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Frank sits on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table as he scans an article in some medical journal, half paying attention to the college basketball game playing in the background. It’s not his team. Or even his conference. But the squeak of sneakers against polished hardwood makes a soothing background noise that combats the oppressive stillness that pervades his apartment the nights the kids are with Abby.
He should be getting to bed. It’s late, and he’s bone tired after a long shift. They’ve been overrun with flu patients for the last week, with two different strains wreaking havoc on the city of Pittsburgh. It’s been taking out even those who’d received a flu shot left and right, the ER full of coughing, wheezing, and sniffling patients who couldn’t get in to see their primary care physicians. But he’s got the next day off, and the last Red Bull he’d consumed before leaving work hasn’t quite worn off yet.
His phone buzzes on the coffee table, and Frank’s lips quirk up at the name and picture that fill the screen. He hadn’t really known what he was getting himself into when he’d programmed his number into Becca King’s cell phone. It just seemed like both King sisters needed someone they could call in case of emergencies, so he’d been entirely unaware that he was signing himself up for a constant stream of dog TikToks and all of Becca’s thoughts on whatever reality competition show she was currently obsessed with.
Mel had recently had to cut her off from Traitors. She got too upset when they started arguing around the round table. Frank had somehow been signed up to watch on her behalf and provide her with summaries, so it’s not unsurprising that he’s getting a call from her a little after 9 p.m. on a Thursday.
“Hey Becks,” he says, pressing his phone to his ear. “They finally got a traitor tonight. You’ll never guess…”
“Mel’s sick,” Becca cuts him off.
“What?” Frank frowns, his grip tightening on the phone.
He hasn’t seen Mel since their last shift together on Tuesday, although they’ve exchanged a handful of texts. He’d sent her the picture Emmie had drawn of the five of them at the park at pre-school the other day, a clear attempt at manifestation on his daughter’s part despite the below-freezing temperature. She’d drawn Mel with a tiara, the highest compliment his four-year-old paid anyone, and Frank had known it would make her smile. It had taken Mel a little longer than usual to respond. But he’d figured she was just busy enjoying her rare two days off in a row. She’d had a whole list of things she’d wanted to accomplish around her townhouse, and a special trip planned for Becca to go to the zoo and see the penguins again.
“She’s been in bed since yesterday,” Becca says. “She didn’t even come out for dinner.”
“Shit,” he curses softly.
It’s probably the flu. Even with masks and the gallons of hand sanitizer the ED department is going through, it’s only a matter of time until one or more of them succumbs. But If she’s home, Mel always sits at the table with Becca for dinner. Their mom had always insisted on it, and it's one of the ways she tries to keep their mother’s memory alive for her sister. If she hadn’t made it out of bed for that, she’s probably pretty sick.
“Language,” Becca replies, and he can perfectly picture her disgruntled frown.
Becca and Mel almost never curse. The first time Frank heard Mel say 'fuck' while they were attempting to stabilize a patient in the ER, he'd almost stabbed himself with a scalpel.
“Sorry, Becks,” Frank says. “Can you put her on the phone?”
“No.”
Becca can be a bit of a hypochondriac. He’s listened on multiple occasions to Mel convincing her sister that her stuffy nose is just because she hadn’t wanted to take her antihistamine that morning, or that her stomach ache was just that she’d snuck too many Oreos too close to bed. It’s not unexpected that she’d exaggerate the extent of her sister’s illness. Any aberration in Mel’s routine is a big deal to Becca. And her ‘no, she couldn’t put her sister on the phone’ could just be because Mel is asleep, or has told Becca not to go into her room so that she doesn’t also get sick.
But Frank can’t help but worry. Because it’s Mel, who, in the year and a half since his return to the hospital, he has come to see is so astoundingly selfless that she ignores all of her own needs in favor of everyone else’s. Mel, who has become one of the most important people in his life. Mel, who is so surprisingly stubborn about refusing help with anything she sees as her responsibility. Even with all of the time they spend together in and out of the hospital, she’d never call him herself just because she was sick. She’s so used to doing everything for herself, she’d never admit that she needs someone’s help outside of the hospital. And Frank wants to be the someone she calls when she does need help with something.
“You want me to come check on her?” he asks, already moving to grab his keys from where he’d dropped them on the kitchen island.
“Yes.”
God bless Becca King and her forthrightness. Mel would have spent at least 15 minutes trying to convince him how unnecessary it was before eventually giving in to his stubborn insistence.
