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“It’s always busy on Valentine’s Day’s night shift,” Santos stretches her arms above her ears. Mel raises her head from her charts to look at her. “What?”
“Isn’t Valentine’s supposed to be…” she trails off, trying to come up with an appropriate word to describe it. “Romantic?” It’s hardly romantic to spend a valentine’s day in the ER. She knows because last night, Frank spent a hundred hours iterating — and reiterating — that it sucks that she’s stuck with her shift on valentine’s day — And our first valentine’s day together, Mel! It’s almost like Robby did this shit to diss me or something, he groaned and secretly, Mel agrees with him there. So she can’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily spend Valentine’s day in an emergency room. Well, anyone but Dr. Abbot who volunteered to be the attending that day.
“Well, you have failed suicide attempts in order to get their partners back,” Trinity counts, leaning forward. “There is weird sexual shit people do that fails. And then there are people who drive recklessly because of a happy ending, or couples fighting over one of them forgetting Valentine’s Day. And don’t get me started on the—”
“Okay, we get it, Dr. Santos,” Dr. Abbot cuts in before she can go on. “Don’t scare Dr. King away from the night shift, alright? Don’t worry, Dr. King — I’m sure you’ll have a quiet—” Ironically — and like Frank always says — he doesn’t get to finish that sentence because the doors to the ER swings open and their first patient is wheeled in.
“Twenty-six year-old female,” the paramedic — Jerry, she vaguely remembers his name because Frank raised and eyebrow and asked, "What? Like Seinfeld?" when he introduced himself on his first day — rattles off as they wheel her in, voice crisp, practiced. “Found unconscious in her apartment. Her super found her. Empty bottle of sertraline, unknown quantity. Possible alcohol co-ingestion. GCS thirteen on scene, dropped to eleven en route. Vitals unstable, tachycardic — BP ninety over fifty, heart rate one-thirty.”
The room snaps into motion.
“Airway?” Abbot asks, already pulling on gloves.
“Patent. Vomited once in the ambulance. We suctioned.”
“Okay. Mel, you’re up.” His eyes flick to her, sharp but steady. No room for nerves, no room for Frank’s voice whining in her head. Definitely no room to look at her patient's pale face and shudder at the thought of how lonely she must’ve felt.
Mel moves on instinct, hands already checking pupils, skin clammy under her fingers. “She’s tachy, um, hypotensive. Let’s get two large-bore IVs, labs, tox screen, ABG. Start fluids.”
Santos is already at the monitor. “Sinus tachycardia. Sat’s dipping — ninety-two.”
“Non-rebreather,” Mel says. She leans closer to the patient’s face, catches the faint scent of cheap wine and something medicinal. "We might need to pump her stomach, get any undigested medicine out."
Trinity glances at the empty bottle the paramedic hands over. “Classic,” she mutters. “Ex texts you in the evening, you decide to make a point.”
Dr. Abbot shoots her a look. “Focus.” Mel does, trying not to notice Dr. Abbot’s gaze lingering on her as she moves to do her job, a second longer than necessary. “Good. Call poison control. And someone page psych — assuming we keep her alive long enough for them to complain about being paged on Valentine’s.”
As if on cue, the patient groans, lashes fluttering. “I didn’t—” Her voice cracks, dissolves into a sob before the sentence can form.
Mel stills, one hand firm on the woman’s shoulder. “Hey. You’re in the ER. You’re safe right now. We’re helping you.”
Safe. The word lands oddly in her own chest.
Behind her, the automatic doors swing open again. Another stretcher. Another Valentine’s miracle.
Santos exhales slowly. “And so it begins.”
—
It’s around nine-thirty when she gets a chance to check her phone.
miss you, Frank writes. penny and tanner miss you, too, you know.
we are watching zootopia 2 for the hundredth time. you would be jealous.
becs says to say ‘hi’.
are you busy?
i mean, obviously you are. shifts on valentine suck.
don’t you have mcis on hand? i could report for duty.
sew up some people. spend some time with my gf?
ik you hate it when i call u my gf. GIRLFRIEND. is that better?
yeah, ik u’re busy, sorry.
look at ‘em. they are having the time of their lives.
i, on the other hand, am fighting for my life.
