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Frank had been in Jack’s apartment for exactly forty-three minutes, and he had already checked the door lock six times.
Not because he thought someone would break in.
Because the quiet was… unsettling.
Jack’s place was nothing like Frank’s. Frank’s apartment always had noise—traffic outside, neighbors above him, the faint hum of a television he forgot to turn off. Jack’s apartment, tucked into an older building on a quieter street, felt almost suspended in time once the door shut.
The clock ticked.
The refrigerator hummed.
And that was it.
Frank stood in the middle of the living room with his arms folded, staring at the couch like it might suddenly explain what he was supposed to do with himself.
“Okay,” he muttered to the empty room. “This is normal.”
It wasn’t.
This was the first night Jack had trusted him with the place alone.
Jack had hesitated earlier—keys in hand, coat half on, that thoughtful crease between his brows.
“You don’t have to stay here tonight,” Jack had said. “I know it’s… different.”
Frank had rolled his eyes, already taking the keys.
“Jack, I’m not a stray you found behind the hospital.”
Jack’s mouth had twitched.
“Debatable.”
Now, hours later, Frank regretted acting so confident.
He wandered into the kitchen first. It was clean in a way that only someone meticulous like Jack could manage. Coffee maker wiped down. Dishes aligned. Even the fruit bowl looked deliberate.
Frank opened the fridge.
Inside were labeled containers.
Actual labels.
“Jesus,” Frank murmured.
He picked one up.
Chicken — Tuesday.
Frank snorted.
Of course Jack meal-prepped like a responsible adult.
He grabbed a bottle of water instead and leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the dark street below.
Jack would be in the ER right now.
Running trauma. Arguing with residents. Fixing problems like he always did.
Frank tried not to imagine him there.
He failed.
Because that’s where Frank should have been too.
Instead, he was here.
Safe.
Healing.
Recovering.
The word still sat wrong in his chest.
He pushed away from the counter and wandered back into the living room, eventually dropping onto Jack’s couch. The cushions smelled faintly like him—clean laundry and that subtle cologne Frank pretended not to notice.
Frank grabbed the remote.
Turned the TV on.
Muted it immediately.
The silence had already crept back into his bones.
He stretched out across the couch, one arm over his eyes.
“This is stupid,” he whispered.
Jack had insisted he stay here tonight instead of going back to his own place.
“Closer to the hospital,” Jack had said.
Frank knew the real reason.
Jack didn’t want him alone.
And the irritating part?
Frank wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone either.
His eyes drifted around the room.
Jack’s bookshelf.
Medical journals.
A few old novels.
A framed photo of the hospital staff at some charity event.
Frank sat up and leaned forward.
He recognized the moment immediately.
Jack stood in the back of the photo, arms crossed, looking annoyed at whoever had taken it.
Frank was beside him.
Mid-laugh.
Head thrown back.
Jack was looking at him.
Not the camera.
Frank stared at it for a long moment.
Then he leaned back against the couch again, something warm settling in his chest.
“Great,” he muttered. “Now I miss you.”
As if summoned by the thought, his phone buzzed.
Jack.
Frank answered immediately.
“You alive?” Jack’s voice came through the line, tired but warm.
Frank smirked, stretching his legs out across the couch.
“Barely. Your apartment is aggressively quiet.”
Jack huffed a soft laugh.
“You’ll survive.”
Frank glanced around the room again.
It didn’t feel as strange now.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I will.”
There was a pause.
Hospital noise crackled faintly through Jack’s end of the call—voices, monitors, movement.
“You eat?” Jack asked.
Frank rolled his eyes.
“Yes, dad.”
Another pause.
Then softer—
“Frank.”
Frank’s smirk faded.
“…Yeah?”
Jack’s voice dropped just slightly.
“You okay there?”
Frank looked around the apartment again.
The couch.
The photo.
The quiet.
The feeling that, somehow, he belonged here.
“Yeah,” he said finally.
Then, softer—
“I’m good.”
Jack exhaled on the other end of the line.
“Good.”
Frank slid down deeper into the couch cushions.
“You better not be getting yourself stabbed or something tonight,” he added. “I’m not cleaning blood off your floors.”
Jack chuckled.
“I’ll try to avoid it.”
Frank smiled to himself, staring up at the ceiling.
The apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.
It felt like waiting.
And for the first time in a long while, Frank didn’t mind waiting at all.