“I’ll be there in about 20 minutes,” Frank replies. “I’ll text you when I’m outside so you know it’s me knocking.”
He makes it there in 15, doesn’t even stop to grab his coat from the closet by the door. He’d like to say the quick travel time was because traffic was light, and he’d gotten lucky with the 8 stop lights between his apartment and the King sisters’ townhouse. But at least one of those stop lights had been a little pink as he’d sped through the intersection. Mel is probably just asleep. It’s late, and he should let her rest. She needs it to fight off whatever she’s got going on. But he needs to check.
Frank has been to their place fairly regularly over the past eight months since he and Abby split for good. His apartment reeks of recent divorce and single-fatherhood, which to him smells like fresh paint and particle board, and he tried to spend as little time there as possible. He likes Mel and Becca’s place a lot better. It smells like cinnamon and vanilla from all the baking Becca does to show off the skills she’s learning at the center so goes to during the day, and their blue and white plaid couch is perfectly squashy, the ideal place for movie or game nights.
Pulling his SUV into the narrow driveway behind her battered Toyota Corolla, he grabs his discarded stethoscope off the passenger seat and then jogs to the glass double doors, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie to keep them from going numb in the cold until he reaches the sidewalk just outside the building to pull out his phone and send Becca a text letting her know he’s outside.
“I knew you’d come,” Becca says as she yanks the door open. “Mel said not to bother you. But I knew better.”
“You did,” Frank replies, rubbing his hands together as he steps in out of the cold. “How’s our patient?”
“She’s been coughing a lot,” Becca says. “And she didn’t eat lunch or dinner... You’ll make her better, right?”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, giving her a reassuring smile. “Promise.”
He toes off his sneakers by the front door and places them neatly on the little shoe rack, listening for signs of life up the narrow staircase that leads to the two bedrooms. He’s never been upstairs before, but he knows Mel’s bedroom is the door on the left by the absence of K-Pop Demon Hunters stickers scattered across its surface. Pushing it open, he steps into the room , his eyes instantly searching for the small figure on the bed.
Mel might be asleep, but based on her flushed face and furrowed brow, it doesn’t look like a peaceful one. Frank snags her desk chair from its spot by the window and roll it over to the side of the bed with her nightstand before taking a seat and reaching for the switch on her bedside lamp. She doesn’t flinch when the light flickers on, painting the room in with a soft yellow glow, but her eyes blink sleepily open as his fingers curl around her wrist to feel her pulse. It’s a little fast, but steady beneath his fingertips.
“Dr. Langdon?” Her voice comes out as little more than a croak.
“I thought we agreed I was Frank outside of the hospital,” he says, instinctively laying a hand on her forehead.
His hands are still a little cold from the frigid February evening, but he still has to fight not to let his eyebrows raise in alarm at the heat radiating from her flushed face.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” Mel asks.
“Didn’t you read Gloria’s memo last week?” he replies as he reaches for the thermometer on her nightstand. “Pitt’s now making house calls. They’re calling us concierge doctors. We all gotta do our part to make the hospital more profitable, right?”
“What?” Mel’s brow furrows for a moment and then relaxes, a weary smile turning up the corners of her lips. “I didn’t get… Oh, you’re joking… That was a good one.”
“I thought so.”
He flashes her a quick smile as he examines the small device. It’s cute. The top is shaped like a monkey. Maybe he should get one like it for Tanner and Emmie.
But… what are you doing here?”
“Becca called. Said you were sick.”
“I’m fine..”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he says, pressing the button on the thermometer. “Open up.”
He slides the device under her tongue, and can’t fully contain his smile at the sight of her befuddled expression, like she’s still trying to figure out just what he’s doing there. Well, to be fair, he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing there either at 9:30 at night on a Thursday either. He’d just known that she needed someone.
The thermometer’s periodic beeping is the only sound in the dimly lit bedroom as they wait for the device to get its reading. Frank’s eyes scan his surroundings to avoid staring at her . Mel’s bedroom is exactly what he would have pictured, warm and inviting. Her walls are a soft, sunny yellow, and a blue and white quilt covers her bed. A wicker bookshelf leans against the wall by the window, the shelves overflowing with paperback novels that he can’t quite read the titles of. He thinks he recognizes some of the brightly colored spines as a series Abby read a couple of years back. Frank knew she likes to read, but he hadn’t quite taken Dr. Melissa King as the romantasy type. But maybe he should have. Mel’s a romantic at heart.