He’s also sent a picture of her sister and his children sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, watching the fox give a heart-warming speech to the rabbit. Mel cried the first time they saw the movie but then the next nine-hundred and ninety-ninth time she did less so. And then a selfie of himself with the corners of his mouth tilted downward dramatically.
Mel huffs a quiet breath through her nose, thumbs hovering over the screen longer than she means them to. She doesn’t answer right away. If she does, it turns into a conversation. If it turns into a conversation, she’ll start wanting things she can’t have for another eight hours. Like to melt into him, to pack up her stuff (or even leave them behind) and get an uber home so she can curl up into her boyfriend's chest. Sometimes, she wants to crawl under his skin. To be so close to him that she doesn't know where she ends and he begins.
She locks the phone and slips it back into her pocket just as Santos brushes past her.
“You alive?” Santos asks, already peeling off a pair of gloves.
“Barely,” Mel says. “What’d I miss?”
“Couple in bay four. He forgot Valentine’s. She threw a wine glass. He ducked. Glass didn’t.” Santos grins. “True love. I’m getting some coffee, you want some?” She shakes her head and doesn’t tell Trinity that she doesn’t drink coffee and she should know that because she hasn’t drunk coffee in the past two years that they’ve been working together. It’s not like she expects people to remember things about her. Samira and Frank are the only ones that know the intricacies of her mind and that’s more than enough for her.
Well, none of them are here tonight, though.
Dr. Abbot is. Which she meant to ask Samira about but then she was wallowing and Mel might not be the best at picking up social cues but she gathered enough to stay very far away from that. They are probably in one of their ‘off’ phases. One of those phases that has Dr. Abbot complaining to Dr. Robby about ‘young people’ and has Samira dodging night shifts and grumbling about ‘older men’ and warning Mel about them like, "you're in love now but Langdon is no better than any other man, Mel." (on those occasions, Mel doesn’t tell her that she and Frank aren’t an ‘age-gap’ couple and he’s only four years older than her).
“You alright there, King?” Dr. Abbot says, leaning against the station as she looks up at the screen. Room four, it is. She can handle a couple of stitches.
“Yes, Dr. Abbot, what about you?” she asks, starting to walk toward that room.
“Great, yeah,” he nods. “Just wanted to say — you did great with the psych thing in room one earlier.”
“Thank you,” she resists the frown that’s making her way onto her face. Dr. Abbot doesn’t… compliment. Well, not usually. That’s why Frank usually rolls his eyes and refers to him as ‘hardass’ when he finishes up anything on Abbot’s shift and he just glances and nods. He’s not impressed unless you’re gunning for something illegal. Or he is. She doesn’t think she’s done anything illegal, though. “I’m taking the suturing in North four. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he says distractedly. “Dr. King. have you heard anything from…” he drifts off, blinking, clearing his throat. “You know.”
Does she? “From Samira?”
“Dr. Mohan, yes,” he clears his throat, standing at the threshold of North four, clearing her throat, looking at his feet, rubbing his forearm before looking up. She almost smirks at the sight of him. “Yes — um, have you?”
“Not tonight,” she says and she can’t help but notice the way he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he straightens up and glances inside. And just for good measure, because Samira would want her to (and Frank in the shape of the demon on her left shoulder tell hers to), she adds, “she’s busy tonight I think.”
That gets Abbot to freeze for a split second — barely — before he glances inside the room, his voice rough when he says. “So you got this, right?”
“Yes, sir,” she nods as Abbot waves his hand like he wants her to go and she doesn’t stick around to watch him storming off toward South three — drunk driver versus the curb — as she walks in. The patient is sitting upright now, a towel pressed to his forearm, blood already soaking through. His girlfriend — wife? — stands a step away, arms crossed tight across her chest, mascara smeared like she tried not to cry and failed anyway.
“I said I was sorry,” the man insists for what sounds like the tenth time.
