next life. Perhaps it should be terrifying, knowing that they have only seen each other less than a month ago but they are soulmates. Tomorrow morning, beyond a shadow of a doubt, they’ll wake up and the world will continue turning as it did before this loop. 

Mel is sure enough for the both of them. 

Only soulmates can change your entire life with one kiss. 

———

Frank can’t get enough of her. Even as their lips are sore and she looks flushed — and a bit overstimulated since she stared at her lava-thingy on her phone for fifteen minutes before she told him that yes, now they can have a conversation — he still can’t find it in himself to let go of her hand. Never once in his life has he felt this kind of connection with another human being. Never once has he felt this insane want. His head echoes with the thoughts of her, ever cell in his body longing for more. 

More. More. More. 

Still, because he’s a gentleman, and it would be very ungentlemanly of him if she slept with her without taking her on a proper date, he walks her to her hotel room, standing at the door. “I should pack,” she says, looking at their intertwined fingers. 

“You think we broke the spell?” Frank asks, tugging her hand closer as he leans on the wall next to her door, pulling her in the space between his thighs. She obliges, her face red, her glasses crooked, still not looking him in the face. It’s adorable really — so much so that he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the side of her temple, his free hand reaching up to straighten out her glasses. “So pretty,” he whispers. “Do you think I should kiss you one more time? Just to make sure we broke the loop?” 

“Yes,” she says finally. “For replication purposes.”

He laughs — low, surprised, wrecked — and kisses her again, softer this time. It’s not frantic or consuming like before; it’s deliberate. Anchoring. His hand settles at her waist like it’s always belonged there, thumb brushing small, steady arcs into her skin. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers. He doesn’t want to let go — from this moment on, he never wishes to be parted from her. 

“If there is any kiss that is capable of breaking the loop, it’s that one,” he says softly, nudging her nose with his. 

“Yes,” she agrees, her eyelids fluttering as she slowly opens them, wetting her lips, looking at him shyly. He feels something twinge in his boxers, his throat going dry at the sight. Jesus — is this girl planning on killing him? “Frank?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Even if the loop doesn’t break tomorrow,” she says. “I mean, I know it will. I’m sure. But even if it doesn’t, I don’t need some cosmic sign to tell me that I want you, okay? Only you.” The words send an electric buzz up his spine — the sort that spreads and stays. Like a small virus lodging itself inside his spinal cord except that he never wants to be rid of it. 

“Say it again,” he whispers. 

“Only you, Frank.”

“Fucking hell, Mel, say it again.”

“Only you, Dr. Langdon,” she says, a small smirk — the first he’s seen on her face — dancing there, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Only you.”

“You’re going to give me an aneurysm, baby,” he whines as she pulls away, their hands still interlocked but distance between them. He immediately misses breathing the same air as her — to inhale the thing she’s just exhaled. Would she run for the hills if she knew how utterly obsessed he was with her? Or is it a soulmate thing? Something that she feels too? 

“I have to go pack, Frank,” she says, unlocking the door and lingering at the entrance. “You should, too. We have flights to catch tomorrow.”

“I hate flights,” he whines again, nearing her. “What if I came with you? Mohan would appreciate the solo trip.”

“And who would cover your shift?”

“I could say I’m sick,” he shrugs. “It’s so unfair to be apart from you just as soon as I found you. I can say I have a deadly strep throat and I can’t come in.” She laughs at that. 

“If you have a deadly strep throat, you shouldn’t be kissing people in an open view,” she quips. 

“Well, sweetheart, you aren’t going to sell me out now, are you?” he hums, pecking her on the lips. She smiles into the fleeting kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as she inhales the tiniest breath — one that makes him very nearly lose his mind. When she looks at him again, she is ethereal. 

“No, I don’t think I will,” she replies. 

———

two years later: 

“This is Melissa King,” Dr. Robby says as she stands next to him, so buzzed she is practically bouncing on her feet. 

When she applied to match with PTMC for her intern year she didn’t have a strong faith that she was going to get in. After her dad passed away last year, she hadn’t kept up with her studies very well. Even with Frank’s help, there was so much to do. But she had managed to find a great facility for Becca in Pittsburg and well, her soulmate was in Pittsburg and it just made sense. So when she got accepted to start with them, it wasn’t just an academic success — it was the start to the rest of her life. She knows because half of that life is standing in the same room, a wide grin on his face as he keeps staring at her. She tries not to blush or melt away under Frank’s gaze. 

“She is our newest intern,” Dr. Robby finishes. “And this is—”

“Call her Mel, Robby,” Frank interrupts before Dr. Robby can continue introducing the R2 that’s come to join with them from the VA (Samira Mohan! Everyone knows her! Mel knows her!). “She doesn’t like being called Melissa.” 

“Duly noted, Langdon,” he says dryly as Frank gives him another smile. She tries not to let that uncontrollable expression — you always look smitten when you look at him, Becca calls it, it’s very noticeable — falls onto her face as she looks at her soulmate standing in the ER, but she can’t help it as he winks at her. 

“Welcome to Pitt Trauma, Mel. If Langdon gives you bad advice, ignore him. If he gives you good advice, double-check it. If he offers to cover your shift—” Dr. Garcia (a friend of Frank's) says, walking to her side and she’s thankful because she interrupts her regularly scheduled staring time as she glances at Frank pointedly, “—ask why.”

Frank grins, unrepentant. “Wow. Such trust.” Dr. Garcia doesn’t get the chance to retort anything in response because Dr. Robby clears his throat loudly. “Okay! Great! Trauma bay three is incoming, so let’s all remember we’re at work and not in a rom-com.” (Frank rolls his eyes because both of them still remember Dr. Robby’s speech from a week ago, making them go over all the HR rules concerning relationships in the workplace. She also remember that when they walked out of that meeting, Frank leaned in and told her that all of that was ‘bullshit’ because ‘Robby is fucking Collins and he has no fucking moral ground to stand on’. She chooses not to dwell on that, though.)

Mel laughs before she can stop herself, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified. Frank looks at her like she’s just cured cancer. 

“Dr. King,” Robby says, already walking, “you’re with Dr. Langdon.”

And yes. She is. 

Until the end of time. And well, this shift.