A shrill beeping fills the air, and Frank reaches to pluck the thermometer from her mouth. Her fever is no surprise based on her flushed cheeks, but he does not like the number glowing green on the tiny screen. 102.3. Not quite in the danger zone, but too close to comfort.
“You take anything for this fever recently?” Frank asks, eyes scanning her face.
“I meant to…” Mel shrinks back against her pillows, her expression guilty.
“Hey, none of that,” he says softly, giving her fingers a squeeze where they rest on the bed. “It’s okay. You’re sick. Sometimes you just need someone else to take care of you. You got ibuprofen?”
“There might be a bottle in the medicine cabinet,” she says. “We used up a bunch of stuff when Becca was sick a few months ago, and I’m not very…”
“Medication-tolerant,” Frank finishes as she starts to cough. “I know. But we gotta do something to get that fever down, Dr. King. Be right back.”
The door to the medicine cabinet over the sink of the upstairs bathroom sticks, and he has to pull it open with a surprising amount of force to access its contents. Inside, on yellowed plastic shelves, there are a couple of tubes of toothpaste, a prescription bottle of buspirone with Becca’s name on it, and a tiny bottle of Motrin. The container is concerningly light in his hand, but when he pops off the cap, there are still two pills rattling around the bottom with the desiccant.
Mel’s sitting up when he reenters the room, her quilt pooled in her lap. She’s wearing a gray, oversized University of Michigan t-shirt, the blue and yellow logo cracked and faded across her chest, and her hair has worked itself loose from her tidy braid, the fine strands hanging limply around her face and neck.
“Alright,” he says after retaking his seat on her desk chair and pouring the contents of the bottle into his hand. “You’re gonna take two of these and drink this glass of water. Then we’re gonna check out those lungs.”
“You really don’t need to…” Mel begins as the pills are placed in one of her hands and the water glass from her nightstand into the other.
“No, I really do,” Frank replies. “I promised Becca a full report. Now drink. You’re probably at least a little dehydrated. We’re gonna need something to replenish your electrolytes, too.”
Mel gives him a sheepish little smile before obediently tossing back the pills. She drains about half the glass of water before she starts to cough, her entire body shaking with effort. The cough is so violent, Frank has to pluck the water glass from her hand and set it back on the nightstand to prevent water from sloshing out all over the bed.
“Time to check out those lungs,” he says, placing the earpieces of the stethoscope around his neck in his ears.
“Frank…”
Her expression is some mix of exhaustion, exasperation, and something that just might be affection, and it causes a pang to shoot through Frank’s chest.
“Lean forward a little for me, okay?”
Mel bites her lip, and the flush in her cheeks deepens in a way that Frank thinks might not be fully because of the fever. She opens her mouth for a moment like she’ll protest, but another cough wracks her body. With a labored sigh, she does as she’s told, and he gently tugs up the hem of her shirt so that he can access the skin beneath.
The little strip of pink visible at her waist tells him the source of her hesitancy. She’s not wearing pants. It shouldn’t feel like a big deal. He’s a doctor. He sees people’s bodies in various states of undress all day at the hospital. This isn’t all that different than if she were wearing a patient gown. But it’s Mel. Mel, who is his best friend. Mel, who he has attempted (with sometimes limited success) to avoid thinking about in her underwear because he would never do anything to ruin that friendship. And that glimpse of pink fabric at the base of her spine with its tiny red hearts is a much bigger deal in his head than he wants to let on.
Frank swallows hard before reaching to tug up the hem of her shirt just enough so that he can snake the stethoscope beneath, and tries not to focus on the little mole he’s just uncovered at the small of her back or the fact that she’s not wearing a bra. She shivers when the chestpiece touches the bare skin of her back, and he grimaces at his thoughtlessness.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Should have warmed it up for you first. Inhale for me. Nice and deep, okay? And now exhale.”
He places the chestpiece in a couple of different spots on her back and frowns at the sounds her lungs make as she breathes. There’s a faint crackle that he does not like. It’s only been a day or so since she started experiencing symptoms. It’s unlikely at this point that pneumonia is setting in. But it’s possible. She needs to get started on a cough suppressant and a decongestant as soon as possible. Plus something to help keep her fever down. One dose of ibuprofen probably isn’t gonna do it.
“Okay,” he says as he removes the eartips from his ears and returns his stethoscope to its customary spot around his neck. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to go tell Becca I think you’ll live. Then I’m gonna run to the pharmacy down the street and get you some meds.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I do,” he says, a half grin curling up the corners of his mouth. “I promised Becca I’d take care of you. And besides, I have a personal interest in you getting better as quickly as possible. Who else am I gonna pull in on cases with me? Santos?”