“And I said sorry doesn’t fix stitches,” the woman snaps back.
“I’m the one who’s getting stitches, Sara!” he hisses under his breath but he sounds sheepish nonetheless.
“Hi,” Mel cuts in, calm and neutral, sliding into the narrow space between them. “I’m Dr. King. Let’s take a look at that arm.”
The man quiets immediately, obedience born of pain and embarrassment. Mel unwraps the towel. The laceration is clean but deep, glass-shaped, bleeding steadily. It’s nothing serious but the wife looks about ready to burst into tears — it’s either the gore of the scar or the reminder that he forgot.
“Three, maybe four stitches,” she says. “Any numbness? Tingling?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just — stings.”
“Good. No nerve damage, then. Do you mind if I numb it?” He shakes his head so she starts to work. She irrigates the wound, it's almost a brainless activity as of now, one that she can do without even thinking about the logistics. The couple’s argument fizzles into silence behind her, replaced by the low hiss of saline and the monitor’s steady beep. It’s only when the man hisses — quite dramatically, Mel must say because she numbed the area well enough (she asked him if he felt anything and he said no). She thinks it’s mostly because he’s watching her doing it and less because it actually hurts — that the wife breaks down.
“I really didn’t mean to hurt him,” she says, miserably. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey, baby,” the man reaches for her with his healthy, unharmed hand. “It’s okay. Look, the good doctor is fixing me up. It’s not even painful. I did that so you’d forgive me. It’s okay — I’m fine.”
Mel finishes the last stitch and snips the thread clean. “He is,” she confirms. “Four stitches. No tendon involvement. He’ll have a scar, but it’ll fade. I'll put on a sound dressing but you need to change it. If you feel any unusual redness or pain or exertion, please come back.” The woman exhales shakily, nodding as if Mel has just handed her absolution. She squeezes her partner’s hand hard enough that he winces. Well, that might not have been for show.
“See?” he says, trying for lightness. “Battle wound. I’ll tell people you stabbed me in a fit of passion.”
She swats his shoulder, a watery laugh breaking through her tears. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But I’m your idiot.”
Mel tapes gauze over the sutures, efficient. Her heart tightens in her chest, though. She can swear somewhere along the way, Frank’s said these exact same words to her. She wishes she’d have recorded them so she could listen to them on a night like this. But then again, neither of them knew they’d be apart on Valentine’s.
“Keep it clean and dry for twenty-four hours. No heavy lifting with that arm for a few days. You can get the stitches out in seven to ten,” she says quickly, wrecking her brain to see if she’s missed anything. Nothing comes to mind.
The woman nods again, grateful, chastened. “Thank you,” she says, voice soft. “Really.”
Mel gives them a tight smile and walks out. Outside, the noise swells immediately — monitor alarms, raised voices, the squeak of another stretcher. Santos is back at the desk, coffee in hand, looking far too pleased with herself.
“Survived North four?” she asks.
“They were a sweet couple, actually,” Mel shrugs, looking up at the monitor. “She was very regretful of the glass-throwing. He was very nice about it, too.” Trinity rolls her eyes but Mel doesn’t say anything. Just looks up at the monitor. “Nothing urgent?”
“Nah,” she shakes her head. “Abbot’s already sent all the juicy ones on their way. There’s a chest pain thing but I genuinely think it’s more because she’s had a big meal — she’s single by the way — than anything related to the heart.” Trinity giggles at her own joke — was it a joke? Did Mel miss the joke? — and Mel glances at the resident lounge.
“Then I’ll take five,” she hums, walking to the lockers to fish out her phone. She wants to call Frank — to hear his voice, at least. To tell him about the couple and have him throw a jab at them and to feel just the tiniest bit better about this whole thing. They aren’t Valentine people (and by ‘they’ she means herself. She actually thinks Frank is a big Valentine person) — obviously — but it’s still such a shame to have a boyfriend and still spend the day apart. Maybe she's not a Valentine person because she's spent the majority of them alone, cuddled up with Becca on the couch and not pining after her partner.