Mel huffs a laugh that quickly turns into a cough and shakes her head as she relaxes back against her pillows. Frank had apologized to Santos a few days after his return to the ER, thanked her even for getting him back on the straight and narrow. But their relationship remains professionally distant. Dana tells him all the time that they’re just too alike, both entirely too sure of themselves and their own rightness to give the other an inch. They’d managed to patch together a mostly functional working relationship when necessary, but even over a year later, they don’t seek to work together.
“I’ll try to get better quickly and spare you both.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, rising from the chair. “I’ll be right back.”
“At least take my debit card,” Mel croaks. “I think my wallet is still in my backpack in the hall closet. The pin is Becca’s birthday.”
“Sure,” he replies.
He is absolutely not taking her wallet with him, but he knows better than to argue with her. It’s often better to just beg for forgiveness with Mel when he tries to do something for her instead of asking permission.
Frank jumps as he opens the door to step out onto the landing and sees Becca standing barely a foot away, anxiously chewing on one of her fingernails.
“How is Mel?” she asks, her eyes wide as she peers over his shoulder at her sister’s prone form on the bed.
“Pretty sick, Becks,” he replies. “But we’ll get her feeling better in no time, okay?”
“I have dance class tomorrow,” Becca says, her eyes on the toes of her blue polka dot socks. “It’s for our recital. I’m supposed to get a solo.”
“Okay,” Frank nods. “Well, then you should probably get some sleep, right?”
“Is Mel gonna be able to take me?”
“Probably not, but I will. That okay?”
He makes the offer before taking the time to think it through, but Frank’s pretty sure he can make it work. He usually takes the kids to school on his days off, and the center isn’t that far from Emmie’s daycare. He’ll get Becca and then go pick them up. They’ll love seeing her, even just for a car ride. Frank will have to get up at the crack of dawn on his day off, but if he just stays the night…
“Okay,” Becca says, nodding, cutting him off from his internal musings. “Thank you, Frank.”
“You’re welcome, Becks,” he replies, his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “I’m gonna run to the store. So if you hear the door open, it’s just me, okay?”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
Becca slips past him into the bathroom, and Frank jogs down the stairs. He doesn’t take Mel’s wallet, but he does take her keys from the rainbow-colored bowl Becca made in ceramics on the small table by the front door so that he can lock it behind him. She’s got a penguin keychain on them that Emmie picked out for her at the zoo when they went over the summer, and a beaded lizard Tanner made at day camp.
The CVS around the corner from the townhouse is nearly empty at this time of night. There are a few college-aged girls comparing nail polish shades and a yawning clerk leaning heavily on the counter by the register. Frank grabs a basket from the stack by the door and heads to the back, toward the pharmacy section to get Mel a new bottle of ibuprofen, some honey-flavored cough drops, a bottle of the cough syrup, and a decongestant. He’ll text Cassie in the morning and ask her to call in a script for an antiviral for Mel that he can pick up after dropping the kids off at school, too. They’re cutting it a little close for it to be effective. He’s not quite sure when Mel’s symptoms began. But it’s better than nothing.
He also grabs two of every flavor of Advancedcare Pedialyte on the shelf, except the grape. Mel hates grape-flavored things. He’d laughed for five minutes over the face she’d made after inadvertently eating a grape jellybean a few months before. The comical mix of disgust, horror, and betrayal on her face was permanently burned into his brain.
The house is quiet when he lets himself back in, and Frank creeps up the stairs so as not to disturb Becca. Mel’s awake when he pushes open her bedroom door, and something in his chest relaxes at the sight of her cheeks less visibly flushed with fever. The ibuprofen has clearly kicked in and is doing its job.
“How you feelin’?” he asks, moving to retake his seat by her bed.
“A little better,” Mel offers him a weak smile as she sits up. “I feel kind of clammy now, though.”
It’s entirely unscientific. The thermometer is right there. But he still presses the back of his hand to her forehead again, then flips his hand so that his palm presses against her smooth skin and inwardly sighs in relief. She’s still a little warm, but not nearly as much as when he’d first walked in about half an hour or so before.
“Good,” he says as he slides his finger under the flap of a flat rectangular box. “You’re gonna take one of these every twelve hours for the congestion. Two ibuprofen every six. And a tablespoon of this to help with the cough.”
Mel wrinkles her nose at the sight of the bottle of cough syrup he sets on her nightstand, and Frank’s lips quirk up in a faint smile.