She walks to the back of the hospital — her voice echoes in the resident lounge and she doesn’t want Trinity barging and rolling her eyes. It’s not like they are public with their relationship (hence the reason Frank couldn’t very loudly demand to be pulled on Valentine duty or to ask Robby to at least not put Mel on rotation. Not that it’d actually work. He’d work you the next day just to spite me, Frank had said on the way home that night and Mel thinks he’s being dramatic but possibilities…) And fresh air is what she might need to wash away the melancholy in her bones.
She likes that word — melancholy. It makes her suffering poetic. It makes it seem like they are Victorian, standing on different sides of a story. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello, sweetheart,” his voice fills the phone and for some reason, Mel feels weepy. She can’t quite understand why — maybe it’s the tone he’s using (soft and delicate and so utterly warm. So unlike his usual fiery tone) or maybe it’s the fact that she wants someone to understand just how hard this is or maybe it’s just that she really really misses him.
Whatever it is, her voice is kind of subdued when she manages to say, “Hey.”
“Is everything alright, baby?” he asks, his voice alert and sharp.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she asks, trying to sound bright and warm and perky. “Is everything okay at home?”
“All fine, the kids and Becca are watching Elf now. Tanner huffed and puffed about it — said that it’s been a long time since Christmas but Becs managed to talk him into it,” he says quickly like he’s trying to fast-forward through his side of things. “Mel, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You sound weird,” he huffs out his breath and she can imagine the pained expression on his face. The helpless agitation that he always gets when there’s a problem he can’t fix — when she gets overstimulated or when she’s hyperventilating after a patient has died or when she’s so tired that it manifests itself in the form of curling up and crying into her pillow until she’s all regulated. She can see him — and faintly hear him, really — running his fingers through his hair and she imagines that loose strand of hair once again falling into his forehead, his eyebrows knitting in the middle. God. She misses him. “Did something happen? Is Abbot being a dick? Because I swear to God, if he’s taking his break-up with Samira out on you, I will—”
“He’s not being difficult,” she cuts him off before he can finish insulting an attending. “I just — miss you.” She hates that she sounds like a petulant child — that she’s curling her fingers into a fist as the word rips itself from the bottom of her soul. “I mean — I know I shouldn’t. I’ll see you in eight hours and it’s not like I’ve gone off to war or anything and—”
“I miss you, too, baby,” his voice is low and warm in her ears, travelling a couple of kilometers to reach her ears and she feels something in her heart crack — her insides open and vulnerable. They are so dramatic about this — the logical part of her brain knows. Scientifically, there’s nothing to prove that this day is different than any other day of the week. Most people don’t even know it’s Valentine’s. It’s like he hears all that even if the conversation is happening in her brain. “Do you want me to come? I can pretend someone’s paged me there — like Whittaker needs me or something.”
“Dennis is not on shift tonight,” she chuckles — wet and crooked and a bit broken but still alive. “And Dr. Abbot hates it when people flood the ER you know that.”
“Well fuck Abbot, then,” Frank huffs out his breath but she doesn’t miss the fact that he basically whispered ‘fuck’. Probably because Penny is at that age where she repeats everything and she was there when Abby went off on Frank about how she’d learned the word ‘shit’ — and she called Frank a ‘motherfucker’ and a ‘fucking asshole’ in front of the children so Mel thought it was counterintuitive. Not that she’d said it out loud. She wasn’t that stupid. “I could be there in thirty minutes and I’ll get you some chamomile or masala and we’ll sit on the floor in the residents’ lounge while you chart. For old times’ sake.”
“Your back thing would flare up,” she says but even the imagination gives her heart palpitation — warm and touchable. Close. Real. “And you’d complain about it.”
“I would,” he concedes. “Loudly. And then I’d shut up because you’d give me that look.”
She can picture it so clearly it almost hurts. “You do know I’m giving you that look right now.”
“I feel it from here,” he says, solemn. “Devastating.”