“I don’t really need all…”
“Doctor’s orders,” he cuts her off, grabbing her hand and flipping it over to place a yellow and white pill at the center of her palm. “Now what flavor do you want to wash it all down with? I got cherry, orange, kiwi berry…”
“Kiwi, please.”
“Good choice.” He grins at her briefly before fishing the bottle of pale green liquid from the bag and twisting off the cap before pressing it into her other hand.
Mel obediently swallows the pill and only prevaricates a little before downing the cough syrup. She throws it back like a tequila shot before chasing it down with a couple of large gulps of Pedialyte.
“Where’d you learn to take cough syrup like that, Dr. King?” Frank asks with a soft laugh.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He would. He really really would.
Mel gives him an enigmatic smile and then sighs, pulling the fabric of her t-shirt away from her body. Her skin’s probably a little sticky from sweat now that she’s no longer giving off heat like a furnace.
“How about you go take a shower while I go pop the rest of these in the fridge?” he offers, holding up the bag of Pedialyte.
“Okay.”
Frank pushes the chair back from the bed and rises to his feet just as Mel slides her legs over the side of the bed. He’s almost out the door when she emits a little squeak, and he’s somehow instantly across the room in just two steps with a hand curled around her upper arm to steady her on her feet.
“You alright?” he asks, eyes searching her face.
“Fine.” Mel smiles sheepishly. “Just a little stiff after lying in bed all day.”
“Okay.” He nods and licks his lips. “Just leave the bathroom door cracked, okay? Just so I can hear if you need something.”
She nods, and he exhales a heavy breath before stepping back. She’s not wearing pants. The back of his brain pushes the thought to the forefront, and his eyes flicker down to take in the expanse of newly exposed skin. He’s seen her legs before. He’s seen her in a bathing suit, a sensible dark blue one-piece. They’d taken the kids and Becca to the pool a couple of times over the summer. But this feels different, more intimate. Fuck, her skin looks soft. What the fuck is wrong with him? She’s sick. The last thing Mel needs right now is him leering at her like he’s a fucking teenager.
“I’ll uh… I’m gonna head downstairs.”
“Okay,” Mel says, cheeks flushed pink as she moves to her dresser and yanks open the top drawer. “I’m just gonna…”
“Yeah.” He nods, backing toward the door. “You do that. I’m just… I’m gonna go…”
“Are you leaving?” she asks, turning from the dresser, a clean t-shirt clutched to her chest.
“No,” Frank shakes his head. “No, I promised Becca that I’d take her to the center for her dance class tomorrow. But I’ve gotta get Emmie and Tanner for school too, so I was gonna crash on the couch, if that’s alright…”
“You don’t…”
“Don’t tell me I don’t have to.” Frank moves across the room, setting the bag down on the dresser so that he can place his hands on her shoulders. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
“Why?” Mel asks, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Because you need someone,” he says after a long moment. “And I’d like to be someone. If you’ll let me.”
He reaches a hand up to brush a stray lock of hair off her forehead, and Mel’s entire body shudders in a way he doesn’t think has anything to do with the low-grade fever she’s probably still running.
Frank isn’t sure who reaches for whom first. One second, his hands are on her shoulders, and the next, she’s tucked into his chest, his hand cupping the back of her head as her arms encircle his waist.
It’s a moment nearly a year in the making. They’d carefully drawn the boundaries of their friendship while he and Abby were still trying to make things work, but those lines have gotten more and more blurred in the months since he took off his wedding ring for good. Damn thing never fit anyway. Probably should have been a sign. But some part of him has wanted this, wanted Mel, in a way that he couldn’t entirely explain from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
“I’ll let you,” she mumbles into the fabric of his hoodie.
The giant lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat makes it impossible for Frank to speak; he just rubs her back with one hand and leans down to press a soft kiss to the crown of her head, the way he’s imagined himself doing a hundred or so times before. Mel’s arms tighten around his waist, and his fingers dig into her messy braid.
They’ll have another conversation about this later, when she’s feeling better. He wants to be 100% sure they’re on the same page about them. But for now, it's enough just to hold her the way he’s wanted to for so damn long. It’s enough to feel her rub her cheek against the soft fabric of his hoodie and inhale deeply to catch whatever whiff she can of his scent despite her congestion.
Eventually, another deep cough rumbles up out of Mel’s chest, and they pull apart.
“Go take your shower,” he instructs, bending down to retrieve the t-shirt she’d dropped.