She laughs, soft and then silence settles between them for a second. She listens to him take measured breaths. Imagines him in his kitchen, leaning against the counter, glancing at the children and her sister who are watching television, picking on the loose thread of skin next to his nail, pressing his lips together and tapping his feet rhythmically without even noticing it. She wonders if he’s imagining her, too. What is he seeing?
“Mel?” his voice comes after a couple of minutes.
“Yeah?” she hums, her voice laced with a lump in her throat that she can’t quite shake.
“Don’t hang up yet, okay?”
“But we aren’t talking.”
“I just want to be with you,” his voice is pleading and soft — so soft that she considers getting in a car and going home for the night. Abbot won’t notice — probably. But yes, he will and they’ll be short-staffed and then HR will have a word with her and then Robby will have a word with her and… above all, people depend on her. They are out there, living their lives, because they depend on her. So she can’t. But she can talk for a couple more minutes.
“I had a couple come in earlier,” she tells him. “The guy had a laceration on his forearm. His wife had thrown a glass of wine his way after he’d forgotten Valentine’s.”
Frank’s laugh comes from the other side of the line. She closes her eyes and leans against the cold bricks of the building, curling the hand that’s not holding a cellphone around her middle, tightening her hold on herself, pulling her scrubs in closer. “That poor bastard.”
“They were very sweet actually. She cried and all and he comforted her. It was… so domestic.”
“Would you throw a glass my way if I forgot Valentine’s?”
She hums, thinking. “A glass would be too much for valentine’s. But if you forgot our anniversary, maybe.”
“Your birthday?”
“I think I would resort to a pan, then — less damage to the topple ware but enough damage to the husband in question.”
“Husband in question being me, right?”
She curls her fingers around the skin on her torso. “Right.” It’s not that she doesn’t think about that — them getting married eventually, having a real, big life together with fights and then making up (and make-up sex, Frank’s voice that lives in her head adds with a smirk laced somewhere there) but they don’t… She means it’s just… too soon. It hasn’t been very long since they started going out.
“Mel King—”
“Don’t propose to me over the phone!” she chimes, interrupting him before he can go on.
“Relax,” Frank laughs, breathy. She feels heat curl up against her spine and travel all the way to spill through her cheeks. He snorts on the other side of the line, a sound that has her wanting to giggle had the mortification not settled in her bones. Why did she say that? “I was going to say—”
“If you were going to say anything with my full name attached, I reserve the right to panic,” she says, eyes still closed, forehead against brick. The cool of the brick calms down the flared cheeks and the heat pooling inside of her.
“I was going to say Mel King,” he repeats deliberately, “that I love you. And that I’m proud of you. And that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be tonight, even if it sucks. For both you and especially me. Like, I know you’re the one saving lives tonight but I am the one having to take long showers, you know? Cold ones.” She laughs at that even despite the fact that her throat tightens. “You better, baby?”
She opens her eyes, stares at the glow of the ambulance bay lights washing the pavement a sickly yellow. “You always say the worst things in the nicest way.”
“Occupational hazard. It’s a talent, really,” he says. “Usually, I deal with people bleeding out. You deal with feelings. Look at how the turntables, Mel King.”
She snorts. “Debatable.”
“Mel King, in case you didn’t notice that wasn’t a proposal—”
“Oh, shut up,” she laughs, already feeling better. It’s not the end of the world — it’s not some gloomy sad tale about star-crossed lovers or anything. She’ll see him in the parking lot in the morning (she always tells him that she’s capable of driving after night shifts but he never accepts so she’s learned to stop protesting and instead start expecting him in the parking lot every morning after her night shifts. If he’s on the day shift, he always drops her off first and then comes back to work).
They sit in the silence for a second more.
“I’ll make it up to you, you know,” he says finally. “When you’re off. Real food. No microwaves. I’ll pretend Valentine’s is a week late.”
“You’ll pretend?” she asks. “You’re the one who cares about it.”
“I know. I’ll go all in. Candles. Stupid card. Something embarrassingly sincere. How about a quartet serenading you in the parking lot of PTMC, huh?”
She smiles despite herself. “I’d like that.”
“I know you would.” A pause. Softer now. “You okay to go back in?”
She straightens, pushes off the wall. The hospital hum seeps back into her bones. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Call me if you’re not.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Another pause — this one heavier. She can almost hear him thinking, weighing whether to say something else, something harder. Then, he does. It’s nothing new — he says (and types) it at least ten times a day but every time she hears it, it’s new to her. It elicits the same pounding heartbeat every time and she feels herself tear up like it’s the first time. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I know,” she repeats. “I love you, too.”
“Say it one more time.”
“I love you,” she smiles into the phone, hiding her face into the palm of her hand even though he can’t see it. She feels her teeth scraping her palm as her grin widens, shaking her head like she wants to physically shake the warm feeling that has her a little light-headed away. “I’ve got to go.”
“Eight hours,” he breathes out. “Then you’re mine.”
She exhales. “Eight hours. Good bye, Frank.”
“Good bye, baby,” he echoes back and the line goes silent. She looks at her phone for a second longer, trying to steady her heartbeat before going back in but before she can quite manage that, it lights up again. Is it Frank—
It’s Trinity.
“King!” Santos says the moment the call is connected. “Chest pain’s troponin came back positive. Abbot wants you in South three.” And is she a little broken if she feels excited about it?
—
“Get outta here, Mel,” Dr. Robby says as soon as he walks into the ED, at six sharp, a look on his face that she can’t quite decipher.
“I still have another hour—” she starts but interrupts herself. Since when do residents argue against clocking out sooner? (Since always but this is a special occasion and she really, really wants to go home and just curl up against Frank.) He gives her a look that shuts her up immediately as she jumps up. “Yes, Dr. Robby.”
Robby arches a brow. “Don’t make me regret being kind.” Which she doesn’t know what it means but Dr. Robby tends to know things others don’t so she just brushes it off. She can get an uber and go home before Frank has to leave for his own shift and surprise him. They can cuddle for at least half an hour and the thought already has her kicking her feet with excitement.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mel says, already tugging her hair out of its braid and redoing it with muscle memory precision. Her body is heavy in that post night shift way, bones buzzing, eyes burning, but the promise of leaving sharpens her focus like caffeine never could.
“Chart your last note and hand off room seven to Santos,” Dr. Abbot adds from next to Dr. Robby. “Psych’s admitted, chest pain’s in cath lab. You’re clear.”
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I’ll see you tomorrow — or, I mean. Tonight,” she stutters but the smile can’t be shaken off her face. Abbot nods, waving her off, already moving on to another conversation with Robby as they walk off. Unlike Dr. Robby who thrives under a ‘speech-giving, prepping’ teaching technique, Dr. Abbot is more hands-off. She can’t decide which method she likes better. To be honest, she can’t decide which attending she likes better, either. If she likes Dr. Robby, she’s basically betraying Frank. If she likes Dr. Abbot, she’s betraying Samira in her off period. So she decides to shut off her brain and instead focus on patching up the last threads.
In ten minutes, she’s changed and standing in front of the hospital, breathing in the crisp air of winter. The parking lot is emptier than usual and she wishes for a second that she had brought her—
That’s Frank’s car. She’s sure. It has the pink sticker Penny insisted they get the last time they visited Walmart and the bundle of toys stacked in the back seat. She glances at her watch. It couldn’t have taken that long for her to finish up charts and it doesn’t make any sense for him to be there right now. So she doesn’t think as she allows her feet to take her to the car, dread settling in her stomach. What if something’s wrong? What if he’s driven someone to the ER? Becca. Penny. Tanner. Frank, himself. God.
She breaks into a jog.
Her sneakers slap too loud against the asphalt, panic sharpening every sound — the distant hum of traffic, the soft whine of the hospital vents, her own breath going shallow and fast. She reaches the car just as the automatic lights blink on.
Frank is inside.
Slumped in the driver’s seat. Head tipped back. One hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like he meant to move and didn’t.
Her chest drops.
“Frank,” she says, too quiet at first. She knocks on the window, harder this time. “Frank.”