It’s another University of Michigan t-shirt, this one navy blue with a large yellow M emblazoned across the chest, and Frank makes a mental note to slip a couple of his own old Dartmouth t-shirts into her drawer.
“Okay.” Mel nods, taking the t-shirt with a faint smile.
“How about I change your sheets for you while you’re in there, too?”
She wants to say no. It’s written all over her face, and her jaw tightens as she considers her response. Then she heaves a sigh so heavy her whole body seems to sag with it and gives him a weary nod. Her acquiescence, as reluctant as it might have been, warms something in his chest. He’s gonna take such good care of her, now that she’ll let him. He’s never really wanted to do that for anyone before, other than his kids, of course. Not like this, at least.
“Spare sheets are in the organizer drawers in the closet,” she says.
Frank pads quietly down the stairs, careful not to disturb Becca in case she is already asleep, and stashes the bottles of Pedialyte in the fridge before returning to her bedroom to find her spare sheets. The closet door creeks loudly on its hinges as he pulls it open, his lips quirking up at Mel’s neatly arranged closet, her clothes all arranged by type and color. She’d done the same thing with his clothes when she’d helped him move. Not that there was nearly as wide a color palette in his wardrobe as hers. Becca told him once that he dressed like a bruise, everything in shades of black, blue, and gray, and occasionally green.
There is a flouncy brown skirt toward the back that he’s never seen her wear, though. It looks like something from the 17th century. And is that a corset? He vows to investigate further later and opens a drawer in a plastic organizer that looks to contain sheets, pulling out a white set sprigged with little cornflower blue flowers. He’s just smoothing her quilt back into place when Mel appears in the bedroom door, again only dressed in an oversized t-shirt.
“I can’t sleep in pants,” she says from the doorway, toes scrunching on the cold hardwood floor. “The fabric gets all tangled around my legs and… It’s a sensory thing…”
“That’s fine,” Frank replies.
“I just…” Mel toys with a damp lock of hair and bites her lip. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” he assures her, crossing the room to place his hands on her upper arms. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? Your body needs all the rest it can get.”
“Okay.” She nods and lets him propel her across the bedroom.
It’s true. He’s not uncomfortable at the sight of her pale, slender legs. Just half hard in his joggers because of the flash he gets of her pale blue underwear as she slides between her soft cotton sheets. God, he’s got to get a grip. She’s got the flu. It’s absolutely not the moment for that.
“Frank?” Mel says as he reaches for the lamp on her nightstand.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
The endearment rolls of his tongue and paints Mel’s cheeks the prettiest shade of pink.
“I know I shouldn’t ask. I don’t want you to get sick…”
“What is it, Mel?”
“Will you…” She licks her lips and averts her gaze. “Will you stay? At least until I fall asleep?”
The naked need in her tone cracks something inside him wide open. Frank almost feels like he needs to look down at his chest to make sure he’s not actively bleeding out all over her oval rug. If he gets the flu, fuck it. It’s the first time she’s ever asked him directly for anything, and absolutely no part of him wants to deny her request.
“Of course I will.”
The room is warm, so he shrugs off his hoodie and lays it over the desk chair before crossing the room to settle atop the covers on the opposite side of the bed. As soon as he’s settled back against the pillows, Mel rolls in his direction and curls into his side. Like now that she has permission, she’s a little desperate for physical contact. He wonders how long it's been since she had someone to hold her like this.
Once her head has found a comfortable spot on his chest, his fingers work their way into her hair. Her contented little sigh as his blunt nails scrape her scalp does funny things inside his chest.
“Remind me…” Mel says after a few minutes, breaking off with a yawn. “Remind me to call Dana in the morning…”
“I’ve got you,” Frank says, reaching into his pocket with his free hand for his phone to shoot off a text to their charge nurse.
Of everyone in the ED, Dana will probably be the least surprised to have Frank calling out on Mel’s behalf. He hopes she buys herself something nice with all the money that’s surely about to come her way through the department betting pool.
“Frank…”
“Sleep, sweetheart. We can talk tomorrow.”
“I just…” She yawns again and nestles into his chest. “I just wanted to say I’m glad that you’re my someone.”
Frank glances down at the kind, selfless woman in his arms and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. God, he’s a lucky bastard. It feels impossible that despite all of the fuck ups and failures that have littered the last few years of his life, he could possibly be worthy of her. But he’ll do his best to be. Every goddamn day. For the rest of his life, if she’ll let him.
“Me too, Mel,” he says after managing to swallow down the lump that has once again formed in his throat. “Me too.”