He jolts awake like he’s been shocked, shoulders jerking, eyes flying open. For half a second he looks disoriented — scanning, bracing — then he sees her.
“Mel?” His voice is thick with sleep. He squints at the windshield, then at the hospital behind her before sniffling, rubbing a hand over his face. “What — what time is it?”
Relief hits her so hard it nearly knocks her over. She yanks the passenger door open, standing close to him just so she can feel that he’s real. He’s alright. He’s fine. There is no one else in the car so everyone else must be fine, too. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, then checks his watch. “Six thirteen.” A pause. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“My phone was dead,” she says, breathless. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” he mutters automatically, already sitting up straighter, running a hand through his hair. It’s worse than usual — flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I — you know, I couldn’t sleep and then it was five in the morning and Becca was with the children already and they were asleep, so… I just thought I could come, see if you could spare a second and then I saw that you were busy so I just figured I would wait here until you were off… but then, obviously I fell asleep. Wait — it’s six fifteen. You still have forty-five more minutes on your shift.”
“Dr. Robby let me out an hour earlier,” she shrugs. Ah. Don’t make me regret being kind. That must’ve been it. Dr. Robby must’ve seen Frank’s car in the parking lot and connected the dots. That’s why he had that strange look on his face. “I think he saw you in the parking lot.”
“That son of a bitch,” he almost whistles. “Dr. Rabinovitch has a heart, everyone.” That gets her to laugh and it’s like when she does, his face immediately lights up. “Hey,” he says, soft and smushy and sleepy. He looks like a teddy-bear in this light and a scary thought flashes through her brain — I want to crawl into his skin and sleep there. Which is a bit serial-killer-y if she’s honest.
“Hi,” she gulps, her voice small as she nears him, her legs pressing against his thigh. He angles his body so that she’s standing between his legs, his hands on her hips as he tugs her closer.
“I missed you so much, baby,” he says, his voice low, almost growling.
She swallows, the words hitting somewhere tender and deep. “I know,” she says, breath hitching despite herself. “I missed you too.”
He pulls her in the rest of the way, forehead resting against her stomach for a second, like he needs to ground himself before looking at her again. When he does, his eyes are soft and red-rimmed, lashes casting shadows she wants to smooth away with her thumbs.
“You look wrecked,” he murmurs.
“So do you,” she shoots back automatically, though there’s no bite in it.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I slept like garbage. Kept thinking my phone was vibrating.”
Her chest tightens. She threads her fingers through his hair, gentle where it’s flattened, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. He exhales, long and relieved, like he’s been holding that breath since midnight.
“You shouldn’t have waited,” she says quietly.
“I know.” His hands settle more firmly at her hips. “But I wanted to be here when you walked out. Even if it meant sitting in my car like a creep.”
She snorts. “You looked dead. I nearly called a code blue on you.”
“Romantic,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “How was the rest of the shift?”
She considers lying. Then doesn’t. “Busy. Ugly. A little sad.” She pauses. “Also… fine. I was okay.”
His thumbs brush small circles into the fabric of her hoodie. “I knew you would be.”
That shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but it does anyway.
She leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead — lingering, deliberate. He tilts his head up instinctively, chasing more, and she gives in, kissing him properly this time. It’s slow and unhurried, all exhaustion and relief and there you are. When she pulls back, he looks at her like she’s the only thing left in the parking lot.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Get in the car. I’ll take you home.”
She hesitates. “You’re going to be late.”
“I already am,” he says. “Worth it.”
She studies him for a second, then nods. “Okay.”
She slides into the passenger seat, curling her legs up immediately, body protesting now that the adrenaline has worn off. He reaches over without looking and laces his fingers through hers, squeezing once before starting the car.
As they pull out of the lot, the hospital receding behind them, the sky beginning to pale at the edges, she lets her head fall against the window.
“Frank?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Next Valentine’s,” she says, eyes already half-closed, “we request the same shift.”
He chuckles. “Romantic.”
And it truly is, isn’t it? Perfectly romantic.